As I kneel before my fallen foe, I know this is my end.
His spear had pierced true and made a mockery of my mortality. I had replied in kind when I buried my axe in his skull.
I know this is my end; and I welcome it.
It begins to rain and the world is enveloped in grey. I no longer smell blood, only sweet petrichor. The clamour of blades seems far away, replaced by the pattering of rain drops on my heavy helm.
My limbs betray me, I cannot move. I do not want to. The rain is cold and the heaven-sent drops numb my inflamed skin. Pain is quickly becoming an unpleasant memory as I give in to the growing frost in my blood.
But my relief flees as my fading heart is gripped with fear. The chill permeates me completely, freezing my bones. Icy, dead hands grab my ankles and wrists. The soothing cold now burns me.
I am afraid.
“All-Father!” I cry, though no sound escapes my barren throat. “All-Father! Why have you forsaken me? Am I not worthy? I lie dying on the field of battle, bathed in the blood of my enemy, in service to my Jarl; and your shield-maidens do not come for me? Am I not worthy?”
No reply.
The terror grows.
“No! Hel will not have my soul! I am worthy! I am worthy of your gilded halls, All-Father! My life was honourable.My heart knows no cowardice, only valour. Have I ever shied from battle or from blooding my enemies? Nay! I lead the charges! I slew my foes! I brought honour to my house and to the houses of my kin! I am worthy of Valhalla!”
The cold reaches my spine, and my mind is on fire. My spirit is shattering like ice on anvil.
“All-Father, I beg of you: grant me this peace. I deserve my rest. I am old and weary, victim to so many wounds which have left me broken. My hearth is but embers. My sons and daughters have no use of me; I have already seen my wife to your gilded halls. I have nothing left. Lift me from this mortal plane! I deserve my rest.”
I weep, silently, rain mingling with my tears, the pains of my past fresh on my mind. I cannot lift my head to once last gaze upon the sky before oblivion claims me; my helm is too heavy.
There is a touch on my shoulder!
It is warm, and life-giving. My helm is removed from my aching brow and I turn to see my saviour. A maiden, fair like early-winter morn, adorned in beautiful mail and winged-helm, astride a magnificent steed, stands over my shoulder.
She lifts me, like a mother would lift an errant child too long from home. Her aura is holy. Her mount whisks us away from the battle-field, my mortal coil and the hurts of my life.
“Odin deems you worthy.” Her voice: a river of honeyed-mead.
I am happy, I am at peace. No pain, only relief.
