Prompt: Heaven
Characters: Sigrun
Warnings: Major character death, graphic description of fatal injuries
Soundtrack: "Street of Dreams" by Blackmore's Night. Some may recognize the cover of The Village Lanterne.
Sigrun had seen this coming for a long time now.
There were almost no old hunters in Dalsnes. Most of the ones who did make it that far tended to be more brainiacs than real, hands-on warriors. Of course, once in a while someone was just extraordinarily lucky, but you couldn't count on it. To be honest, she hadn't been counting on seeing fifty—and she'd already passed that landmark by a good three years, so Sigrun thought that she had done pretty well, all things considered.
When one of the medics tried to lift up her shirt, she shook her head. If there was even the slightest chance of living then she would fight tooth and nail for her life, but Sigrun knew a mortal wound when it ripped open her stomach and left half her intestines spilling out over the ground. There was no point in dragging it out.
The medic did at least offer her something for pain, and she did at least let him do that. He pushed up her sleeve; she turned away, but only seconds after the needle's prick, the stabbing agony was blunted to a dull ache.
Now, there was nothing to do but wait.
At least she'd taken the giant down with her. That tale would be told in Dalsnes for years to come, she thought with a smile.
Dully, she realized that the medic had stayed with her, had even draped a blanket over her body, and that the crew of hunters she'd been in charge of were all gathered round, some of them openly weeping. "General Eide," one of them managed. "Is there anything… anything you'd like us to…?"
"My crew." The words came out in a whisper, and her vision was rapidly darkening—it wouldn't be much longer. "From the Silent World. Tell them…"
She was unable to continue, but she could see that she wouldn't have to. Everyone was already nodding, and she knew that letters would be sent: to Emil, to Mikkel, to the Finns, detailing her death and its heroic circumstances. Sigrun couldn't ask for anything more.
She closed her eyes. The medic's hands tightened around hers. A spring breeze played over her face, the playful currents of air seeming to whisper 'Well, what are you waiting for?'
She exhaled.
For a moment, all was confusion. She couldn't feel her body anymore, which given the amount of pain she'd been in should have been an improvement, but it felt so much more wrong to be constantly groping for something that wasn't there. She couldn't see—her vision hadn't even gone black, there was just nothing. For a few minutes, for an eternity, there was no sound, no sight, no touch…
She opened her eyes.
Now, Sigrun was standing—standing, in the middle of a street at night. She was in a village she was sure she had never seen before, yet was somehow as familiar to her as the streets of Dalsnes. Dangling lanterns winked at her from above the streets, and cheerful golden light spilled from the windows of every house.
That same breeze was playing through her hair again, carrying with it scents she now recognized: packed earth on a warm spring night, new leather, freshly cut wood. For a moment, Sigrun closed her eyes, and simply let herself breathe.
She was home.
The breeze teased around her again, growing a little bit stronger, a little more insistent: it had a direction. Looking the way it wanted her to go, Sigrun saw a great hall, inviting golden light shining through its closed doors. From inside, there was laughter, and snatches of cheerful singing: notes rising in the voices of friends long dead.
The night air filled her lungs as she took one final deep breath, seeming to fill her with energy and life. Then, Sigrun was running forward in the wind's embrace, not even caring to notice the burning in her eyes as she pushed open the doors and strode inside to take her place.
