The Last Marigold

Funeral Rites

Wolfgard watched his men load his father's shrouded body onto the longboat. The fierce twin heads of the dragons guarded the opposite ends ship's hull.

The burden laden vessel rocked gently on the rolling waves. Songs of remembrance from his homeland filled the heavy silence that accompanied mourning.

Sunlight waned in the west over the scorching desert sand. A large red sail rippled in the arid breeze. A magnificent golden wolf was embossed on its center, the sigil of his house. His father's sworn men, now his own, loaded the barge with funerals gifts, to prepare him for his kingdom in the next life.

Wolfgard's heart strained under the weight of his father's death. Sigvat had been a steadying force in his life, without him he felt rudderless, lost.

Sigvat, The Colossus, they called him, a fearsome creature to behold. Not only did he tower over most men but he possessed an inhuman strength of will. Away from battle, he ruled over lands in Northumbria under, King Thorod Eyvindsson.

Sigvat and Thorod were friends for many a year. They left the homeland of Norway together to build a settlement in England. It was in this spirit he agreed to follow Thorod's son, Orm, on a campaign through the Mediterranean. 

Beached off the coast of Morocco, they conducted a raid into a nearby settlement when soldiers from the Kingdom of Nekor arrived. They engaged the enemy in heated battle.

Sigvat charged the enemy headlong, breaking their lines, eeking out a victory. Alas, a spear found the vein in his neck and he bled to death before the short skirmish was over. 

And although glory was theirs. The day was won but his father's life was lost. They made for their ships with their plunder, slaves, and their honored dead.

But the funeral celebrations wore on him. The hole in his heart, he feared, would never mend. There was no joy in drink, games, nor women just the dull persistent ache of loss.

Soon, the 'Angel of Death' would set the barge alight and his father would pass into the next world. His eyes floated to his father's young wife, Gisela. She traveled with him as well. This was the old way. It is what his father would have wanted.

His blue eyes scanned the gathering crowd. He breast swelled with pride. Many came to celebrate his father's life.

Sigvat was the kind of man who placed honor above all things. His love for his family, his friends, and his people were only rivaled by his prowess on the battlefield.

Twenty-one winters had passed since Wolfgard's birth. He was a man grown, but, felt ill-prepared for his role as Jarl. He wished desperately for his father's continued guidance and strength. 

The men shared the wealth and plunder amongst themselves but he could not see past his pain long enough to take part. He placed the goblet of ale to his lips and drank deeply. His father's fair-haired wife was lifted on to the shoulders of the men as she recited the final prayer.

"Lo there do I see my father; Lo there do I see my mother and my sisters and my brothers; Lo there do I see the line of my people, back to the beginning. Lo, they do call to me, they bid me take my place among them, in the halls of Valhalla, where the brave may live forever." She called out in a clear voice before she too was loaded on to the ship.

The 'Angel of Death', a witch, they only knew as Brunhild, place her shaky hand to Gisela's throat and sliced open her gullet. Gisela laid silent, her blood draining from her cut at her neck. She would maintain her honor as the ship burned. 

He watched the flames start as a flicker, then consume the ship in its entirety. He started in surprise to feel a hand upon his shoulder.

Alrik, his oldest and truest friend, gave a lopsided grin. His long red hair flowed carelessly in the wind. He wore a thin grey tunic and dark wool trousers over bare feet. His green eyes watched the funeral pyre as it burned. The ocean's waves lapped gently at his feet.