A warm, gentle light filtered through Eivor's shut eyelids. She stirred with a slight groan, one hand grasping something soft: thick furs, and sheets made of a light, smooth material. Eivor's lips tugged into the slightest of smiles as she stretched sore limbs, sighing in contentment.
Still, she should have gotten up easily. Eivor only lingered in bed whenever she was treated to the pleasant warmth of a guest beside her. She was not one to laze about, despite Randvi's teasing suggesting the contrary.
Yet, she felt as if she could stay forever in this state of half-wakefulness. Here, there was no worry wrenching her heart in a vise-like grip. Here, there was no heavy burden weighing down her weary shoulders.
Here Eivor was finally safe and warm.
Eventually, she cracked one eye open. Eivor was in her chambers at the longhouse in Ravensthorpe, though even in the height of summer she'd never been greeted with such bright, warm light. From beyond a closed door, Eivor heard noises that made her heart swell: bawdy songs and boisterous laughter, not to mention the joyous clamour of tankards clinging together. Was there a feast even so early in the day?
With a low chuckle, Eivor rose and dressed for the day. It was strange that she had not found Dwolfg at the feet of her bed, but perhaps he'd been spirited away by the children for a few hours of play. She strained her ear, hoping to hear familiar voices coming from outside her door; Randvi should be awake by now. Still, Eivor heard nothing. She crossed her chambers to push open the door.
And found a great open courtyard before her, a too bright sun blazing above her head.
Eivor stilled, muscles stiffening with shock. Long tables were set in front of her; the proud drengir sitting there raised their drinking horns to greet her. Great wooden buildings surrounded her on both side, so tall she had to crane her neck to see the tip of their peaked roofs. In the distance, hazy in the golden sunlight, loomed a large gate. This was not Ravensthorpe's meadhall. She was not in Ravensthorpe at all. Eivor looked about in a slight panic, heart pounding in her ears.
"What is this place?" she wondered aloud.
"There you are!" one of the warriors exclaimed.
"Hail, drengr!" said another. "Welcome!"
A third shouted, "The Havi returns to lead us to victory!"
Eivor stumbled forward, struck numb by the majesty of her surroundings. The drengir continued to cheer for her with a boisterousness that would have put to shame the warriors of her crew. Yet, none of the beaming faces turning to her seemed familiar. Some spoke with a Norse accent, others with a Danish inclination to their words. A variety of clan emblems were painted on their round shields, none that she recognized.
"This is…" she whispered, unbelieving, "this cannot be…"
The men and women facing her were Einherjar, there was no doubt. Those were the fiercest fighters who'd trodden the grounds of Midgard. Which meant…
Something swooped low in her belly. This was Valhalla. This was Odin's great golden hall.
This was where the dead reveled forevermore after answering the Valkyries' call.
I'm dead, Eivor realized. A thick fog filled her mind. How had she died? Why couldn't she remember? I'm dead. She should have been glad of that fact, should have been proud to count among the Allfather's chosen. And yet…
"Lead us to glory, Havi!" one shieldmaiden cried as Eivor passed by.
"We are proud to serve you, Havi!" another warrior said, clapping her on the shoulder.
There were so many of them, so many lost in their revelry. One drengr pressed a tankard of ale into Eivor's hands, saying, "Drink for strength! For glory, Havi!" And yet, Eivor could not bring it to her lips. All of those faces seemed to blur in front of her eyes; there were simply too many voices speaking and shouting all at once.
"Eivor!" a familiar voice called, anchoring her in this dizzying chaos. "Finally, you have come!"
Eivor whipped her head toward the one who had spoken. A tall drengir with a wild mane of red hair was approaching. Eivor mouthed his name, not quite believing her eyes.
"Brothir," she said, finally managing a smile as the man crushed her into an embrace. "By the gods! How glad I am to see a familiar face!"
"What's this?" Brothir said, laughing and motioning at the tankard in her hand. "A drink in your fist, yet you're not indulging? Who are you and what have you done with Eivor Wolf-Kissed?"
"I was… I was under shock," Eivor protested, weakly. Still, at the sight of his smirk, her own grin widened. "But if you are willing to drink beside me, then I'll gladly deplete the reserves of the gods."
A few drengir left their seats to allow Eivor and Brothir to sit together. Soon, they were sharing stories upon stories, as if they had not been separated by a pesky thing called death. Brothir told her of the never-ending feasts of Odin's golden halls, of joys and triumphs such as her mind could not conceive. In exchange, Eivor gave him news from the wretched lands he'd left below. It was strangely difficult to think of those they had left behind; Eivor had to wade through the fog in her mind to find even the smallest of scraps of memory concerning them.
"Your brother joined me in battle against King Aelfred's forces," Eivor said. "He misses you greatly, even after all those years." Broder had told her he was done with grief, but she knew better. Some wounds could truly never heal; rage would fuel Broder for a while, but it would never make him feel whole again.
Eivor had learned that lesson the hard way.
"Does he now?"
The nonchalance of his words struck her like a blow. Brothir had not even stopped smiling. Eivor pushed her unease aside to say, "And I have not seen your sister in some time, but I know she is well. East Anglia flourishes under her rule." Valdis had maintened a steady correspondence with the Raven clan over the years. Eivor had never admitted it out loud, but she was always glad to hear from the queen of East Anglia and her sweet pudding of a husband. What was his name, Eivor wondered? For some reason, she could not remember. "From what I've last heard, she is awaiting her third child."
Brothir shrugged. "Is that so?"
Again, Eivor felt cold at his detached tone. She did not know him as well as Broder or Valdis, but Brothir had always struck her as being a devoted and protective elder brother. Death had given him another perspective, she supposed.
"Yes," she said, "your brother and sister have done well for themselves. But I know they would be ever so glad to have you by their sides once more."
"They will join us soon enough."
This time, Eivor could not return his smile. She frowned, instead. "One day, your brother will fight alongside us, I'm sure of it, but Valdis… her husband and children will go to the Christian god. Your sister would come to Valhalla with a heavy heart, I believe. She would be grieved to be separated from her family."
"Then it's her loss. She chose love over the Allfather's design. He has no need for sentimental soldiers."
"I've fought beside your sister at Burgh Castle. Odin would be glad to have such a talented drengr for his army."
"That's for the Havi to decide, Wolf-Kissed, not you."
Eivor could only stare at him, unable to utter any sound. Her ears were buzzing with the dissonant noises of songs and laughter. What could she say to such a declaration? How could he say such a thing, after sacrificing so much for the sake of his sister's happiness?
"I…" Eivor began, hesitating. Her face was heating up in anger and shame. The last time she had felt that way, she had been a small child, chided by Styrbjorn for some mischief she'd pulled. That only served to make her temper flare up even more. "How could you even—"
Before she could continue, a great noise resounded in the air, a powerful rumbling that resonated in her ribcage. Eivor knew that sound. A horn, calling warriors to battle; she herself had so often hailed the beginning of a raid in a similar manner.
Brothir stood with a roar, raising his tankard in the air. "Another occasion for glory awaits us, Eivor! Come wet your blade!"
And he went to join the wave of warriors pouring toward the gates. Indeed, the gold-wrought doors were opening in a great shriek of metal over stone, offering a glimpse of the sunlit grove stretching beyond. Fierce and joyful battle cries filled the air as the drengir tossed their drinks aside to grab their axes. Eivor followed them, some of her numbness ebbing away, replaced by a familiar eagerness. Her own hand twitched toward the handle of her axe.
Waiting for her in front of the gate was another red-haired drengr. Eivor's breath caught in her throat at the sight of him.
Her childhood protector and confidant; her brother, not in blood, but in bond; her Jarl, whom she had refused to betray even as fate forced her toward that path.
Sigurd extended one arm to reach for her; his hand was open, inviting—and whole, gloriously whole. He was the proud, grinning figure of her memories, not the gaunt, mad-eyed draugr of a man who had haunted Ravensthorpe these past winters.
"Come, sister!" Sigurd called. "Destiny awaits!"
Eivor mirrored his smile, took her brother's hand. She eagerly followed him beyond the golden gates.
