Valhalla Calls - Threshold
Sailing on Valkyrie’s light through a sea of stars and worlds unknown to Fjorin was like a dream; although he could see all these things around him, it was difficult to understand. The unanswered questions were without number as the journey went on, and he had a feeling more awaited him.
After only a brief time among the skies he once thought untouchable to man, there was another light that clouded Fjorin’s vision. As his sight returned, he came to behold a city of steel and fire. Impending constructs encroached on the smoke-filled and reddened skies above, patched together from various metals, covered in shields and spears. The stones that covered the streets were made of obsidian, and molten steel flowed through the gutters from the countless forges of the blacksmith shops. Statues of fallen warriors decorated the paths and pillars throughout, runes branded into their cores to honor their memories. It was clear from a single glance that this city was built with but one purpose: war.
Valkyrie interrupted Fjorin’s confused thoughts, “This will be your new home. Walk its pathways, and learn it well.”
Fjorin knew of Valhalla from legends – a land ruled by the war god and the Alfather: Odin. It was a celestial place reserved for only the mightiest of warriors to call home in the afterlife. He wondered if he should feel honored; however, the battle lust was still fresh in his mind. “Send me back, Valkyrie! I do not belong here. I should have died a true warrior’s death, along with my brethren!”
Valkyrie turned to face Fjorin. “You did.” She stated bluntly, the shock of the truth becoming apparent in his eyes.
“I have little time, Fjorin of the Ebonmane. Go to Valaskjalf, and receive your orders.” She pointed her shining sword to the center of Valhalla, toward a castle that pierced the swirling black clouds. “It is there that you shall meet the warlords. It is there that your fate will be decided.” As if a candle’s flame in the wind, she vanished into nothingness.
Before long, Fjorin found himself obediently making the trek to the castle. What more could he do but seek answers? Each step weighed heavily on him. Was it not an honor to be chosen for Valhalla? Was it not what every warrior dreams of, to serve in the hereafter?
“You ought to slow down, lad.” A voice pulled Fjorin out of his daze. “Fresh blood still stains your armor.”
Fjorin looked up from the obsidian road to find a figure in a well-traveled black cloak. His beard was haggard and gray with lone strands of white. Behind the wrinkles that told a story of a man who has seen many years beyond his time, were eyes as blue as the calmest seas.
“Mind your own, old man. I’ve answers to find, and a war to fight.” He ignored the man – no doubt even Valhalla has its share of drunkards.
The old man chuckled jovially. “You truly are of the Ebonmane Clan. You are so busy being a warrior, you forget what it is like to be human.”
Fjorin instantly pivoted and grabbed the old man by his collar and pinned him against the nearest wall. “What do you know of my clan?!”
The old man seemed undaunted by the sudden show of violence, and smiled warmly. “I know you lost them, lad. Women, children, comrades… your father and king.” He gently put his wrinkled hands on Fjorin’s. “Take it from an old man, take your time… and mourn. There is a hill not far from here, where you may lay a runestone to their memory.”
Fjorin dropped the old man, and scoffed. “A runestone will do nothing for them now.” The young warrior began to walk away toward the castle once more.
The strange man dusted himself off. “It’s not for them, lad. It’s for you. You cannot fight a war while one already rages in that thick skull of yours.” From his cloak, he drew a warped walking stick, and thrust it toward the young warrior’s neck, “If war is all you understand, then I will lecture you well in terms you can understand.”
Having been threatened, Fjorin answered. He grabbed a still-heated longsword from a nearby forge, ready to cut the old man’s walking stick in two… but, something was strange. His movements began to slow as the sword closed in. The fires of the furnaces became still, and all the bustling and noise of Valhalla ceased. The old man slammed the butt of his staff on the ground… the wood burned, the flames twisting and churning as they revealed the branch’s true form: a spear, made of metals Fjorin had never seen, with adornments that were impossible to craft by any conventional means, and a single rune: “Gungnir.”
The old man pointed his spear to Fjorin’s throat; the very world around them seemed to shift as it swung. Try as he might, the young warrior could not move. His feet slowly levitated from the path. “You walked life as a wolf in a rabbit’s den; now lad, you tread among dragons.”
Fjorin’s flesh began to split, blood pouring from the torn wounds. Gritting his teeth, he attempted to fight back, once again to no avail. His armor began to turn white with heat as each plate of metal cooked him slowly. His flesh gave way, his muscle tissue escaping from the bloody crags – unraveling along with his very blood vessels and nerves. His entire being began to burn, allowing him to do nothing but scream in agony as his existence was slowly erased…
“Know this, lad: you may be ‘immortal,’ but, another immortal can still end you, just as you did the Thunder Caller after you fell. Look…” The old man pointed his spear to the left of Fjorin’s abdominals, his armor disintegrating to reveal a scar – it was a brand, left by the hammer of the Thunder Caller. The runic marking translated to “hand of the gods” or “lightning.”
“…This is your death wound. It is the same as the Thunder Caller’s eye; the one you used to destroy him.” The spear’s tip began to glow, electricity surging through the point. “And this, young warrior, is how one would destroy you.”
The pain disappeared. Fjorin was staring at the ground. He looked at his hands in a panic – they were still quite intact. His armor was unscathed, and even cleansed of the blood that previously covered it. The city was bustling once again with the clanging of steel and stone.
“Who are you?” Fjorin asked the cloaked man standing over him, kneeling while he gathered himself.
“Wanderer, Concealer, Ancient One, Fetcher… I’m afraid don’t recall my own name anymore. The Ebonmane Clan however, what did they call me...? Ah, yes... I remember now… they call me Odin.” With a warm smile, Odin laid his hand on top of Fjorin’s head. “Now, go… mourn your loss, lad. Our wars can wait for something as small as a single runestone.”
With guidance from Odin, Fjorin found a suitable hill just outside the boundaries of Valhalla. Out here, the skies were blue, and the fields were green, just like the mid-summers back home. A stone worthy of the Ebonmane Clan, with some effort and a small amount of ingenuity, was raised in honor of his fallen comrades. Fjorin carved all the names of those he knew painstakingly, and set the golden coins atop the stone – mementos from his best friend and rival; a man he left at the shore only a night ago.
A warm and familiar light emanated from behind Fjorin. “Fjorin of the Ebonmane,” Valkyrie spoke, “the warlords are waiting on your presence.”
Fjorin knelt before the monument to his people. “They are immortal, are they not? They have time to spare.”
Valkyrie did not argue. She stared at the stone for a moment, looking it over… “The runestone is flawed.” She drew her sword, and after a blinding slash above Fjorin’s head, cut a small piece from the rock. “Make your way to Valaskjalf on the morrow.” She disappeared once again.
Fjorin was once again confused by Valkyrie’s antics. He looked to inspect any possible flaws on the stone and its positioning. It was perfect, except for the single slash that she left across a single name… “Bjornfir.”
A sensation Fjorin was not familiar with welled up within his body, as though a great weight was taken off of him. His eyes moistened as he looked upon Bjornfir’s scarred name on the memorial, laughing as he hadn’t since he was a boy, tears dripping from his cheeks.
“Bjornfir… it can’t be!” He smiled, “You made it… you live!”