When it came to war, there was no other choice than to leave home and fight. All of the men went; some of the younger men, and even some of the women went. In this age, the majority of us were honed for battle, anyway. I don't really remember why we were fighting this time. I think it was a rival clan coming to take our lands again, take our women and our fortifications again as they have done for decades. Like always, though, we would just knock some sense into them. Despite thinking this, there was a little more blood on the ground than usual. The last few skirmishes were quick, a few hours tops, but this one had already lasted nearly a day. I don't recognize the arms of the men we clash with. Perhaps they were Saxons still angry that we raided earlier in the season? Perhaps they think that we were relaxing and not on our toes? We were always ready. Well, mostly.
I wasn't ready for this aspect of battle. See, I had been involved many times, and I had done well to defend what was ours. There was even that one time I nearly claimed a Saxon's head! In my stories, though, I did claim it. My son really admires my tales from battle. He's still just a farmboy, but he's eagerly awaiting his time to earn his seat in Valhall. Regardless of all that story-spinning and glory, I had never experienced what many men had experienced in battle: being seriously wounded.
I was laid on the ground, my hands going numb at my sides and my vision beginning to blur as battle raged on all around me. I could feel a sharp pain in my side, and I could feel the strange heat of blood as it stained my weathered skin red. As I looked around at my brethren continuing to brawl, yell, slash, and kill, I could see just how much warm blood covered this cold, harsh land of our fathers. Warm, fresh blood from both sides was quick to rain down upon the earth as metal met flesh on the battlefield.
There was a moment where I just closed my eyes and exhaled, the sounds of war fading. I imagined my family back home. My hardworking, determined son and my beautiful, plump wife. I imagined that I was still there, instead of here; that I was maintaining the fire in our humble home while she cooked, probably whale. It was a desirable daydream. I was not ready to not go back. I was not ready for Valhall. Then I imagined their reactions when I returned, a corpse. Don't cry for me, my son, and don't cry for me, my love, because I'm not the only one lying in my own blood. Save your sorrow for something more, put it into your love and determination. Where I go from here, you can't follow. This journey through death I must make on my own.
When the fantasies of my homestead subsided, the sounds of shouts and surrenders returned. Through a blurry stare, I watched on as man after man, boy after boy, and woman after woman were felled. This time it seemed that we were on the losing end. Did the opposing warriors have more men? Turning my gaze towards the sky, I prayed to whoever would listen. Odin. Tyr. Hell, even Loki. Let not my people live on like this. Let them escape the fear of oppression and loss. I continued to think and mumble and do whatever I needed to with these thoughts and prayers, hoping any of them would hear.
I suddenly recalled something my father's father used to say, used to live by. Every time something went wrong, he would shrug and tell us, or himself, "The darker the night, the more beautiful is morning's light." It had to have been a sign from the gods, that they had heard me. That was the only explanation why the thought was so suddenly brought forth in my mind. I must keep telling myself that, and I must remember that the darker the night, the more beautiful would be morning's light. It was a good philosophy, and I was certain that many of the others still fighting on against those fiends or themselves held something similar in mind. I tried to smile, I tried to thank those who listened and those who still fought when the distant sounds of battle faded away once again, this time into a more permanent nothingness.
Silence had to be the worst part of the whole experience. Was I finally dying? I could hear nothing, I could feel nothing, I could barely think anymore. Finally, I felt ready for Odin's hall. Whatever was holding me back before–my pain, my fear, my home–was no longer tied to me, leaving me one last place to go. I had fought well, I had thought well, and now I would die well. I’ve bled so many times for this land, and, as I laid there in silence, there was no uncertainty in my mind that this wound would claim my life. It was then that I knew Death was coming, and he commanded me to give my hand. As my vision blackened, I could hear a mixture of new sounds. It seemed as if rain had suddenly begun to fall, soaking the world and its warriors, the blood melting into the mud. The most foreign sound, however, was singing. "Fear no more." I heard.
"Just let go." From another direction, a new voice rang.
"Adore this world,"
"once more." Many voices were melting together, their words running into each other. The vocals were that of women; or were they angels?
"The truth unfolds,"
"in the Ancient Halls." These were no angels. They were Valkyries. Forcing my eyes open, I could see the light of the lady warriors of the slain picking and choosing those who would accompany them for an afterlife of well-earned glory. Would they come for me? Had I earned my place as I thought I had?
“Fear no more.”
“Just let go.”
Darkness swallowed me once more. Left alone in my dying silence in the rain, I could only wait for my Valkyrie to fly me away, but there was no other shimmer of light in that pouring rain. I finally closed my eyes, and I couldn't help but to wonder if it everything had been in vain. With that final, unsatisfying thought, I took my last breath.
