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"Gwen," A familiar voice from outside jolted me awake. "Wake up, we're attacking at dawn."
"I'm coming." I answered Ubbe with a sigh, dark circles under my eyes growing ever heavier. I was used to it. Rarely did I sleep. Rarely did I manage a moment's rest. Last night was filled with terrors, dreams of fire and blood, and a serpent that followed me. I dreamt of war. War between blood. And though I was now awake, green eyes alight, I could still feel the doom as though it surrounded me.
I had always been smothered by the stench of death. I could see things, things that no one else could see, things that had never happened. At least not yet. After the years I spent dwelling in darkness, rotting like a living corpse, I had become something more than a profit of death. I had become death. It seemed that wherever I went, agony followed. I was a curse, an omen. And nothing seemed to escape the force of my darkness.
My pale hand traced the dark green grass, touching upon a beautiful flower. As I stared at it, men around me gathering armour and rushing to live their last moments, I watched it slowly decay in my grip. Each snowy petal turned black, dropping to the ground and withering away.
"You seem happy." Hvitserk's voice made my absent stare turn into a cold glare, my jaw clenching and unclenching as I watched each petal die.
"As happy as the boys you and your brother sacrificed." I spat back bitterly, not noticing the grass around me beginning to wither away as my anger grew.
"Gwen-" He began but was quickly cut off by Ivar's yells for war. "Can we talk about this?"
"Talk?" I laughed coldly, finally looking back at the young ragnarsson. "Why?"
He paused for a moment, looking down to the floor as though he was afraid to speak. My eyes scanned his every action emotionlessly, waiting for some sort of response. "I don't want to fight thinking that you hate me." He shrugged, and something in his eyes told me it was the truth.
Again, I rolled my eyes and stood up sword in hand. "I don't care enough to hate you, Hvitserk. In a week's time, I'll probably never see you again."
I could see that this seemed to hurt him, perhaps even more than me telling him that I truly hated him, but I had lost interest. At that point, I could feel death calling. And I was ready to take York for my people. Now, I felt nothing for these boys. Killing him would be easy. Or so I thought.
As we walked, I remained beside Ubbe. Out of everyone there, he seemed the most tolerable at that moment. I wanted to go home, to my cold stone walls. I'd been locked away in that castle, sitting upon my throne, for so many years now that this new world was unsettling. So many people, so many emotions. I could feel them all. I could feel their fear, their excitement, their anticipation, as though it was my own. I could hear their busy thoughts of home and families, of their Gods and their customs.
"Are you alright?" Ubbe asked calmly, a small look that told me he felt much the same as I did, that he understood.
"No." I answered honestly, for the first time since my imprisonment. "I never am."
I didn't notice him at the time, But Ivar sat behind us listening. I suppose he understood better than anyone, but neither of us would ever admit that to eachother. It seemed we loathed one and other, for reasons that I couldn't place. While Ubbe simply nodded, giving me a reassuring glance. "First the battle." He spoke calmly. "And then the war."
As the large wooden gates were knocked open, screaming began to echo in the streets. My body moved without a thought, slashing at each opponent as they fell to the floor. Behind me, I left a trail of corpses that led straight towards the large double doors of the church.
Behind me, a man approached as I reached for the door. Before he could touch me, my hand gestures towards the stone wall and he went hurtling towards it. With a thud, I slammed the doors open and smiled at the quivering Christians who dwelled within.
They were the ones who fueled my hatred, the ones I blamed for my misery, the ones I'd come to destroy. They were the ones I had to kill.
The others seemed to funnel in behind me, the streets of York already running red with Saxon blood. I charged through the church, sword moving on its own. Blood sprayed over me, washing me with sweet justice. How long I'd waited for this moment, finally.
In the corner of my eye, I watched as Ubbe appeared horrified. His sword was jammed squarely between a nun's ribs as he gently lowered her to the ground. Ivar crawled around like death himself, taking in every blood splatter and scream that seemed to fuel him. I ignored Hvitserk, though he too seemed to be letting off steam as he made his way through the clergy. Each of us was soaked in crimson, my black curls flying behind me and my sword aimed high.
It felt good, the pain. Perhaps that's something they don't tell you about being a witch. Every life I took, I could feel. The pain I caused, was pain I felt. The days I spent torturing my father were some of the most just and satisfying days of my life. Why? Why would feeling such agony please me? There was no sense to it, truly. I hated the pain. I hated the sorrow. But I deserved it. I knew I deserved it. Some part of me never stopped blaming myself for all of the shit that had surrounded me my entire life. I think some part of me always will.
As the chaos died down, I took a moment to look around. Death. So much death. So many lives stolen, so much potential gone at the swift end of a sword. No warning. No purpose. Just killing for killing's sake. That's what humanity does best, after all. We kill without conscience, never learning or caring. Just killing. Always just killing.
