The first thing that Eivor registered, upon awakening, was the touch of a warm hand stroking her hair. The second was a woman's voice singing. This is Heillboer, and my mother is singing me to sleep, Eivor thought before she opened her eyes. When she looked, however, Eivor saw that the woman sitting beside her was not Rosta. The lady was beautiful, with flowing blonde hair that would have put even Freyja or Sif's golden locks to shame. Something in her fair features was somehow familiar to Eivor's eyes.

"Finally, you are awake, Eivor," the woman said. "You must have many questions."

Eivor sat up, looking at her surroundings. These were her chambers in Ravensthorpe—but Eivor could hear the raucous noises of a feast going on beyond the closed doors. Suddenly, the memories of the previous day came flooding back.

"This is not Ravensthorpe," Eivor said, in a rush, "this is… this is Valhalla."

"Correct," said the blonde beauty. "This is the end of your journey."

Her eyes were clear and grey, like—"Valka?" Eivor said, brows furrowing. It had been ever so arduous to pluck that name from the hazy depths of her memory. She could not even remember the face that went with that name. "No, you are not her, but… you're her mother, Svala."

For some reason, she had been about to pronounce another name. Almost. It was a strange impression, as if her mind had tried to go to two places all at once. It almost gave Eivor whiplash.

"You have a keen eye, Wolf-Kissed," Svala said with some amusement.

Nothing remained of the frail crone Eivor remembered, the one who muttered and mumbled in some corner as her daughter prepared brews and rituals for the clan. This woman was resplendent in her youth and beauty.

"Then, you are here in Valhalla, with us." Another memory struck Eivor with the force of a blow to the head. "Sigurd! He was here as well! Where is—"

Svala's smile was soft and mysterious. She lifted her hand, and immediately the doors swung open. Eivor stood from the bed as Sigurd entered the room. He greeted her with both arms raised.

Her eyes were drawn to his right arm—which was once again whole, untouched by Fulke's cruelty. And yet… another image assaulted Eivor's mind. The two of them, rushing together in the sunlit fields beyond the gold-wrought gates, joining the throng of warriors engaged in joyful slaughter. The thrill of the fight, familiar and yet so new, coursing through her veins, making her blood sing. The roars of the hundreds of drengir surrounding her, lost in their battle frenzy.

And then—Sigurd's severed arm lying in the grass, while he kneeled nearby, holding his bloody stump.

That was the last thing she remembered of the previous day. Heart pounding, Eivor went to touch Sigurd's arm, almost as if she could not believe it was real.

"Yesterday," she said precipitately, "I remember—someone had cut it off during the battle—"

Sigurd laughed. "And didn't I tell you not to worry? We earn no scars here, only battle wisdom."

Eivor's tensions eased, but only slightly. Still, she managed a grin. "Wisdom? You?"

"Don't you dare laugh, Wolf-Kissed." Despite these words, Sigurd was grinning as well. "Now, come! Another day of revelry and battle glories await us! Let us not tarry!"

She followed him and Svala outside, where they were greeted by the exuberant shouts of the drengir feasting in the courtyard. The sun shone as brightly as it did in the previous day, and the great golden gates glistened in the distance, more alluring than the riches of all the monasteries in England. Eivor was almost blinded by such splendour.

"All of this…" she said, in breathless wonder, "it's so beautiful… I can scarce believe I am seeing this with my own eyes."

"It's everything that a drengr could hope for," Sigurd declared. "Everything that has been owed to us."

"Tyr is right," Svala said. She motioned at the crowd with her chin. "Go on. There must be many here who would be glad to see your faces, I believe."

"Well said, Freyja! Come, Eivor, let us partake in what the Allfather's golden hall has to offer before we are once more called to battle!"

With great eagerness, Sigurd rushed into the courtyard, where he was greeted with open arms and boisterous cheers. For a moment, Eivor itched to join him—but for some reason, she found herself unable to move. Instead, she turned to Svala.

"He called you Freyja," Eivor said, "and you called him Tyr." Something was at play here, something significant, yet Eivor felt as if she was grasping in the dark for some half-remembered truth. "Why?"

Svala gave another of her mysterious smiles. "Because these are our names. You will understand in time, child, once you learn to let go."

"Let go? Let go of what?"

For a brief moment, Svala's smile grew pained, and she seemed about to say something. Then, her features smoothed over to become an inscrutable mask once more. "It does not matter. Go, and enjoy this respite. You deserve it, after everything you've suffered."

Despite her misgivings, Eivor found herself moving toward the courtyard, almost as if her legs were moving out of their own accord. Still, the more she approached her fellow drengir, the more her heart grew lighter. She was indeed weary, so weary, tired of the follies she'd witnessed down in cursed Midgard. That her fog-filled mind could not remember what those follies had been, exactly… well, that was inconsequential. Here she was finally freed of these worries.

The ale made her pleasantly indolent, and she ambled through the rows of warriors, laughing at their inane jokes and accepting their drinking challenges with a grin. Sigurd was nowhere to be found, but Eivor was not worried. She would find him again when the horn would call the einherjar to battle, she was sure of it.

Still, Eivor froze when she heard someone calling her name—when someone called her Eivor. The sound of it was almost foreign to her ears; here, everyone used titles to refer to her, a testament to her glorious deeds in life. Eivor turned on her heel, finding a tall and proud dark-haired drengr making his way toward her. She nearly dropped her ale horn at the sight of him.

"Hemming Jarl," Eivor whispered, and a great smile broke on the man's face. She readily accepted his embrace, throwing away her drink without a care. For a moment, she felt like a child again, warm and safe in the arms of one she loved as a second father. "Can it be really you?"

"Who else would it be, child?" Hemming said with the bark-like laugh she remembered—and loved—so much.

She took a better look at his face and grinned like a fool. "Where have the lines on your brow gone, lord? And the grey in your hair?"

"Here is the land of everlasting youth," Hemming answered. "The Allfather needs his soldiers young and hungry, after all."

"I'd thought…" Eivor began. "I'd feared… that since you died in your bed, you would not…" She could barely stand to say those words out loud. Hemming had shown valour aplenty throughout his long life; more than anyone he deserved the everlasting glory of Odin's hall.

Hemming put a hand over her shoulder. "That is for the Havi to decide, not you, Wolf-Kissed."

Eivor's smile faltered a little. These words… she'd heard someone say something similar, hadn't she? The fog clogging her mind persisted, making it hard to remember.

"How you've grown from that little rascal I remember, dirt and bruises all over," Hemming said, eyes sparkling. "A fine drengr you've become, child."

"Because you'd set a good example to follow, lord," Eivor said. "The two of us, we ran and ran to catch up to—"

She stopped, rather abruptly. The two of us. Eivor and… who, exactly? She was struck with the memory of laughing blue eyes—and the memory of a once-lively voice rendered unusually hoarse with emotion and grief. She met Hemming's gaze, full of fatherly pride and suddenly –

"Your son!" she exclaimed. "Vili! He took your seat as jarl, just as you wanted. You should not worry for him, he has grown into the role."

"Why should I worry?" Hemming said, so calmly. "Such concerns are pointless in Valhalla. We feast and fight at our hearts' content, until the Havi calls for us. Nothing else matters."

Eivor stared at him. Brothir, she thought, finally remembering the encounter of the prior day. He had acted the same. Were all the warriors of Odin's army so dedicated to his grand cause? She supposed the great battles of Ragnarok were indeed a more important matter than the lives of ordinary mortals in Midgard. Still, Eivor was uneasy.

"Hemming, Vili adored you," she said. "Your death tore a part of his heart away." She remembered her friend's boisterous laughter, how it'd been reduced to silence by his sorrow. "How can you cast aside your love for your son that easily?"

"Why should he grieve? Is he a child weeping the loss of a parent's guidance or a man? A drengr?" He shook his head, still smiling. "The Allfather has no need for weak-willed soldiers."

Vili is not weak, she wanted to say, but the words caught in her throat. What he had said pierced a particular part of Eivor, the part that remembered being a child bleeding on the ice, tears turning to frost on her eyelashes. The warmth brought about by the ale was gone; now, she felt cold and numb. In the distance sounded the horn of battle. The low, rumbling noise was followed by ferocious roars on the part of the warriors.

"Hear that, Eivor?" Hemming's peaceful smile had grown somewhat ravenous. "Has any drengr ever heard a sweeter sound?"

Eivor did not answer. I need to find Sigurd, she thought. Sigurd would know what to do. For so long he had been the only one who'd been able to cut through the veil of rage and sadness that had obscured so much of her childhood. Yes, Sigurd would guide her, make her worries disappear with a grin and some words of encouragement.

Besides, Eivor could not stand to look at Hemming's strangely fanatical expression for one more second.

Once she was out to the fields beyond the gates, Eivor gave in to her bloodlust, cutting down any who dared meet her path. Her opponents mirrored her grin as they fell under the bite of her axe; so deep was she lost in her frenzy that she did not see just how twisted their expressions had grown. The strength she had! Never had Eivor felt such vigour on the field of war!

Perhaps Broder was right. Perhaps Hemming was right. Why bother over inconsequential matters…?

Finally, a familiar figure came to face her. "Eivor!" Sigurd called, clearly in the throes of battle madness as well. "Don't be a coward, sister! Fight me!"

Eivor twirled her axe in her hand, anticipating the fight like one salivating over a piece of meat. "The battle we never had," she said, echoing his crazed grin. "The battle that will shake this place to the core!"

"Hold nothing back!" Sigurd answered, launching himself at her.

She parried his blow with a laugh. "You'll have to do better than that, troll-arse!"

How could she have forgotten this—the banter, the contest of skills, the rush of heat in her veins? How could she have begun to doubt the truth of this hallowed site, and the place that had been prepared for her within it? She had everything she needed here, everything she could ever hope for.

Everything, save for—

"Don't you see, Eivor?" Sigurd proclaimed, under the watchful gazes of the circle of drengir surrounding them. "Our true nature, revealed! You and I, we are—"

Behind him, just a little further beyond the crowd of warriors assembled to watch their duel… there was a warrior, tall and broad-shouldered as Hemming had been, pale red-blond hair gathered in a tail behind his head. Eivor faltered, heart stopping at this sight. Unlike the other drengir, the man was not facing her, was not even looking toward her. And yet…

Eivor's axe found flesh, easily cut through cartilage and ligaments. Sigurd howled in pain.

His severed arm fell in the grass with the barest of sounds.

Her brother was now on his knees, cradling his stump with his remaining hand.

"Sigurd!" Eivor cried. She made to move toward him, but her feet seemed rooted to the ground.

"Worry not!" Despite the sweat pouring at his brow, Sigurd still had that fanatical gleam in his eyes. "It will grow back. Again and again, if need be. Don't you see? Don't you see? Nothing is permanent here. Nothing save the courage and the reputation of Odin's warriors. We are finally free, Eivor!"

Eivor stared mutely at him as the drengir welcomed his words with triumphant roars. Sigurd's blood was trickling from her axe in a slow, steady drip. The ground drank that red offering greedily.

Her father was nowhere to be found.