Acts of Sacrifice
So what now?
The question was deceptively simple on its surface, and had she been born of Midgard, the question might have been simple, period. The people of Midgard were born, they inevitably died (sometimes mere hours after being born), but in place of mortality, they had degrees of freedom. Who to worship, who to love, what path they might take in their mortal coil. Choices that were often constrained by social standing, and the grim reality of living on a continent gripped by perpetual war, yet the gift of choice remained.
As she walked through the battle camp of the Order of Heroes, under stars similar yet not exact to the ones of the other Askr, Eir found she had no answer to the question. She had never asked "what now?" of herself, because there was always an answer, and always it was the same – follow her mother's will. Never in all her years of unlife could she recall a moment where her path had not been laid out for her. Visible despite the darkness that enveloped it.
But that time was over. Here, in the world of the living, she had choices. Her mother was dead. Hel was defeated. Death itself had been surpassed, however briefly. Now, however…well, the question remained. And as she stood in the battle camp, Eir, daughter of Hel, found herself without answer.
What now?
Warriors were scattered throughout the enclosure. Spearmen, archers, mages, priests…men and women from all walks of life, from worlds beyond this one in some cases. Many were sat at fires in grim silence, shadows dancing upon their faces. Eir had no doubt that even in the dark of the Witching Hour, many preferred this darkness to the perpetual twilight of Hel. Had no doubt, given the shadows in their eyes when they looked upon her, that they did not see her as one of their own, and never would. To them, she was Death's Daughter, kin of kingslayer, and no matter her deeds in life, death was still her creed.
And she couldn't even blame them. Indeed, as she once again clutched the hilt of Lyfjaberg, sheathed in her belt, she toyed with turning the knife upon herself. To slit her throat and be content in the knowledge that her death would be final.
Alas, death was the coward's way out. And as a member of the Order of Heroes (de facto, if not de jure), Eir knew there was no place for cowards here.
"No! Absolutely not!"
There was, however, a place for shouting, and more curses than there were worlds. It didn't take her long to identify the source of the commotion as coming from the Order's command tent, and only slightly longer for her to make her way, her every step a glide with the grace of a black swan.
What am I doing?
She supposed she had the answer to "what now?", but it was an answer that only led to more questions. Such as why Princess Shareena had just emerged from the command tent, her face as red as a setting sun, and her eyes streaming with the tears of the moon.
"Gods damn you Alfonse!"
"My lady?"
Shareena stopped and looked at Eir – looked up at her, to be precise, for despite being as thin as a reed, Eir towered over most of the company. In height at least, Shareena was naught but a child compared to her.
"Go in and talk some sense to him," she murmured. "Or don't. Pig-headed bastard."
"Alfonse is a pig?"
Shareena gave her "the look," before storming off into the night, soldiers parting for her as if she were Jörmungandr passing through the sea. After deciding that there were preferable options to eating her own tail, Eir entered the command tent, and beheld the tides of war.
Three men were inside – Kiran, Alfonse, and a man she didn't recognize. His armour was full-plate, and while less ornate than Alfonse's golden chest, upon his plate was the insignia of the Knights of Askr. He glanced at her, and with the eyes of a man who knew little save war, he reached for his sword.
"Peace, Sir Erik."
The knight loosened the grip on his blade, but did not let go. He looked at Eir, then his prince, before murmuring, "you allow Death's Daughter into our midst?"
"Eir has been at our side throughout this war," Alfonse said. "And now, as Death stabs at us from Hel's heart, she is still welcome."
Eir winced – there was no warmth in Alfonse's words. He would call her ally, he would not call her friend. Given the loss of his father, given how his doppelganger had worn death's mask, given how many lives her mother had taken, she couldn't blame him. Yet she dared hope that in a world free of Hel, there might be more warmth in his words.
She looked at Kiran, who remained inscrutable as ever. A hood covered his head like that of the Reaper himself, and his words were just as scarce.
"Very well," the man called Erik said eventually. "Despite the princess's, ah, disagreements, I assume our plan remains the same."
"For now," Alfonse murmured.
"My prince, haste has doomed many a man on the battlefield, indecision has cost the lives of countless more. Either send me and my cohort to our deaths this night…"
Deaths? Eir wondered.
"…or let us make camp so that we may march with you together."
Alfonse sighed, as if his own breath was leaving him. His eyes lingered on the map on the table – one that showed this region of Askr, not so far from the gate to Hel. Three wooden figurines were on the table – one representing the Order of Heroes and their camp, a knight representing the nearby Knights of Askr (or so she assumed), and one further afield from both of them – a soldier carrying a banner with a scythe. To its south and the Order's east was a town named Magnus.
The dead march, Askr realized, a chill spreading from her heart, and entering the wound upon her breast. But we…my mother…
"Perhaps Death's Daughter would aid us," Erik's murmured, looking at Eir with barely disguised contempt. "Perhaps she would give us insight into the Cohort of the Dead?"
"The what?" She stammered. Unable to meet Erik's gaze, she looked at Alfonse. "My prince, what is this?"
Alfonse looked at Erik. Erik shrugged. Kiran nodded at Alfonse, who in turn, talked to the pale woman before him.
"Hel is defeated," he murmured. "And most of her forces in Askr have faded away. The seal to Hel has been restored, and by all rights, the war should be over." He tapped the figurine bearing the scythe banner. "But one force remains in Midgard, and is marching on the town of Magnus. We estimate the dead a hundred strong, while the population of Magnus is over twice that number.
"Then they may hold out?"
"Nay, my lady. Magnus is without wall or gate, without soldiers or steel. If its people stand, they die. If they flee, they will die tired."
"Unless the Knights of Askr intervene," Erik interjected. "A glorious charge into the Cohort of the Dead, to buy time for more of our forces to arrive, the Order of Heroes included."
Eir's eyes darted from the table to the men around it. The facts of life and death rolled through her head…and she was beginning to understand why Shareena had stormed out.
"Is there any insight you can give us?" Alfonse asked, his tone almost pleading. "Why have these forces of your mother, I mean, Hel, remained in the world of the living?"
Eir gave no answer. Not at first. Instead, she picked up the figurine representing her mother's forces. The scythe banner was a nice touch, she thought – the forces of Hel were without heraldry. They moved as one, fought as one, died and returned to death as one. But she had seen maps like this enough times to understand that one's foe needed a symbol, regardless as to whether they carried it or not.
Finally, she spoke. "There are those to cling to life with the strength of worlds, and in turn, there are those who cling to death with the claws of eternity. It was not unknown for my mother to employ legions in the Cohort of the Dead made up of her strongest soldiers."
"Those strongest in death?" Alfonse asked.
"Aye, my lord. That is my belief – that even as the dead fade, some cling to death so strongly that they still march upon the living."
She returned the figurine to the table, hoping that would be the end of it. Alas, Erik shattered those hopes like a hammer upon glass.
"That's it?" the knight murmured. "Hel's own daughter, privy to her plans, and that's all you have to offer?"
"Peace, Erik," murmured Alfonse.
"Peace?!" the knight exclaimed. "What peace was granted King Gustav? What peace is there for the living? What peace for the dead who were taken by Hel?" He spat at Eir, his hand tight upon his sword's hilt. "Why is peace afforded to her, when our lands were blighted by her mother's spawn?"
Eir recoiled. Alfonse took a step forward.
"You forget yourself," the prince said forcefully.
"And your forget your place," the knight retorted. "A true prince would order my men into glorious battle, and-"
"I have fought against Embla, against Múspell, against Hel," Alfonse murmured. "I have come to learn that there is nothing glorious in war."
Erik's mouth contorted. He looked ready to shout at, even strike his prince. But be it through loyalty or fear, he nevertheless bowed.
"My advice stands," Erik said eventually. "Be it this night or day after, the Knights of Askr will march on the Cohort of the Dead." He glanced at Eir. "Regardless of the company we may keep."
And with that he departed the command tent, moving scarce different from Alfonse's sister. Somehow, Gustav's son and heir had managed to aggrieve more than one person this night.
But why, Eir wondered? The dead were marching on the living. Why the strife between the latter?
"Well," Kiran murmured eventually. "That was…interesting."
Alfonse scoffed.
"Your decision stands, then?"
"Aye, though it damns me."
Kiran laughed. "We've fought through the damned already, Alfonse. I do not see you among them."
Eir remained silent as Alfonse shot Kiran a small smile, and the Order's summoner departed the tent. Kiran was inscrutable in most regards, but clearly some affection existed between him and the royal siblings. Odd, for a man who'd been pulled into Midgard against his will (as far as she was aware that was), but then, inscrutable.
Less inscrutable was the look Alfonse gave her – cold, suspicious, and accompanied with the words "you're still here?"
"I take my leave," she said, bowing.
"No, Eir, don't go." He took a seat at the table and slumped down. "A fifth pair of eyes may aid me?"
"Fifth?"
"Shareena, Erik, Kiran, and my own. We all see the same thing, we all react differently to what must be done." His hands danced from one figurine to the next. "I send ten knights to their doom in order to save over two-hundred. Or I hold those knights back so that they may arrive with the Order of Heroes – saving the lives of my knights, but at the cost of the people of Magnus." He paused, before murmuring, "I have decided on the latter."
"What?" Eir asked, aghast.
Alfonse chuckled. "Does that surprise you?"
"I…you…" She composed herself. "Prince Alfonse, I would not dare to question strategy, but spending ten lives to save over twenty times that number? The moral calculus seems clear."
"Oh, the moral calculus is," Alfonse said. "And in a kinder, gentler world, I could entertain the notion that every life is of equal worth."
Eir nearly did a double-take. To hear these words from the prince…
"But the fact of the matter is that every one of those knights represents an investment in the defence of the kingdom," he continued. "Training. Weapons. Armour. Even a single horse is worth more than an entire family of peasants when you get down to it. And after Hel, after Múspell, and in light of the likelihood that Askr and Embla will return to war before decade's end…"
"Soldiers," Eir murmured. "Soldiers are worth more to you."
"To the kingdom? Yes," Alfonse said in a low voice. "Though the gods may damn me, as Shareena was quick to point out."
So that explained her outrage, Eir reflected. Though she doubted that the gods would intervene in such a manner (since gods had never intervened in anything before), she could understand Shareena's outrage. The Shareena she'd known in the other Askr would have been just as outraged. More so, even.
And indeed, the line between Alfonse and Lif grew ever thinner. Lif had made the calculus that his world was more important than his counterpart's. Had made the same decision that any monarch would, provided they were truly dedicated to their people's welfare. So as she sat down at the table opposite Alfonse, she could tell that while Alfonse's decision pained him, it was a decision he believed he had to make.
"Unless you have an alternative?" Alfonse whispered. "Some insight that may avail us?"
Eir looked at the table. She wasn't a master of strategy. She wasn't a master of anything. Her mother had-
No.
She clenched her fists. Even now, she thought of Hel as her mother. Hel, who had slain her real parents and taken her as her own. Hel, who had seen fit to dispose of her at the end of all things. Hel, who despite what Eir had told herself for many an eternity, had been without love or warmth. Colder and crueller than death itself, and indeed, the situation the Order found itself in.
"No avail then," Alfonse said. "Very well. You may take your leave."
Eir watched him get up and turn to a small cabinet, atop which was a bottle of wine. At the age of 17, Alfonse was only just a man, yet it was hard to imagine him drinking. Yet, she supposed, alcohol was the currency of the despaired. And while she might only offer silver compared to gold, she still spoke.
"I understand the pain you carry," she whispered. "Sacrifice is never without wounds."
"Do you, Eir?" Alfonse grunted, as he poured a single glass of wine. "I've seen the way the armies of Hel fight – legions of the dead flung at the living, commanders safe in the knowledge that the dead will return to the battlefield in due time."
"That is indeed the way the armies of Hel function, but-"
"Then how is it sacrifice?" Alfonse asked, turning to face her. "What would you know of sacrifice?"
Eir stared at him. Part of her…most of her, actually, wanted to leave. Alfonse was not a cruel man, she knew that, but he was prince and soldier alike. The prince might want to rule with compassion, the soldier knew that compassion had no place on the battlefield, especially against the Cohort of the Dead. He had trusted her when many others hadn't, but with the loss of his father, the revelation of Lif, the countless lives that had been sacrificed so that Hel might be slain, compassion was leaving him like water a melting glacier.
But those same events had allowed her to get the measure of herself. So acting in such a manner that surprised even herself, Eir began to unbutton the front of her dress.
"Eir, what on Zenith are you doing?"
She paid him no heed. The black cloth was removed, revealing the pale flesh beneath. She sought not to lead him into temptation, but rather, drew his eye to a wound on the left side of her chest. She could see that Alfonse was able to focus on it – behold the barely healed tissue One wound after another piled on top of the same mark on her skin. Scars atop each other like a pile of spears.
"You saw the stone where my mother sacrificed me," Eir whispered. "This is where she plunged her blade."
"Your heart?" Alfonse whispered.
"Aye, my lord, my heart. I was laid upon my back and my flesh laid bare. When it started, I would look my mother in the eye. Scream. Beg for her to show mercy. To not take my life. To make it stop."
Alfonse took the deepest sip of wine yet.
"My words were naught but wind," Eir continued, "and before long, my eyes were closed. The knife went in day after day, and each day, I would return to torment. Eventually, I learned not to utter word. My sacrifice was needed, you see, and my mother…well, what daughter would not obey her mother? What mother would not do what was necessary to…who would…take a girl, plunge a knife through her heart, ignore her tears and…"
She couldn't help it. The tears came, even as she rebuttoned her dress. They only began to abate as Alfonse offered her own glass of wine, one which she accepted.
"To the pain of sacrifice," Alfonse murmured.
Eir took a sip. Then another. The wine was bitter yet sweet both. It was taste, nay, experience, in liquid form. In Hel, food was scarcely needed for one such as her, and just as scarcely provided. She ate, she drank, and always did so alone, for Hel had been without the need for such things, let alone the desire. Even if it be time to spend with her own daughter…
Repeat lines from game here.
"Tomorrow we ride," Alfonse intoned. "One last battle against the Cohort of the Dead."
Eir lowered her glass. "I'll be there."
"My lady, you don't have to-"
"I'll be there," Eir repeated. "Let Death's Daughter stand against the armies of Hel one final time."
Magnus had been lost by the time the combined force arrived.
The cards were played, the game had begun. The Knights of Askr had arrived, but not to save the people. Instead, to deny the Cohort of the Dead its strength, the people of Magnus had been put to the torch, so they could not rise again in death. It was bloody work, blasphemous work, deeds that would give even Embla pause.
The deed was done. Denied their intended prize, the Cohort of the Dead still stood a mere one-hundred strong. Approaching from their flank, under the light of blood-red risen sun, were the combined forces of the Knights of Askr, the Order of Heroes, and accompanying men-at-arms. Marching and riding under the banner of Askr himself, the Mighty Dragon.
The dead were slow to react, but this was not from weariness, Eir reflected. They did not tire. They might be slowed, they might be delayed, but never would they slow from exhaustion. In that, they had the advantage. But outnumbered by the living, who had magic, cavalry, and vengeance in their hearts, Eir already knew what the outcome would be. The only question was how many of the living the dead would take with them.
As she mounted her pegasus, she could feel the eyes of the knights upon her. Men who had not fought alongside the Order of Heroes, men who saw her as a child of Hel. Men like Erik, who approached her as she rose to the saddle.
"A fine beast," he murmured. "Dark and cold. Like its rider."
She looked down at him. "Something I can help you with, Sir Erik?"
He scowled. "Kill as many of the dead as possible, that's how you can help me. Perhaps I'm denied glorious death, but I may yet win glorious battle."
"Death is never glorious," Eir said. "Rejoice in your life, Sir Erik. You have but one to live."
"Oh? And how many do you have, Death's Daughter?"
"One," Eir repeated without hesitation. "Be it today, tomorrow, years from now, final death may take me. But until then, life is my creed. For I am without anything else bar life, and those close to me that share it."
Erik looked at her in…respect, she wondered? It was hard to say, especially as he put on his helm and returned to his own mount, snorting in the midday air. As if it too was eager to join the fray.
She witnessed Alfonse and Shareena ride out to the head of the force, their horses as magnificent as their riders. Shareena carried the spear Fensalir, Alfonse, the sword Fólkvangr. Behind them rode Anna, carrying the Order's banner, but with the axe Nóatún at her side.
Alfonse began to speak. "Men and women of Askr. The death march, and the living perish. Death herself was defeated, but her children remain."
Eir was glad he didn't glance at her.
"One last battle is all that awaits us. Oaths to lord and land, fulfill them now. Drive the dead back. Let the living stand this day in victory everlasting. Look into Death's eyes and sing the song of defiance. Death takes us all in the end, but this day, we stand." He drew his sword. "Askr! Askr!"
"Askr!" The army yelled, as the dead began to march.
"For life and land!"
"For life and land!"
"In Askr's name, charge!"
Roaring as only the living could, the combined army obliged.
And on wing and song, Eir joined them. Flew through the crisp morning air, Lyfjaberg at her side.
Death would be defied this day.
No matter how much blood be spilt for it.