"Do you think the Gods favor us today?" Graves Lokison turned. Shilo Natesdottir sat against the boat, her back turned to the sea, fiddling with the pendant around her neck.
"Why would they not favor us? We have done everything in their name, returned from raids with spoils, why should they not love us?" Graves scoffed at his god-daughter with a grin. Shilo shrugged and sighed.
"My father was struck down by the Rottisons, surely it is a sign that Odin is angry with us."
Graves furrowed his brow at her response. While she had turned eighteen years only three days ago, she was still young. He worried about how dark her thoughts were, and he also worried about the battle that was to come when they reached the shores of the Largosons land. Shilo had been training under him as a Shield-Maiden but had yet to prove herself in battle. Graves Lokison did not want to admit it; but to him, she was not ready. Once before he had lost someone dear to him, and he was not ready to lose someone again.
After her father, Natan Ragnarson was killed by Rotti Largoson; Graves did his duty and declared her his daughter. Though she was not born to him, he cared for her still. Her skills as a warrior were proficient, but he did not trust that the Largosons would grant her any laziness.
This was one ship Graves felt would sink.
In his mind, he deliberated treating it as another raid; yet he knew this battle would be bloody and be a great loss to his forces.
He turned to Shilo Natesdottir again and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Odin is not angry with us. He is angry with the Largosons for taking what is not theirs. They steal money and food from their own people and ours. It is our place to fight." Shilo threw his hand off and aggressively grabbed the ax Graves had made for her, sharpening it in anger.
"How can you say we have to fight! Were you not bound to the Largoson daughter?" Graves rolled his eyes.
"I would rather be blood eagled than marry that witch."
Shilo laughed at this.
"You would choose such a terrible death over becoming rich and a King? She must be horrible then."
"Oh not at all! She is beautiful, but she is annoying to me. No amount of gold in the world could persuade me to marry the daughter of Hel herself."
The two shared a moment of laughter, before Shilo's face darkened with trouble again.
"Graves?" She never called him father.
"Hmm?" He mused, looking out into the water.
"Will I see my father in Valhalla?" Graves shot back to her.
"You will not see Valhalla. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. You shall be old when you die; whether it be in battle or of sickness. But you will not die today. Odin will not allow it." Graves replied. He then playfully shoved her head down.
"Pray to Freyja girl. She will fix that crazy head of yours."
Shilo hit his hand off, and folded her arms, resting her head against the hull of the ship.
"Wake me when we are to die." She mused, clearly unfazed at the idea of her own death. Graves held back the rising sadness that filled him.
He was not old himself, at 26 years. Yet he felt so many deaths had aged him still. Behind his mask of madness and insanity was an underlying force. It disturbed him from time to time, drowning him in mead and blue lotus vials to ignore his own depression.
Years prior, when he was a boy of eight, he saw the damage Rotti Largoson had done. His warriors swept through the stronghold, slaughtering men, women, and children. When Graves's little sister, Astrid, did not tell Rotti where to find their father, Rotti ordered the child to be killed. Graves had been hidden underneath a wagon, and kept his horror and screams behind his mouth and a pool of blood ran through the dirt and into his palm.
His father, before being killed by the Largoson, would have said, "You are a Viking! Graves Lokison! Vikings do not cry when blood is spilled. Blood is a sacrifice and blessing for the Gods."
Graves wondered if there were Gods after all.
When he turned 20, his mother trained him to be a warrior. It was then he met Freysdis, the Earl's daughter. For a while, the two trained together and loved one another, only for Freydis to marry another. Graves did feel remorse, but it all subsided when he walked into his life.
Halvar Thorsen.
He was a fisherman by trade, but he was also a master shipbuilder. In the summer of Graves's 21st birthday, the pair spent their days together, building only the best ships for the raids of that year. So fast and sturdy we're these ships, that the young men were said to have been blessed by Thor for their efforts.
It was during those days Graves had felt happiest. Such love had he felt for Halvar, had Graves gone to such lengths as to make him the finest sword in the world. After weeks of toil, Graves presented the sword to the one he called beloved. Halvar remarked how only the dwarves could have crafted a finer weapon.
But this time of happiness would soon be forgotten. His first raid with Graves had ended with a Saxon victory, many warriors went to meet Odin that day.
As Graves drove his sword into the heart of a Saxon soldier, he heard a cry behind him. Ripping the metal from the flesh of the dead man, he rushed over to Halvar, who had an ax in his chest. Halvar looked at Graves, his hands trembling as he ripped out the ax, before falling to his knees. Graves caught the other man and held him close to his chest. Halvar coughed, his breath shaky. Graves swallowed his horror and placed his hand on Halvars neck.
"You will be alright Halvar." Halvar swallowed his bile and blood. He leaned back and took Graves's face with bloody hands.
"I do not want to go to Valhalla, Sigurd. I don't want to go." Only Halvar knew his birth name.
Before Graves could reply, Halvar's eyes greyed, and just like that; he was gone.
"Graves." He was thrown back to reality. It seemed that Shilo had awoken before he could call out the orders of landing.
YOU ARE READING
Song Of the Dead
Fanfiction"You will not see Valhalla. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. You shall be old when you die; whether it be in battle or of sickness. But you will not die today. Odin will not allow it."
