It had been written that the daughter of Ragnar Lothbrok was taken to Valhalla as a young girl.
But what if the gods didn't take her? What if the gods spared her?
Gyda Ironside, the only daughter of Ragnar and Lagertha rejoins her family as a train...
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I never thought of my death to be of such a nature. I always had the reassurance in my head that I would die a worthy death, one where I die in battle—not like this.
My body shook with shakes of not cold, but of pain. The blood remained minimal as the blade held it in place, I thought it a silver lining—at least for the few moments that it spared me.
My whimpers had suppressed but still remained as a low groan in the back my throat. The pain was electrifying, each spasm crippling me with each breath. I slowly was accepting my fate, that this would be my end.
That was until I saw a red haired man walk into the hut.
It was the young man that served Sigvard. The one who stayed his hand against me. I watch him move towards me looking over his shoulder. He is alone. Why is he here?
"I'm going to untie you now. Then I'll tend to your wound."
He wasn't asking permission. He was assertive with his task. I look him up and down. Searching for any trait of dishonestity or betrayal.
He reaches up then to untie the bonds, his face inches from my own. He keeps his eyes trained to the ropes. I take the time to observe him. He was a young man but looked older than myself. His hair was a striking shade of dark red. His eyes a sky blue. He was tall. His body looked trained and strong, like he lived a hard life, and considering he served Sigvard, I had no doubt he did.
With every second he worked at the rope the more I feel the realease of the bonds and the blood coarsing back through my hands. As I feel the tangles of the rope release me, my body slips through the air. My numb legs not having the strength to catch myself, I collapse to the hard wood floor.
With my side pressed hard onto the blood covered ground, naturally I curl up. Wanting the agony to stop.
He almost immediately drops to my side, turning me onto my back, redirecting my hips to lay flat upon the floor. That is when I notice the satchel he searches through. He pulls out bundles fabrics and a bottle.
His fingers reach for the hem of my undershirt. He meets my eyes before he lifts it to expose the wound. He begins wiping the blood away roughly.
"This will hurt." He mutters.
I look down for just a moment and see him grip the knife— looking up to the roof with tears already blinding my vision, I await the sudden jerk. But it doesn't come. Instead he manoeuvres it slowly from its place. It was a more terrible pain than I could describe. I'd rather he yank it through.
