The spring rains had deluged the farm for nearly two weeks. Hiccup's boot was hopelessly waterlogged and his foot covered in sores from the constant damp. For once in his short life, the boy was grateful that he didn't have two feet. For days on end, everyone in the longhouse coughed and sniffled against the cold and wet. And then Herbjorn's cough turned into something more.
Hiccup and Geirhilda were just rising to milk the goats when they caught the elderly man's tossing and turning in the low glow of dying embers. At first, Hiccup passed it off as restless sleep, but then the older man coughed.
"Herbjorn?" Geirhilda whispered in alarm at the wet, rattling sounds that were dragged from the man's lungs. She crossed over to his bench quickly with Hiccup on her heels. It was almost impossible to see much more than silhouettes and shadows in the low light, but Hiccup could hear Herbjorn's labored breathing before they even reached his bench.
Geirhilda reached out a slim hand to rest on the wrinkled forehead of the man. She drew in a sharp breath as Herbjorn's next bout of coughing dislodged her hand.
"Feverish," she confirmed to Hiccup, wiping her hand on her under dress. "I'll wake Hedda, you go care for the goats."
Hiccup milked the goats alone that morning, shoulder twinging against the repetitive motion. When Geirhildr had not joined him by the end of the early morning, he set aside his pails of milk, whistled to Heiflund and took off for the hills with his herd. Throughout the day, Hiccup's mind kept drifting from the task at hand to the gloom of the thralls' benches. Herbjorn's worn and weathered face occupied the back of his mind as he kept his wandering goats in check. The old man had sounded so sick that morning and the few glimpses he caught of his face in the renewed firelight had shown Herbjorn looking utterly spent, recognition absent from his eyes. Death wasn't an unfamiliar thing to Hiccup. Berk had been at war with the dragons for longer than he could remember. And it had only been since Toothless and the addition of the dragon riding school that the marriages and births had surpassed the deaths. It should not surprise him that death had come to visit, even in this far away land.
Heiflund's sharp bark rang out through the slopes. Hiccup startled out of his thoughts and whirled around, eyes wide and searching for the source of the danger. However, all his panicked searching could turn up was his loyal dog, tail thumping in the mud.
"Don't scare me like that!" Hiccup snapped. His hand clutched at his chest to calm his pounding heart as he took a steadying breath.
Heiflund whined and crept up to her master, snout nudging gently at the calloused hand clenched in a fist. Slowly, the tension bled out of the small viking and his hand opened to stroke the comforting ears of his dog. "It's okay, girl. I'm fine. And I'm sorry for snapping at you. Now, let's get these guys circled up for dinner."
With a piercing whistle, Hiccup directed Heiflund up onto the slopes. The dog took off at a run and swept wide to contain the first few goats just beginning to wander further up the slope. Hiccup struggled up the rise behind her, whistling commands between breaths and watching in satisfaction as the group of goats began tightening and turning for home. Carefully, he scampered down the other side of the slope to follow his herd. His crook was planted firmly into the soft earth to anchor him as he scrambled over rocks and ankle-clinging scrub. He breathed a sigh of relief when he and his herd descended from the slopes and into the small valley where the farm lay.
Hiccup spent the evening meal that night huddled in the back of the main room, bowl of mutton stew cradled in his lap. The warmth of the fire and the hot soup in his belly did wonders for his shivering frame. The wetness that had clung to his clothes and boot was still there, but at least the cold had been chased away.
"You should finish that," Snortr's low and quiet voice admonished from beside him.
Hiccup glanced over at the young man, hands tightening reflexively around his bowl. He shrugged as best he could with one shoulder and shoveled another spoonful into his mouth.
"We just got you back to health." Snortr continued, "and we don't need you going the same way as Herbjorn just yet."
Both boys looked towards the low light emanating from the thrall's back chamber. Herbjorn's coughs could barely be heard over the din of the evening meal, but they both knew that the coughing was there and that it was worsening.
A few minutes passed before Hiccup gave up on his meal. "You finish it," he shoved the bowl of soup towards Snortr, "I'm not that hungry and you need it more."
And then he ducked off of the bench and hurried for their room before the other boy could protest. Hiccup didn't sleep much that night, tossing and turning in time to Herbjorn's congested coughs.
The next two days passed in a wet and miserable blur. Though the rain had ceased to fall, clouds still obscured the sun and held back it's warmth from the land below. Mud clung to everything in a thick and slimy layer. Herbjorn's condition continued to worsen.
"He's not getting better," Skili whispered on the third day as the thralls sat around their fire, gathering together before bed.
Hedda turned her head away from the young boy, her face stoney and her eyes downcast. Snortr didn't look up from the poker he was working into the embers of the fire, but his hand shook around the end of the stick. It was Geirhilda who replied, "I'm not sure how much longer he will linger."
The woman brushed the hair escaping from the dirty plait out of her face and fixed Skili with a piercing look, "we should prepare to send him to Hel."
Snortr's poker snapped audibly in the silence that followed. He looked at the wood shard in his hand before throwing it into the fire in a small cloud of sparks. Wordlessly, he stood and stalked to his bench. Hedda rose and followed a moment later.
The fire crackled in the silence, interrupted only by Herbjorn's coughing. Hiccup watched it until his eyes stung and light spots danced in his vision. He caught Skili's face twisted in sadness out of the corner of his eye. The boy gave him a tight smile before sighing and unfolding his creaking joints to stand. Hiccup squeezed Skili's shoulder for a moment in solidarity before turning to his own bench. He fell asleep to the sound of the sparking fire, soft crying, and the wheeze of a dying man.
Fire. All around him, flames jumped and wavered. His vision filled with red hot iron and his shoulder ignited in pain. The heat was suffocating, blistering his lungs as he fought to draw breath. Every minute was a struggle to keep from being consumed by the burning. Hiccup startled awake, gasping for breath and staring at the dirt wall of his bench. He slowly set up, laboring to catch his breath. He wasn't in the workshop. He was on his bench. His shoulder twinged, but no longer hurt. It was all just a dream.
The sound of horrible coughing and wheezing broke through Hiccup's subsiding terror and he looked across the room to see Hedda propping up Herbjorn as the old man struggled to expel something dark from his lungs. Hiccup silently watched them until Herbjorn's fit was over. With fear and uncertainty still clinging to his heart, the boy laid back down and went to sleep.
Snortr shook him awake the next morning and Hiccup rose to find Alfhild and Sigfred crowded around Herbjorn's bench. Hiccup looked up at the older boy next to him, questioning clear in his face.
Snortr nodded, "he is gone."
Hiccup turned away for a moment and locked eyes with Skili on the bench over from him. The younger boy was crying softly, rocking back and forth against Geirhilda. The thrall girl turned glistening eyes to Hiccup before turning back to pat Skili's shoulder.
Hiccup milked the goats alone again. Silence seemed to hang heavily over the farm, even as animal noises sounded all around. At the direction of Hedda, Hiccup, Snortr, and Skili finished up the morning tasks. They said little to each other and worked with an efficiency that only grief could bring.
Mid-morning approached when they returned to their room in search of the overseer. Inside, they found the women quietly moving around with supplies of greens and buckets of water. Hedda and Geirhilda had laid Herbjorn out on an old, undyed piece of linen on the floor. They carefully surrounded him with the detritus of the forest and the wildflowers that grew in abundance around the farm before beginning to wash his body and clean his hair. Alfhild joined them in the preparations, carefully moving about the thrall women as she assisted in dressing Herbjorn in his better tunic. When the body had been mostly cleaned and dressed, Alfhild removed one of the strands of beads she wore suspended from two tortoise brooches on her chest and laid it about Herbjorn's neck in place of a collar. Hedda looked surprised at the gesture but said nothing. Instead, she turned and nodded meaningfully to Snortr.
"Come," Snortr said after a moment of silence. "We must prepare the burial."
The larger boy led Hiccip and Skili out near the perimeter fence of the farm where several cairns of stone already stood. With a shovel in hand, Hiccup began digging at the direction of Snortr. The three worked in silence, saying nothing to disturb the noise of the wind or the sod as it was removed from the ground and thrown over their shoulders. Finally they had dug a passable grave. Snortr helped the two young boys climb out of the hole in the ground and together they sat on the perimeter fence to take a day meal. A wineskin was passed around and they absently nibbled at bread and goat cheese. Their bodies cried for the sustenance after their hard work, but the food tasted ashen and the mead did little to wash it down.
Soon, Snortr nudged Hiccup to see Master Sigfred and Steinrodr approaching in the distance. Between them they bore a plank with Herbjorn's linen wrapped body upon it. The rest of the family trailed behind, singing softly as they went.
Snortr stood to receive the body as the household grew nearer. Steinrodr moved aside and Hedda came up to whisper a small prayer. Geirhilda sang quietly behind her, Skili quickly joining her in song as the girl offered a comforting arm to him. The small display was depressingly short and then Master Sigfred and Snortr were lowering the linen wrapped body into the grave. Master Sigfred shoveled the first load of dirt onto the body before letting Hiccup, Skili, and Snortr fill in the rest. The three made short work of the grave and then stood back as Hedda built a small cairn at the head, stones stacked expertly to knee height. Alfhild came forward next, arranging a small offering of food on the grave as a memorial feast.
The household remained by the grave for a short while longer before turning and striking off for the longhouse. Hiccup could smell roasting meat on the wind and knew that the evening meal was already being prepared. For at least today, they would eat and drink to the fallen. He, Snortr, and Hedda lingered the longest before finally returning. The family passed the evening meal in the most raucous a celebration of life they could muster. Hiccup could not help but dwell on the idea that all of them in this place were mortal and that when tomorrow came, it could take one of them to Hel just as easily. He sat up until the fire burned to embers, sipping mead and trying to think of nothing amidst the din of voices. Dreams evaded him that night.
It rained again the next day, a fine spray that didn't let up until well into the evening. Hiccup spent the day miserably wet and shivering in the chill of the constant breeze. The work day passed in a blur as his mind wandered dully into the clouds. Even as the boy stumbled over the rocky ground, Hiccup remained blissfully numb. He coasted on autopilot; his muscle memory carrying his body through milking the goats and herding them into the mountains. And when the evening meal was finally over that night, the weary viking sank into his bench gratefully. The sound of Skili's gentle cries filled his mind in place of thought as the boy drifted in and out of sleep. Another day had passed and Hiccup could hardly remember it.
Some notes on Viking burials: we are generally more accustomed to pyre or ship cremations as a proper burial within viking culture. After all, cremation was the burial used for Stoick. This practice is probably most graphically depicted by Ahmad ibn Fahlad who recorded the burial rituals of a viking chieftain who passed away on the Eastern trading route in the 10th century. The account is more in line with what the depiction of viking funerals has been in the 19th-20th centuries. Also in this account, one thrall woman volunteered to be burned alongside her master in his longship to serve him in the afterlife. This is important to note because it seems that thralls were often used as service even in death and some were slaughtered and buried/burned alongside their masters as an aid for the afterlife.
More on burials vs. cremation: Snorri Stulurson writes on the custom of cremation and the introduction of burial in the Saga of the Ynglings. Here is where the other stereotypical viking burial comes into play: the burial mound. These types of burials were often used for the wealthy and high status and can be seen in very famous pieces of literature such as Beowulf. Some vikings were buried in graves that had stones placed around it in the outline of a ship. One of my favorite examples of this is the Lindholm Hoje burial grounds. With these prominent examples of burials mentioned, I should say that is likely that the graves of most thralls were no more than a hole in the ground. From archaeological excavations at Grimska and Flakstad, it is shown that thralls were mistreated in burials and that their placement was often careless in relation to vikings of a higher social standing. That said, treating the bodies of the departed with respect and holding a memorial fest, however small it may be, was still in practice as some vikings believed this would prevent the dead from haunting them as well as securing the dead's service to them.
The glass bead string given to Herbjorn is unusual given that most thralls were not buried with grave goods. However, some beads were found in the graves of Kaupang (which is in the region where I've set this story) so I wanted to include them as both an allusion to continued service in the afterlife with the replacing of one collar for another and also as a testament to the relative kindness of Sigfred and Alfhild.
For those returning: Hi! Welcome back. It's been a few years hasn't it? Sorry to leave you hanging for so long. Partially to make it up to you and partially to help me work on this story, I have gone through my previous chapters to edit and make things more consistent. If you'd like to reread Seasons of Change, now is the best time to do it since I've also expanded each chapter as well and added extra content.
For those just finding this story: This thing is very much a work in progress and I am determined to finish it. I came up with the concept for this story while not paying attention in a lesson at Oxford and it's one of the few plots that I am willing to continue over the years. Please bear with me as I work on expanding, editing, and finishing the rest of this tale.