Valhalla Rising IC [M]

[Nope]

Mist lay heavy over the cliff side. The sky was gray, pregnant with moisture and threatening birth. Dew beaded and dripped off the vegetation, making the rocks slick underfoot.
Magnus twisted cordage between his calloused fingers, hunched deep within his furs, watching a hawk swoop over the waterfall in the distance.
Its like a cloud, father. Coming up from the ground not down from the sky.
He heard his child's voice in his head, an echo. All other words had faded but this one still rang clear.
He watched as the hawk swooped low, disappearing into the spray that rose from the pool at the waterfall's base. It appeared just a moment later, prey fighting against its talons.
Magnus grunted in interest and wrapped the cordage made from wild growing flax into a neat bundle. He tucked it into his satchel and started back down the mountain.

He envied in some ways the Christian tradition of burial. When his child and his wife succumbed to illness, as did many others in the village, he'd piled them with the rest and watched them burn. The scent of charred flesh stained his lungs for days after. He studied every detail, committing it to memory. And still to this day he could envision the curling and blackening of the embroidered hems of their funeral clothing.
He'd spent days reliving it all in his mind, hearing the weak whine of the air that struggled to fill his wife's lungs, and how cold and small his daughter's hand had been.
It had only taken moments for their skin to turn waxen, like a thing that had never been alive. A statue, a painting. Nothing more than a thought.
It had only taken moments for them to turn to ash.
But it had taken weeks of agony to die.

Magnus walked down to the beach where the ships were being loaded. Three ships would follow his own. Magnus found himself depressingly surprised by the number of volunteers.
When he's posed the idea at the tribunal, the king had frowned. Mangus saw the doubt in the man's eyes.
"What have we to lose?" He'd asked the gathered village. "A life already empty? So many of us have nothing left to tie us to this land. Let us seek more riches for those that are left, or go to Valhalla where we truly want to be.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, shifting and whispering.
"The west is unheard of. It is a sure death." The King stated.
"Perhaps."
Shouts and sneers riled behind him. Laughter mixed into courage.
The King lifted a hand. He was a man of age, and understood the pain of his people well. He'd lost two sons to failed raids on foreign lands and three grandchildren to the illness. His wife, the queen, once a shield maiden,had been left blind and weak from her fight to live.
Magnus felt this disturbed the King more than the deaths had. For it wasnt a life to live, useless and unable to stand. However, he found himself envious that his own wife wasnt at least breathing. The King spoke:
"No one among us has been untouched by the illness. Our hearts are aching, and keening for relief. But we can not forsake those who remain, unguarded and recovering."

Magnus nodded in reply. He had considered this already. "This is true, but ravens have been sent and every village and every city of our country has been ravaged same as we. Some have fared better. Those that have are allies. They have pledged to aid us if the call should come. But with so much disarray it is a sorry man who would continue the death amongst the beaten."

Moments passed in silence. Scattered coughs rose on the crackles of the hearth fire. Mangus shifted his feet, continuing to watch his lord closely.
Finally, the old man gave the slightest of nods and cheers broke like morning.

And here before him now was the weight of that decision, three of the newest, strongest ships. As he watched the crates, cages, weapons and shields being loaded, a hand clapped his shoulder.
Bjorn, broad shouldered, but young smiled and gave his friend a nod. "This is going to make a song, Mangus. I feel it."
"Yes. But to what tune will it be played?" He replied soberly.
Bjorn laughed, lighthearted and spoiling for adventure. "A drunken one!" The young viking slapped his elder's back before continuing down the dock, calling and cheering to his peers. Magnus watched him. The boy had lost his parents and his sister. He'd been given a new chance at glory.
But also a chance at the loss of his name, and his entire line.
Magnus felt guilt flutter through his chest. He let himself feel it for a moment, savor it, explore it.
And then he thrust it away, drank deep of the salt air, raised his horn to his lips and blew.
Cheers rose from the ships, the pounding of blades on shields.

Magnus ran. His boots drummed down the beach, kicking up sand. The wind caught his cloak and jerked it out behind him like the wings of a great Eagle. Blades pounded. Voices cried out.
The sand gave way to hard planks and he launched himself from the dock. For a moment, he clung to the air, blocking the gray sun.
Battle cry heavy on the wind, he landed deftly into the bow of the lead boat as it pushed off from shore.

The voyage began.

[Yggdrasil_Hugger]

Freydís stared into the sea. Its rolling black depths, frigid with the ice of winter and the souls of the lost, washed onto the pebble beach endlessly, hungrily. The waves crashed over the small black rocks mindlessly. The pebbles did not mind. They would stay here on the beach, for eternity. Eternity. It was such a crushing concept. Nothing went on for eternity. Not even the gods. They, like so many of her family, would die. But their deaths would be different. The death of the gods would be glorious. It would destroy all in flame and blood, and the world would rise anew from its old ashes ruled by new people, new gods. Yes, the gods would die gloriously, so unlike her family and closest friends. She had watched her fellow shield-maiden, Ljufa, wither and die with the plague. She had seen her brother, Thorvald, cough and hack until his blood streamed from his mouth like a horrid spring. She had seen her father, the great Erik the Red, succumb to the silent death.

She had not died. She had avoided the sickness. She wished she had. In her mind, flashes of images he did not want to see, and could not forget. The crackling flames. The charred bones. The scattered ashes and the harsh cries of ravens. Tears stung her eyes, and she let them. She looked into the rolling black sea, and the tears vanished. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small knife her father had given her. It was short and dull, but it would do. She extended her palm to the ocean and slid the blade along her hand. Blood spilled forth, dripping into the sea, red as her father's beard.

She turned back, and walked to town, pressing cloth over her wound. It was not a deep cut, but it would scar. And it was the scar she needed. She joined the crowd just as the king was beginning to speak. He was an old, weathered man, with grey hair and eyes the color of coal. Freydís had been at the tribunal when Magnus had suggested west. She had been among the few to agree with him. When today, he had spoken, he was different. Freydís couldn't tell how. She was too deep in her grief. Then, the king nodded. Cheers erupted from the crowd. For a moment, Freydís felt her spirits rise too. They spread their wings like eagles, free, if just for a moment, from the tar of grief. But then it came crashing down, and Freydís shook her head, clearing away the tears that once more stung at her eyes. But she had gotten a taste. She had felt happiness, excitement, exuberance, for the first time in months. And she wanted more.

As the crowd cheered, the ships were loaded. These boats were no ordinary boats. They were new, strong, fast. But most importantly, they could ride the roiling waves of the black sea and fly over them, rather than crash through them and attempt to tame the sea. She knew what happened when men tried to tame the sea. Njord would punish them, and their souls would be taken by Rán, who would capture them in her net. She would not try to tame the sea. She would not be taken by Rán. She walked forward across the docks, stepping into the boat on the left. She stood at the bow, staring into where the black sea met the grey sky. That was where they were headed. to the horizon and across it. To the west.

The voyage had begun.

[Nope]

It churned, an angry beast, heaving and crying. Magnus clung to the mast.
"BRACE!" He screamed into the wind. It tore the words from his mouth and cast them into the waves. Desperately, he cast his sight about the night, hoping to find a glimpse, a shadow, that looked like another ship. But even in the lighting strikes that boiled the sea, he saw no other.

They had sailed for a month before the storms came. The voyage had been calm, light hearted. They subsidized rations with fresh caught fish, and still had the chickens aboard to provide eggs. The ale had still been in good supply and water full.
The sea breezes had kept them cool, and the canopy erected shielded them from the sun. Friendly competitions of rowing and song had risen from the fleet of ships, brother against brother. And sometimes, the shipmates changed as men and women dove into the sea to share a drink with family or friends aboard another vessel.
They had kept themselves entertained. It seemed the sea was kind, loving, and that the Gods smiled on their journey.

But it was half into the second month, a length on sea that surpassed any voyage by their party before, that the Gods began to turn. And the sea began to enact revenge.
The first storm came suddenly, unexpectedly, violently.
Men were snatched overboard by the water, the boats were tossed and spun like toys.
When it calmed, hours or days later, they were off course, and missing a handful of ships.

The second storm came only a week later, tearing the carefully secured rations from the decks. More ships were lost. And the next day, floating, soaking corpses of kinsmen were seen on the horizon, bobbing and being perched upon by birds. Mangus' boat slowly glided past one, an old man whose bloated belly had flipped him upright to stare at the sky. His skin was a pale mottle, beginning to burn in the sun.
A large black bird stood in his beard, it cocked an eye up at Magnus, as if it knew him. And Magnus met it, his stomach hard and cold. As if to make a statement, the bird bent its head and violently wrenched one of the dead man's eyes from the socket. It dangled from the bird's beak on the nerve, bobbing in the wind. The bird looked once again at Magnus before spreading its wings and taking to the sky.
The boat continued past.
The statement had been made.

The last chicken was sacrificed and Magnus allowed the blood to be poured over his shoulders and down his chest. He lifted his arms to the sky and begged unto Odin.
He did not wash. He sat under the sun, the scent of heated blood cooking on his clothing and in his hair for as long as it would stay.
And still the Gods were not sated.

The next storm came and more ships were lost. Tensions began to rise as shipmates argued and thrashed. Some wanted to return. Others to continue. Others to die.
Two ships turned away, deciding to return. Some abandoned the fleeing ship to climb aboard the ones continuing. Some stood and waved their arms and called to the ships to return and take them home.
They did not come back.

Bjorn was one who chose to stay, leaping into the ocean as the ships turned back, and swimming with shield and sword to his uncle's boat. Magnus welcomed him. The young man lit a fire once more in his kinsmen. He called to the Gods and beat his chest, chanting and telling of the stories they would take home to the cowards that left them. How they would feel shame, and regret. He said theyd grow rich and impregnate foreign village girls, leaving their seed to stain the land.

But a week later, another storm struck. And it was this storm that seemed to be the worst of them, the cruelest. The wrath of the angriest of all Gods.
Mangus clasped the mast, his beard and braids dripping wet and clinging to his skin. "BRACE!" He called again.
The sea rose, and rose, higher, higher, blocking the sky. The vessel became to tip. Mangus called out again and again. Severed and desecrated by the wind, came the cries of his kinsmen. It tore into his heart, striking fear into him for the first time. Real fear.
And still the sea rose.
It hovered above them, as if mockingly, threatening with his raw strength.
"Odin! Have Mercy!" Magnus cried. "Have mercy!"

And down it came.
The entire sea dropped onto the boat, punishing it, beating it, tearing it asunder. Magnus felt the mast tear out of his arms. He felt the sea swirl and bubble, forcing its way into his lungs. He thrashed and flailed, trying to find the surface but salt stung his eyes and blackness surrounded, pushing and pulling all at once. His lungs burned.
His arms grew weak.
Until he could do no more and the Gods claimed him.


Pounding Pounding Pounding
Magnus became aware of the heat on his face and the pain in his head.
Pounding Pouding Poudning
From somwhere came a moan.
His eyes opened, cracking at the corners, ripping away the dried tears. Bright lights burned, searing, painful.
His heart hammered.
Valhalla
The light dimmed, changed, became pictures. He felt water lapping at his feet. His boots were gone. His toes bare in the sunlight. Struggling, he lifted his head from the sand. It clung to his hair, to his skin, to his clothing.
Sand. He looked up, around. Shore. He'd reached a shore. Land.
He was alive.

[Yggdrasil_Hugger]

Freydís knew that peace could not last. The sea had been too calm, too inviting. It had been smooth sailing for a month. A month! But Freydís knew the sea. She knew that it would welcome you with open arms, and when you tried to leave, the sea would tighten its grip and kill you. And that was what was happening. It was opening its arms, a smile on its face, but Freydís knew that soon, the sea would make its intentions known.
It happened a week into the first month. Her predictions had come true. Storm clouds had rolled over the horizon and like a longboat, had been over them in instants. Rain pelted down on the canvas, thunder roared. Waves higher than buildings thrashed. Warriors were thrown from the boats and taken to the inky black depths. Freydís held on with a rage that only seemed to amuse the cruel sea. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the ship in the darkness. Freydís held still, and eventually, the storm ceased. She counted the men in her boat. They were down by seven.
The next storm was worse than before. The boat lurched at odd angles, sometimes pointing down into the sea. Thunder boomed, deafening Freydís. Lightning flashed off to the side, only twenty meters from Freydís. It hit the sea, and Freydís swore she could have seen a terrifying visage in the flash, but before she could ponder it, another wave rocked the boat. The storm raged for hours, and when it calmed, Freydís counted her men again. They were down by ten more. The men looked to her as she sat at the bow, studying them. They were silent. To the right, a man floated in the water. A bird perched in his beard. The bird ate the man's eye, peering at someone in another boat.
And seven days later, the worst of the storms arrived. Thor beat his hammer upon his anvil in Asgard, and lightning flashed. Thunder screamed. Her kinsmen screamed back. Elsewhere, she could hear a man yelling for Odin to have mercy. She watched as what seemed to be the entire sea crashed down upon the boats. She was thrown from her boat, into the freezing inky depths of the sea. Her last thought before she slipped into the dark and the quiet was 'Rán will not take me'.
Pain. There was pain.
Her entire body ached.
Her lungs burned.
Her eyes were on fire.
Pain. There was pain.
Her eyes opened, and what she saw was terrifying.
Blue.
Only blue.
She turned, and she became aware of what she was touching.
Sand. Water, lightly brushing over her arm.
She sat up, groaning. She looked around, dazed and confused. Land. There was land. Beyond the beach was a thick forest. Around her were people, strewn about as though thrown from the mouth of a wild dog. She saw another man getting up. She watched him sit up. She called out to him.
"Magnus? We are alive."

[Nope]

The ocean seemed to have filled his head, every sound came from among the waves that still crashed in his ears.
Muffled, like through cloth, came a voice.
He pushed himself to sitting, feeling every muscle ache, every sinew scream. He glanced around, finding the voice and the mouth it spoke from. Freydis. Her lips moved but all that reached his ears was a low rumble. His brow furrowed. He watched her lips move.
Were they alive? He repeated to himself. Was he? Were any them?
Dazed, and without an answer, he looked away from her, at the bodies strewn across the sand.
He could see in some, the slight rise and fall of chests. Some twitched.
Some would never move again.

Across the sand, tangled in dripping green, lay his nephew. The young man's face was covered with debris but the cut of hair and color of his clothing was unmistakable.
Magnus staggered to his feet and stumbled toward the prone figure. He fell to his knees, grunting in pain, and tore the wood and seaweed from the face of his kin. Blood had dried across his hairline.
"Bjorn!" He cried out, his voice raw in his throat. "Bjorn!" He flipped the man onto his back and slapped his cheeks. "Wake up! Bjorn!"
His heart beat in fear.
But with a start, the boy coughed. His body convulsed. His eyes opened and he sat up, retching sea water onto the sand.
Magnus laughed. "Get up you pig." He wrapped his hands around the young man's arms and pulled him to his feet. Bjorn swayed on his feet for a moment before the ground grew firm beneath him. Mangus clapped him on the shoulder. Magnus wanted nothing more than to crawl into the underbrush and beg the gods for answers. He wanted to weep and tear at his hair.
So many dead and home, and so many lost to the sea.
Was there anything to life except for the end of it?

But more were stirring from among the wreckage. Now was the time for strength. Now was the time to ddeliver on his promises.
Magnus swallowed to wet his burning throat and then he smiled, swinging his arms wide. "We have arrived!" He called out, loud and fierce. "We that live are the chosen ones! Tested and proven by the gods themselves to be worthy enough to step foot on their sacred land! The great sea could not kill us, and we did not run! And here we are! Rise! Rise my friends! We have a world to make our own!"

A spattering of cheers, and weak cries floated on the breeze. Men and women began to wonder into sight, straggling from other ships wrecked further down the coast, but within earshot. The ones before him were getting to their feet, or not- if they were indeed dead.
Magnus waved Freydis toward him, "Bjorn, take all who are able and look for as many weapons and shields as can be recovered. And tell Raagnar to start tending to the wounded. Freydis and I will search the area for shelter and food."

[Yggdrasil_Hugger]

She watched Magnus give a speech with a bit of a smile creeping onto her face. Magnus had a flair for the dramatic, but his words rang true. They were the chosen. Chosen by the gods to live here, for better or for worse. She walked over, feeling the sand crush beneath her boots. The sand, so different from the black pebbled beaches of her home, was annoyingly clinging to everything.
She stepped into earshot as Magnus began giving orders. "-and tell Raagnar to start tending to the wounded. Freydís and I will search the area for shelter and food." She studied Bjorn as he nodded and turned. He, though shaken and blue-lipped, was a handsome man. Raagnar less so. She watched them leave, then looked to Magnus. "So... that was an ordeal, huh?" A light smile brushed across her lips. "I mean, what with the whole sea determined to drown us." She looked to the destroyed ships and the bodies slowly gathering themselves across the beach. "How do you suppose we'll get home?"