There was no honour or glory to be found in a death from succumbing to the cold, no honour or glory to be found in a death from succumbing to the hunger and thirst that clawed at the bodies of each and every weary and starving Viking that sat beside Björn. Björn was cold, tired, and he feared that if he fell asleep - he would never wake up to see another sunrise.
It had been a long journey since they had left the shores of their homeland, and the end did not seem to be in sight.
They had left the Birka quay, they left their home in the North, at the first light of dawn in their ships, sixty oars each. Every ship had been filled with Vikings eager and bloodthirsty for the glory of bloody war which awaited them on the other side of the vast ocean, ready to either return home victorious, with fame and riches, or to rest with honour beyond the grave in the great halls of Valhalla, feasting and drinking the mead from Heiðrún's udder.
There was no honour in the stench of death that now surrounded Björn, there was only the misery of starvation, the dark horror of seeing once strong men succumbing to the deep chill that had enveloped them and dragged their souls to Helheim.
They had dedicated their blót, their sacrifices, to the jötunn Ægir and to the daughters of his wife, the völva Rán, to the nine personifications of the sea waves. They had dedicated their blót in the hopes of being granted safe and swift passage across the great ocean, safe deliverance to the awaiting shores of their foe.
Björn wondered if they had angered the Gods, if this was punishment for a slight that he was unaware they had committed.
They had started the journey in good spirits, with four days of good wind that came from their backs and filled their sails. But on the morning of the fifth day, as the rising sun cast its rays across the dark waters of the ocean, the water was still. The ocean was calm, with not even a hint of the slightest breeze. Their sails faltered and fell slack, and they were left to drift.
With the wind having abandoned them, they were forced to pick up the oars.
They were forced to row.
And row.
And row.
And row.
It felt endless, as if the wind would never return for them, as if their eternal fate for being arrogant enough to try to voyage the seas would be to pull and push at the wooden oars that left splinters of salt-soaked wood embedded in their skin, the wooden oars that caused sores to form on their palms, sores which broken open and oozed and bled as they were given no opportunity to rest and heal.
Björn shivered as he sat atop his sea chest, knowing that the possessions held within the chest were just as soaked as everything outside the wooden chest. He had not been dry in days, he had not been warm in days.
They had been lost at sea, for days.
The blazing sun had burnt their skin, turning it red and peeling. Their stores of water had quickly been deplenished, their food stores had grown low.
They had never expected to be at sea for this long.
They had expected to be victorious, already at home deep in celebration.
Björn's throat was dry, his lips cracked and bleeding, not even a drop of fresh water to be found. His stomach growled and ached, joining his fellow Vikings in a cacophony of rumbles that demanded food of which there was none.
Fleas feasted upon their flesh, leaving swollen bumps and itchiness that provided another level of discomfort alongside the constant dampness and hunger pains.
And now, after the sun had sufficiently tortured them with its heat, the frigid and sharp rains battered them, a deep fog that blanketed the ocean preventing them from seeing more than a few paces in front of them. Moans and cries of his fellow Vikings that were growing weak and close to slipping into Helheim's grasp.
Björn was cold, soaked to the bone.
He was tired, hungry, and so thirsty.
His eyelids fluttered low over his weary and reddened eyes, offering a brief reprieve from the salty mist cast up by the splashing oars. His aching muscles urged him to slow, to stop, his weary mind wove him a tale of peace, of what luxury letting himself relax could offer.
Björn slumped forward, falling against his oar as his head fell against his chest. It felt as if he was going numb, as if he was...
He was dying, was he not?
He needed to wake up.
He needed to fight.
Björn forced his aching eyes open, pushing himself upright as he grasped at his oar, pushing it into the dark water once again as he matched the rhythm of the man in front of him. The wounds on his hands bled, red droplets trailing along the grooves in the wood of the oar, dripping down onto his lap, mixing with the rain and ocean water and dying his skin and furs pink.
His hands burned, his muscles ached. His body yearned for, no, his body demanded sleep, but he could not give in.
He would not give in.
"I am up, I am up," Björn murmured, reassuring himself just as much as anyone who may be within ear-shot, "I will not die here. Not today."
He would not let himself succumb.
Nobody recalled a coward's name, nobody remember the name of those who died outside battle. Glory and honour called from beyond the waves, but Björn feared he may never reach their source. Björn feared he may never reach the great halls of Valhalla, that he may never escape the torture that was the deck of the longboat, but he would not let himself succumb to the elements without a fight.
He would not succumb.