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WARNING: Possible adult content, beware!


I'll be posting my story here as it goes along, then at the end of each post, posting a word count. I know I posted the first three paragraphs, but I like them, so I'll just be sure to go about 1k words over so to make up for it. I might go back and edit them to make it more fitting...idk. I'll verify it through the site, and keep it all legit... This will mark my progress easier than I could alone. So, without further adieu (sp?) here you go:





Flash! A glinting something passed by me in a blur, too fast for my eyes to follow. I squinted in the darkness of the forrest, eyes scanning for any perceivable amount of light to enhance my poor and suffering vision. I could just make out the outline of the stag I had been hunting this whole afternoon. I had left before noon, but I hadn't come to follow this creature until about an hour or two after mid day.

The winter scene before me was completely breathtaking. Everything within the range of my sight was covered in snow, a myriad of white and green, blended together for something so remarkable, so spectacular, words could not describe it. The snow had painted a vivid whiteness over most everything. I had first found the tracks not far outside my house, and I had followed them thus far. Later, I caught a glimpse of the magnificent creature; broad shouldered, a behemoth of a buck. It would make for a beautiful kill, and the hide and meat would last for several weeks, helping my family survive this winter. Not needing to hunt, I could spend more time gathering wood and helping out in other areas where I might be needed.

I slid my bow from my back, fetching an arrow from the quiver. Notching the arrow to the string, I effortlessly drew back the bow, watching it bend to the power I exerted. Silently, I prepared for the shot. My bow was known as a composite bow; symmetrical, curving in to a point, then curving back out. It gained its strength because of the way it bent, the material used to make it becoming very tense and thus very strong. The bow had a high intrinsic resistance to pressure meant that it had great range, but required a suitably strong arm to fully draw back the string. Because it was a composite bow, and because it was symmetrical, the accuracy was beyond amazing.

The bull raised his mighty head, turning his head as if he meant to stare straight at me. I hadn't made a sound, of that I was certain. His ears were pricked, alert. That stare though, it was colder than the snow and ice that surrounded and enveloped the forrest. I met his stare, not daring to let my eyes waver or wander for so much as a second. The stag blinked, his ears turning back to the front as they normally were. When his head turned, giving me a clear side profile view of the deer, I released the fletching, letting the arrow fly through the air to its target.

The projectile hit home, right behind the shoulder, piercing the heart straight on. Before the massive bull deer knew what hit him, he collapsed, a quick and relatively painful death. I would not have had it any other way. As I approached the fallen stag, I heard a cawing noise. Glancing up at the branch above my head, I saw a crow, though it stared intently at me. Long ago, when I was but a boy, I had found my fylgja - a creature that was characteristic and unique to each person, and seeing one was a sign of doom. Seeing your fylgja in dreams was common, but awake... that was another story. In dreams when I saw my crow, it warmed my heart. Something good seemed to always happen shortly thereafter I had the dream, as if it were a prophetic vision. I knew the crow to be my fylgja, and not just any crow, there was one white feather in the right wing, something I have never seen in any of the other birds of the same species.

The bird stared straight at me, facing me. I could not see the wings. The branch it rested on was only about four feet above my head or so, and before I could think about scaring it to move, it spread its wings and leapt off the branch. The white feather. My fylgja. I turned my head, looking at the ground; this was bad. I put it out of my head, walking towards the stag. Something caught my eye...

It was a figure in the distance, a rough grey outline of something. No way. It couldn't be. My feet guided me on a path my mind told me not to follow. If I was correct than the creature before me was something truly legendary, a Landvættir. This appeared to be the Dragon, for I could see the bugs and insects who breathed poison all about him. Another figure emerged, and it was none other than the Bird, whose wings were so large I could see no end to them. He was surrounded by many smaller and lesser birds as well. The third creature strode forth, the Bull who stood taller and more magnificent than anything I had ever seen before, including the stag I had just felled. Finally the last Landvættir appeared, the Giant. I was still far away, partially hidden from view.

I placed my composite bow on my back again, glancing between the Landvættir. These were legendary creatures that guarded the land, said to scare off and curse anyone that tried to invade from foreign lands. There were more than just these four, thousands if not more, but these were the most important. To stand in their presence was an honor unlike any other I had ever had bestowed upon me. I doubted they knew that I stood where I did.

I returned to my kill, flexing and stretching a bit before grabbing the antlers and beginning to drag it back to my home. Luckily, my house was not far away. I tried to move as silently as possible, but my boots crunched the snow under foot. I kept looking back at the guardians of the land, the Landvættir. Either they truly had not noticed me, or the chose to remain ignorant of my presence. I slid the stag about ten feet before I felt someone or something staring at me. It always is a strange feeling when you think you are being watched. Well, I was.

I stood slowly from my hunched and crouched posture that I was previously in when I was attempting to drag the deer. Gradually I turned to my left, coming around to face what I knew had to have been staring at me. My trepidation was not without ground, for all four of the Landvættir stood, eyes fixed on my position. I could not judge from their stares what it was to mean, their perplexed looks fooling my mind's perception of them. Had I not heard countless stories of the countless Landvættir cursing and causing ill will on men? Though they were meant to protect and guard the land, the Landvættir were still fearsome creatures.

CRACK! I spun quickly, eyes scanning the snow covered forrest. I saw nothing and figured the sound to be nothing more than some beast that was not in hibernation, though there was not a single animal I could think of that was abound in the woods. I turned back to face the Bull, Bird, Dragon and Giant, but that was not what I saw. The Landvættir were nowhere to be found, but in their stead stood another marvelous and equally chthonic being. It was my clan's hamingja, a kind of guardian angel that watched over a family or clan for generations.

She was glowing white, radiating. She wore an almost translucent dress, which billowed in the wind with her hair. She wore something else at first, something I couldn't quite make out, but I leaned in and squinted and saw that it was almost like a scarf or sash but not quite. Her hair was a very bright blonde, almost as though the white ashes from a long burnt fire had been turned into a wig. She possessed a preternatural beauty, so individual and unique that I almost would have believed her to be a spirit of some deceased princess or other nobility.

So enraptured was I that I almost did not notice her hand waving me to come forward, beckoning me to follow her as she turned. If she was calling me as such, something had to be wrong. I grabbed the antler of the stag and leaned forward, pumping my legs with each step. I leaned into the strides to counter the weight of the creature, which otherwise would have been a very real and serious problem. I do not know why I was so reluctant to leave my kill, maybe because I subconsciously believed that nothing wrong or malicious could happen to my family.
I followed my clan's hamingja for what seemed like hours, but that was probably a fallacy created from my mind because of the weight I was dragging. I never slowed, but then again, nor did I increase in speed. I looked up from her for but a moment, realizing where we were. We had reached the edge of the forrest, and now, I was not far from my house. She glanced back over her shoulder to me, and though she could not speak, I could read the sadness in her eyes. A glistening tear drop that trailed a dance of grief down her cheek, as though in perfect ryhthym with some ominous funeral threnody, was all I had to see. Had I failed them? Was there nothing I could do?

No, nothing could be wrong with them. I am sure that she was leading me home because I had been gone too long, maybe because she was worried that I had gotten lost, the snow fooling my otherwise uncanny knowledge of the area that surrounded my homelands...

I awoke with a start, sitting up quickly. It was just a dream. I must have hit my head or something. The bull deer I had killed lay next to me, and I grabbed it both antlers, pulling it home. Fenja would be so proud of this. I bet that in a winter or two Veseti or Vasad could get a much larger buck than I had ever dreamed of.

It wasn't that long of a walk, for luckily I had not had to wander too far off. I approached the clearing at the edge of the forrest, looking up and spotting a raven, no two, circling over my house. Something about it seemed familiar, as though it had already happened before. My vision faltered and I dropped my head, temporarily letting go of the antler in my right hand and rubbing my eye. When I lifted my head again, I saw the hamingja. I stared for a second at the luminous and seemingly celestial being before me. I blinked just once, and when I reopened my eyes she was there but only for a second. The wind howled, and when it did she dissipated, evaporating and dissolving with the breeze.

I shook my head, it was just my imagination. A waking dream, a vision of something that had not faded from that short nap in the woods was all.

I had returned from a day of hunting, long and worn out from the hunt, the stalk, and the kill. I am a finely skilled marksman, and even better with a sword, MY sword, which was named Laevatinir. I was looking for my wife, Fenja, to show off the stag I had killed. It would make for some fine supper for a few days. I laid the stag outside, for as cold as it was, it was fine from insects or anything that might otherwise try to infect my kill. I opened the door and stepped inside, lovingly awaiting the warm fire to heat my frozen fingers. I had removed my coat and laid it on a chair to the right of the door. I called their names, one by one, wondering why no one answered. I started to panic, surely at least one person was home, Veseti or maybe Fenja. Gods, don't let her be right, my family's hamingja. Glancing about, I noticed the room in disarray, and it wasn't until then that I noticed the blood on the floor....





It is a dark time indeed, Baldr's death so tragic and yet we all knew it was but a matter of time. It was foretold, but even I didn't want to believe it. Baldr's death, along with the birth of those monstrosities - the parasitic vermin from that damned Loki's loins - we all knew it was coming. Loki, the author of woes, tricked Hod, Baldr's brother, and the foolishness of the blind prevailed. With a twig of mistletoe, Loki successfully broke the last boundary. Fimbulwinter was upon us, and it was but a matter of time until things got worse. Mani and Sol fought for their lives every day, only barely inching away from the persecutors. How long before they were to be taken? Damn him. Loki had done plenty to ******** us over, but this was unthinkable. Damned jealousy.

Every now and then, we can hear his screams... the bitter and wretched screams. Sigyn could only sit so long before she had to empty the bowl that caught the poison of his punishment, and in those few horrified seconds, the earth itself rumbled with Loki's pain. It served him right. That b*****d. I was there the day his son was turned into a wolf and viciously attacked his brother. The eidolic screams as brother literally ate brother, it was almost unbearable... But I never looked away. I had met Baldr once, and never before had I been so inspired. His beauty was remarkable, and nothing short of magnificent. When we parted, he called me friend, and since then I was happy again... It had been so long since I was last truly happy... Not since that winter oh so long ago...

I had returned from a day of hunting... I was a finely skilled marksman, and even better with a sword, MY sword, which was named Laevatinir. I was looking for my wife, Varandi, to show off the stag I had killed. It would make for some fine supper for a few days. I laid the stag outside, for as cold as it was, it was fine from insects or anything that might otherwise try to infect my kill. I opened the door and stepped inside lovingly awaiting the warm fire to heat my frozen fingers. I had removed my coat and layed it on a chair to the right of the door. I called their names, one by one, wondering why no one answered. I started to panic, surely at least one person was home, Veseti or maybe Fenja. Glancing about, I noticed the room in disarray, and it wasn't until then that I noticed the blood on the floor....

The cold harsh wind attacked my face. Fimbulwinter was upon us, but nearly over. In fact, by week's end the snow will begin to melt. That's how it was predicted, of course, so I'm just speculating. Maybe the snow was better. Flames gorging on everything in sight, until only ashes remains isn't that great a thing to be looking forward to. Someday, someone should write poems about the world ending in either fire or ice, and oh the irony if his or her name ended with either of those elements. I often wonder that kind of nonsense to myself, and maybe one day it will happen, but who knows?

I pulled my fur lined leather coat a bit closer to my skin. The cold was bad, but the heat would be worse. My gloves were also made of leather, lined with the hair-or is it fur?-from a stag. Actually, it was the stag I had brought home that treacherous and cursed day. Often I had wondered why my sons were no with me... Why hadn't a valkyrie chosen them, why weren't they Einharjar like their father? Hel, that cold heartless b***h has my family, and I don't think she is going to give them back. What if, on this upcoming fateful day, which I'm sure is soon, when the armies march onto Vigrid, if that harlot has raised my sons- Veseti, the elder; and Vasad, the younger - back to fight against me? Could I handle that? Raising Laevitnir, my trusted sword, against one of my beloveds? The thought was too much, and I shied away from it before it could deal me more grief.

Crunch! Crunch! The snow ached under my thick heavy boots, and with each step I crushed the powder under my weight. Valhalla was within sight, just over the crest of the next hill, but I couldn't bear myself to go now. I didn't feel like rushing to supper, I don't feel like I could stomach it. Clank! Clank! My sword, Laevatinir, was in its sheath on my back. The sheath itself was silver, with black runes bearing down the middle. Odin had hung from a tree for nine days to gain the knowledge of the runes, and it was from him that we learned those beauties. The sword was mighty, somewhat heavy, but I have successfully learned how to wield it with one or two hands, depending on the situation, and how dire it is. Training or something basic like that, I will go two handed, because I don't need a shield; however, if I'm sparring, I'll wield Laevatinir with my right hand, and a shield with my left, easier to defend and parry that way. Essentially, a good parry or block could be life or death, and with the Great War so near upon us, I had taught myself how to survive in any possible situation. Well, as best I could anyways. Laevatinir was forged by the dwarves, the same ones who forged Gungnir, Odin's mighty spear.

I walked a bit farther, arbitrarily noticing the water in the stream at the bottom of the next valley. On second glance, it was a beautiful creek, and I made my way down the steep hill to get a closer look. Staring into the water, I was enraptured. It had an odd calming effect on my body, and seemed to ease my restless and troubled mind. I sat at the water's edge after taking the sword and sheath from my back, under an ash tree, my right arm resting on a raised root. I laid my head back on the tree and while it wasn't the most comfortable thing ever, it was relaxing. My mind drifted from the thought of my dead children, to the good memories-the ones that could bring a tear to my eye if I wasn't so masculine. Every now and then, in the comfort of my private quarters, I would shed a tear or two. I've witnessed several of the other men, maybe a dozen, who had similarly retreated to their residences with teary and bloodshot eyes.

Time flew by so fast that I nearly missed dinner. I got up slowly, and hitched my sword back on to my back. I tightened the leather strap, and then began my trek up the hill. My knees ached and so did my heels. All day long, the Einharjar trained and sparred every day, all day, until Ragnarok come. I hiked up the hill, and smiled as Valhalla bloomed into my vision. For the rest of the march, I was enamored, unable to take my eyes off that amazing building. The way the light hit the corners, and oh how it shined, I would definitely miss this place.

I pushed through the doors, and took a random seat. I glanced around to see if I knew anyone around me, but my closest friend was a few tables away. The Einharjar are the unsung heroes, and we have formed something of a brotherhood. All of us were one. We had all come from different times, places, and sure, we may not always get a long, but what mattered was the brotherly love. We would risk our lives for each other, and we would die for each other. That is what defines us.

Andhrimnir, the cook of Valhalla, cooked every supper in the same kettle, Eldhrimnir, with its magical powers. The boar, Sæhrímnir, was beyond special. Every night Andhrimnir would cook and prepare him, and yet he would be restored and returned to life. The mead, however, was prepared from Heidrun, a goat, and is also prepared by Andhrimnir. Andhrimnir was by far the strangest man here. One must never upset nor disturb the cook, especially when he is preparing any of his fine meals. To put Andhrimnir in a bad mood was to put every person in Asgard in a bad mood, well at least those dining with us in Valhalla, and that is not, by any means, a wise idea. When the cook is mad, everyone can easily get angry. He unifies us, and it is at dinner that we truly come together.

Unlike other nights, I did not join in on the festivities. Normally, we would talk of our spars, constructively criticize each others fighting techniques, and offer helpful hints and tips when we could. I tried to be overly analytical sometimes, if only to encourage greater performance. We needed to be at the top of our physical abilities to fight the best we possibly can. We will lose, and I know that, but by gods we will take as many of them to Hel with us as we can. I listened in as the men around me laughed and joked, bragged and lied. They had their fun while they can, and that’s fine. Let them have it while they can; it is only for so long until our bloody demise, they deserve it.

Breaking away from the chatter, I glanced up at the tables where the gods sat. Odin, with Frigg at his right, and valkyries surrounding him on every other side dined at the most magnificent table in Valhalla. Thor, with the colossal Mjollnir sitting next to his chair, near his right leg, dined with his golden haired wife Sif and his sons Magni and Modi. I saw Tyr and Vidar, Vali and the most beautiful goddess of them all, Freyja. Many a night I had gazed up at Freyja, longing with desire. She was of such beauty that people fought for her, died for her, tricked, bribed and stole for her. I've often noticed many staring at her, the other men and even some of the gods. Around her neck she word Brisingamen, a fabled necklace that was almost equal to her beauty. Brisingamen had been stolen a few times, in an effort to try and win Freyja over… Sad really, but to some it seemed that her beauty was so great they had to have her, at all costs.

To sit amidst them, everyday, it was an honor. The gods before us had done some of the most marvelous things ever, for instance, Thor had competed against Old Age herself and managed to bring her to a knee before he fell. Thor had also lifted the Midgard Serpent, known as Jormungandr, almost into the sky. He also had a quick temper about him, and was known to attack on a whim. Just recently he had kicked a dwarf into Baldr’s funeral pyre for running in front of him. Thor also had a bit of a prejudice against giants, but knowing the way our deaths would be dealt, it’s easy to see why. It was unfathomable to sit next to these men and women every day, it would be a shame when they were gone. I smiled up at Odin, and Baldr came to my mind, that day when he had offered his wisdom and guidance to me. We all missed him, and most mourned for him daily. I felt sorry for Odin, losing one of his sons, his most beloved son at that, at the hands of Loki. To my never ending surprise, Odin stared back through his only remaining eye, for the other he had given to Mimir and his well in exchange, so that he might have all the knowledge and wisdom of the world, and let loose a small grin.

2019 words. This is the last edited version of Chapter I, hoping to have Chapter II done by 10 or so tonight.

And just when we thought things couldn’t possibly get worse, of course, they did. Our world was devoid of light, the wolves having devoured both of the major celestial bodies, the moon and the sun-Mani and Sol. Mani’s demise was no cleaner or less brutal than Sol’s, but he never screamed. He knew his fate, and he fought like hell to survive, but when his time came, he bowed his head, and said his goodbyes. Well said isn’t quite the word, he bellowed his last farewells, “WITH MY LAST BREATH, YOU WILL RUE THE DAY!” While these weren’t exactly the best words, I suppose with a massive wolf that has been chasing you since the day you were placed in the sky and forced to race against fate itself, there wasn’t exactly time to formulate a great last line. We nodded grimly as the wolf closed in, and we swore that both Hati and Skoll would pay…

It wasn’t long after that the stars themselves, those beauties that had both tormented and later pleased me, disappeared. I’ve no idea what happened to them, but all the world was now devoid of natural light. We lit fires, and prepared for war in relative darkness. The gods were more introspected than I ever remembered seeing them, and it was sickening to think about. Our hope was being tested, and we knew it, but sometimes it was just so damn difficult to remain ever vigilant. No one voiced a complaint, but all of the Einharjar felt the same way.

Suddenly there came a rumbling, as if all of Yggdrasil had been pick up and violently swung about. Few of us managed to retain our seats, but most hit the deck. Thor brimming with anger stood up slowly, gripping Mjollnir with a clenched fist, but Odin shook his head no and bid him to sit. The time would come, but it was not now. We didn’t need to ask what had happened, we all knew, the trees and mountains had fallen. Fetters had been broken, and the two creatures we all wished to remain locked up forever were now loose to wreak havoc on the worlds. Loki and Fenris, vile father and son, were bound as punishment, one for murder and one for the potential to kill. Now, as prophecy foretold, the world began to tear itself apart, and one could only wonder if the Yggdrasil tree, a beautiful ash, had also fallen. If every other tree and mountain, why not the one that supported the very world?

Then, almost as if a veil had been lifted from over our eyes and heads, as one all four hundred and thirty-two thousand men realized what else had been set free. Naglfar, a ship made out of the nails of dead men and women, would let loose its moorings and set sail from Jotunheim shortly. This is why we trim the nails of the dead, so that they might not add to the building of this ship, which all mankind did not wish to see built. Captained by the giant Hrym, this monstrous ship would carry the frost and fire giants to Midgard, from Midgard they would march and decimate everything they saw. Under Surt’s command they would march across Bifrost and gather on the plain Vigrid, which stretched one hundred and twenty leagues in every direction.

And at once, the roosters, the gold, the red, and the rust colored one all at once crowed, and it was then official; Ragnarok had begun. Eggther sat, strumming his harp, no longer smiling grimly as he was accustomed to, but now, in tears as he heard Fjalar, the red rooster let loose its cry. Eggther was the watchman for the Giants, and he was deeply saddened at these events. He was a bard, a peaceful musician, and unlike most of the other giants, he was not as hot blooded or ready to kill as everyone else.

Likewise, at the Bifrost Bridge, Heimdall, the never sleeping watchmen of the gods, snatched up his horn Giallar and let loose a mighty blast. The golden rooster, Gullinkambi, had crowed but minutes earlier, and Heimdall had to pause, as if in disbelief. When he realized the rooster could not have been mistaken, he blew his horn, and likewise, was devastated. It was in that moment, that split second of time when they fulfilled their duties with sorrow in their hearts that they seemed to be as one - brothers in the cause. Though they would probably never meet, and probably never know the equal and tragic distress with which they carried out their obligations, their triste was equal and overwhelming. No one was looking forward to the coming war, with the exception of a few, Loki, Fenris, and Hel.

It was there, with her, that the final rooster crowed. The rust red rooster crowed, and it was in that time that Hel began to gather her undead army. Soon she would raise the dead themselves to fight, as the Gods had their Einharjar, Hel had her dead. Comparably, their numbers were close; the Einharjar making up a slightly larger portion, but then again, the Gods didn’t have the Giants to back them.

Now, with the three roosters crowing, and Eggther and Heimdall filling out their duties, other creatures in the worlds began to muster. The light and dark elves, ogres, dwarves, and all other creatures readied for the battle. It wasn’t even; the light and dark elves would help both sides, on an individual basis and choice. No whole nation sided with either, so it was hard to tell how even or uneven the numbers and division was. The ogres were mostly going to side with the Sons of Muspell, and the dwarves would side with the Gods… well except those that the gods, specifically Loki, had crossed, for they no longer trusted either side. The forces were gathering, and the war was not far off.

In every part of every world, everyone readied for battle. In Niflheim, Hel mustered her forces, and it was aboard ship they went. Setting sail, they would cross worlds and join together with Loki soon enough. In fact, that was her first stop. The undead men she gathered, having long since been dead and destroyed, were not as able fighters as the Einharjar. Their bodies ached with every conceivable pain, for they had not been training these long years. Their bodies were decaying, for she picked the cruelest and most evil hearted men. Alas, Hel had run out and been forced to take some of those less willing to fight against the gods, but she need not worry, their souls were hers, and they were not going anywhere.

It wasn’t until now, that we truly felt the pressure of the situation, the direness of it. Every creature that had invaded our nightmares as kids, those hateful, blood thirsty demons who we had always secretly wished were fairytale monsters were unleashed and set loose upon every and all worlds. Who knows the destruction they could and would do?

Down in Midgard, Jormungandr stormed the beach, his massive body crushing everything underneath him. His tail flashed back and forth like a whip, decimating everything in his path. Crack! The Midgard Serpent’s tail snapped into a building, leveling it with a single swing. His fangs dripped his deadly poison, and purple haze began to cloud all of Midgard. Entire villages were flattened in seconds, and as he moved on from place to place, not a thing was left alive. His wrath seemed unparalleled, until Fenris joined the game.

Fenris, who had been bound by the fetter Gleipnir, had been able to break every restraint placed on him. They had then made Gleipnir, in hopes that its magical power would be able to hold him. He wouldn’t be fooled, and as a guarantee he wouldn’t be deceived he demanded that an arm was placed in his mouth. If he was in fact tricked, he would bite it off. At first no one was willing, but Tyr came forward and placed his arm in the wolf’s mouth. Tyr has missed his arm ever since, now the one armed god of war. Fenris’s jaws are so large, that he can open the bottom of his mouth to the ground, and the top to the sky. He then devours everything in his sight. This was exactly what he was doing at this very moment. These three disgraces – Jormungandr, Hel, and Fenris – are all plagues from the loins of Loki, his gift unto us.

Loki had never been so happy to be free, as soon as his restraints were loose; he sat up and ripped the snake, which had dripped poison on his face for so many years, in half. He glanced over at his loving wife, Sigyn, who had sat by his side for the entire time. She had held the bowl over his face, catching the poison, but now no longer having to sit her protecting him was ready for their vengeance. They both knew that the prophecy foretold Loki’s daughter would pick them up in her ship, and they would sail on until they gathered forces with Surt’s army. Loki and Sigyn sat idly waiting for a vessel to sail into their view.

It wasn’t long before Jormungandr – the Midgard Serpent – and Fenris to join together. They traveled as one, destroying everything equally. Jormungandr would fight Thor, who once tried to kill the Midgard Serpent but failed because of the cowardice of a giant he happened to be accompanied by at the time. Fenris was after Odin, who having been betrayed and bound, was ready for his revenge.

Back in Asgard, the Einharjar listened as accounts of these two’s obliteration swept in. Survivors, who had managed to cross Bifrost in time, gathered in Valhalla and told tales of their woe. Between them, they had attacked Alfheim – the home of the elves – Midgard; several of the other worlds, and were now on their way to Asgard. Based on these survivor’s tales, they would soon gather with Hel’s army and trek the final stint of this malignant and devastating journey.

I sat, horrified by the power that these two seemingly possessed. The stories grew worse and worse, and finally I had to leave, no longer able to listen to more. I was glad that it was not I who had to face these creatures, yet saddened because of how the duals would end. Not many were going to be walking away from this, the survivors had escaped them once, and they wouldn’t be so lucky next time.

We had already dined, and I retreated to my quarters for what may have been the last time ever. Who knows when I would return? Maybe never, and I wanted every second I could have to reminisce and remember the great times with my family. I cried, I drank, and I remembered.

Odin himself designated several of the Einharjar and two valkyries – Mist and Svava – to equip the survivors with whatever armaments they desired. As they were of many races; elf, dwarf, and human, they all had a bit of a choice to what they could use. The women were asked to help serve meals, and were taught basic first aid so that they might be of use in healing or tending to those who were significantly injured in battle. If they could stop the bleeding in a wound, or put a splint on a broken bone, the men might be able to fight just a tad longer, and in reality that was all they needed. None of us would survive, but if we could prolong their lives, we might be able to pull ahead. Wishful thinking, but everyone did as they were told. No one questioned the All Father.

Yet deep in the realm of Muspellheim, Surt’s army began to stir, and even in the last strides of Fimbulwinter, the heat grew unbearable. In that moment, the winter of winters was over, and now came the reign – the reign of fire.

I sharpened my blade, Laevatinir, and awaited the impending doom. Every hour more and more people arrived. We fitted them with armor and weapons and awaited the war. I ran my coarse fingers across the sharp silver blade and thought back to the day… the day they died.

I turned in a circle as men surrounded me on every side. I knew them all, for they were all my brother’s friends. We had all known each other for a while, and yet here we were, ready to kill. My brother would die, of that I was sure. I would make him pay for what he had done. He would die, and may his soul rot in Niflheim for that. I tightened my grip on the hilt of my sword; Laevatinir would not fail me now.

At once they swarmed, and I turned to parry each blow. Barely did I manage to escape them all. I pivoted and parried, twisting and turning like a lithe serpent. I ducked under one critical swing aimed straight at my face, and spinning, I slung my sword across his chest. This guy wasn’t going anywhere. Narrowly missing another swing, I kicked him in the chest and then drove my sword into the man I had previously cut. Drawing the sword out, I turned again, and in one fluid motion I almost landed a killing blow on the guy I had just kicked. Too bad he was a good fighter, he parried it easily.

They weren’t going to go down easily. They did at least finally decide that because of our history, they would fight fair. One at a time, but with nine full grown brutes remaining, I couldn’t see this ending well. I gritted my teeth and wiped my sword on the dead man’s shirt sleeve. I nodded for the first man to come on.

He came fast, and he came swinging. The man was about six feet tall, red hair, dark eyes. He wore a brown tunic, and some dark pants, I couldn’t really tell in the fading light. Unlike the others, he swung an axe. This was going to be … fun. See, an axe is slow, so I could dodge his attacks easily. With one hand on Laevatinir, it allowed me to move more easily, but with two hands I could attack more powerfully and block his heavy hits.

His first swing was over the head, straight down. Had I not moved, he would have split me in two like lumber, like fire wood. That is something I could not have, for until this man was dead, and his friends with him, I couldn’t take my revenge. I had dodged to the left, and continuing with my spinning tactics, I pirouetted in a clockwise direction and slashed him across his left arm with my sword. Lucky for me, he was slow; unluckily for him, his now severed arm lay bleeding on the snowy ground. Gripped in its hand was the axe, for it was far too large to wield with but one arm.

He picked up his arm, and stumbled off the field. I began to grow with anticipation; there are two down, a few left to go. The next one closed in and he wasn’t much smarter than the previous two. He swung his ball and chain, and I narrowly avoided having a crushed skull. This time gripping my sword Laevatinir, I sliced the brute standing before me from the right side of his neck to his left bicep. I barely nicked the throat, but not sufficient to drop him; however, he did clutch his throat with both hands, dropping the mace. Feeling creative, I sheathed my sword quickly, snatched up his ball and chain, and then with a very forceful swing I drove it into his skull, crushing it in one blow. The spikes from the black metal ball poked through just about every facet of his head, protruding from the parts that hadn’t been demolished.

One by one they came, and one by one they fell. I sliced, slashed, struck, impaled, stabbed, and cut everyone that got in my way. I managed to get away with barely any scrapes or scratches. I was covered in blood from head to toe, and it speckled across my face. I didn’t want to wipe it off, despite how this sounds, it was the only thing keeping me sane. It was the satisfaction that no matter what, these bastards would pay. I grinned with malevolence and ran after the last remaining people. I had but two people left between me and vengeance, and our dance would be a sweet one. I slid on the ground, using the snow as lubrication to help me slide across. I slung my sword into the knee of the man on my left, jumping to my feet. As he fell, I spun, swinging my sword with all the momentum and force I could. His head flew clean off, and the blood splattered on to the man standing next to him.

The man backed up horrified, and paused for a moment. Bastards like him, so corrupted by evil that not even the beheading of their friend would stay their blind hatred. He drew his sword, and then surprised me. Unlike the others, he moved swift; his hand steady and sure. This guy would take more to finish. He attacked again and again, and I was tired after all the other people I had slain in the last few duels. It was tough, my body being worn down and beaten, but I fought on. Time and time again, dodging and parrying, I fought on.

The opportunity presented itself in the form of a rock. In the snow, it was much harder to mind one’s surroundings, and because of this my assailant and would be killer stumbled on a stone. It was in this brief pause, this moment of rest from him that I seized my chance and plunged Laevatinir into his chest in a diving lunge. He went down hard, and I landed on top of him, blood pouring out of him and onto me.

Slowly rising to my feet, what was once speckled and spattered blood was now drenched in crimson. I ran one hand through my hair, pushing it back and out of my face. I could feel it sticking and dampening my hair, but it did not matter in that moment. Nothing was stopping me now, and nothing would. Before night rained down and the stars lit up the sky, my brother would belong to Hel.

I wiped the blade clean, trying to keep it as sharp as possible, and dried blood seems to have quite the opposite effect. I stumbled a bit, slightly hunched over. I leaned back and roared, filled with hate and grief. With adrenaline rushing through my veins, I raced after the last living figure on this horrific blood filled battlefield. I raised my sword and yelled my last heroic war cry…

I glanced up from the sword and stared into the sky. With the sun, moon, and stars gone, the sky was colored with the glowing embers of the raging fires of Muspellheim. The pyres from their festivities were so great that it lit the skies in every world now that the celestial bodies are gone. It was nice having light again, but it was a constant reminder that they were moving closer. They would start their marching soon, and the only thing we could do was sit and wait. Some of us were training, but I was ready. No amount of last minute training could prepare me for what was about to happen. We’d readied our bodies for the last few years for this time. My thoughts wandered as I polished my boots, trying to keep my mind off anything important by keeping myself busy with mindless repetitive tasks. Needless to say, it didn’t work.

I shouted for the last time, and dove at the slaughterer of families, destroyer or lives. He dodged to the side, and produced a long wicked black whip. Before I could turn back to face him, he snapped the whip against my back and I cried out in pain and anguish. It was all that I could do not to drop to my knees and surrender. The pain was unrivaled by anything else that had physically ever happened to me, but my emotional pain was worse. It was that pain that drove me on, and because of it I had to finish this mess. I turned and was struck again, this time across the face. The blood dripped from my face from the long gash under my right eye. It was this warm liquid that kept me going on.

I raced forward, but another lashing threw me back. I fell on my back, raising myself with my left arm, and slowly rising to my feet. He lashed me again and again, but I rose every time. I would survive this, and I would bury him piece by piece. My family’s funeral pyre would burn high into the night, so bright that even the gods could not help but notice it.

I gathered myself up one last time, aching from every gash and blood filled wound on my dying body. I might die in this, but by gods he was going with me. I stood, and with blood seemingly flowing from my eyes, as crimson tears, I stared him down. He raised his whip again, flinging it at me one last time, but it didn’t hit home. In the last second, I caught it in my hand, and yanked him forward. He was pulled off balance, and stumbled straight at me. I grabbed my blade up, having long since dropped it. In the last second before he was to tackle me, I thrust my sword into his chest, and fell backwards as the wait of his body landed on top of me. In his right hand was the whip, but in his left was the dagger he had killed my family with.

The blade had pierced my chest, and combined with the previous wounds, I slowly sank into darkness. At first the gaping hole in my chest burned as if set aflame when he pulled out the blade, then – maybe from the snow or blood loss – I grew cold; so very cold. My hatred was fulfilled, my family avenged. Let Hel come take my soul, I need it not now. I’ll join my family and life on after this. It was in that darkness that I was first visited by the Valkyrie Randgrid. She assured me that they because of my valiant and heroic efforts I was assured a spot in Valhalla. I had wrongfully assumed that my family would be there as well. An assumption I haven’t lived down in the last few years. I let her take me by the hand, and she led me away from my mangled body. She took me to a place, a place beyond compare. Everything was so august, so beautiful that I temporarily forgot my hate and dread. I smiled, and believed everything was going to be alright.

That was years ago, and thinking back I laughed. Of course she was going to trick me, she wanted me to agree, to go along with her, and I did. I let her take me from my family, as my brother had taken my family from me. Since then she had apologized, and we have talked many times. She was beautiful, but we couldn’t have had a relationship; her warrior spirit was as great as my own, and I would never be able to move on after my wife. Besides, I was but an Einharjar.

And as I lay to sleep, the steady beat of marching feet, pounding drums and the occasional horn lulled me into a vivid nightmare of fevered laughs and morbid cries. I dreamed of death.

read. adored. commented.

Though the sex scene was a liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiite much for me,. You should mark that or something...

NOW he does it. *mutters*

Kidding. wink

yes, but think about all the kids we have in this guild...isn't someone hereabouts only 11? Yeah...?

Yay, chapter....seven? twelve? I cannot read Roman Numerals.