I should explain a little before you read. I have become more and mroe inrested in Vikings and thier myths in general. I was asked then to write a fiction with all these ideas in my brain they took on a slice of life and a day in the life of a member of the Einherjar.
Addtionally, Rangnorok is scarier then Revelations could ever hope to be. No really, look it up it scares me more because thier no hope you either fight or die and even then you don't get any thing but a slower death, SCARY. Valhalla sounds like fun don't it? No? oh well..
I always wonder how any God of mercy and forgiveness judges soliders and warriors. Thier is a differnce bewteen the two but both have made thier trade that of war. Don't get me wrong, i respect soldier more than most people i have never met, but according to Chrstian Beliefs they will be joining me in hell but i will be recieving a lesser punishment than them. Atleast to the Chrstian Dogma. Go back to my own view of the cosmos which is "Everyone is right and everyone is wrong" Thier is a good chance that they will go on to a place that they deserve, in the after life but where, I won't claim to know. On to the story:
Einherjar An old man stands griping, with one hand, the flagpole that stands erected on top of a tower. A tower stands before a crowd that mutters and clacks like huge chorus of song birds of a thousand different colors. The old man yells in an ancient language, long dead to the world, as those beneath him lined up in a practice formation of perfect rows and with even columns. He shakes his free hand in the air with zeal and in time with his speech. “Wish that guy would just shut up.” A deep voice snarls, from deep with in the crowd. This is voice belongs to a young black man in his early twenties, average height with heavy athletic build. He is dressed in the green of battle fatigues standard issue for the US army’s G.I. in the 60s. He holds his rifle with his right hand, as he holds in his left the loaded magazine as he roughly tapped it against his helmet that sat strapped tight against his chin. His name was Private Franklin Washington a brave soldier and beloved son. “It is the prayer to the all-father, so we may be glories in battle. It is a good thing he shares his blessing with us, Franklin of America.” A gruff and gravelly voice responds next to the first voice. This voice belongs to a very tall man with a great beard of bleached yellow hair and mane of the same that fell around his head in an angelic halo. His eyes were closed and his left hand he held a horned helmet. He was covered in furs but from beneath those furs the armor of black metal scales shine like a terrible reptile with angry gleam. His right forearm was covered in a large round shield and his hand rested a sword that hung from his belt on his right side. The man was Bjorgolf the Strong, a great captain and mighty father of 12. “Every damn day, and I still don’t understand what that guy is saying.” The deep voice of Franklin retorts back. “You need to be calm, Franklin of America. This is the only time we have to be at peace with our selves.” Gruff and gravelly Bjorgolf responded in counter. “What about the feast, Bjorgolf? That is after all relatively peaceful affair.” A strong English accent stated from beside both. This man was the shortest of his two companions but the easiest to be seen or noticed. This man was dressed in a bright red tunic and deep navy pants which were crossed by two white leather straps that rested against his torso and back. Standard for the uniform of Victoria’s English Army. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder. He was busying himself with his white strapless helmet with his white gloved hands. When he finally approved of his helmet’s resting place he would start to stroke his bushy, hefty mustache. His name was Richard Ayre, loyal servant to the crown even in his finest moment. “That is more than a battle, my friend Robert of London. After all, the feast becomes no better than these battles with the way we take to drinking of our hosts’ generous stores...” Bjorgolf stated his ocean deep eyes sliding open, his intense gaze locking on Robert with a huge smile in his good humor bearing down, before he closed his eyes again. “Yea, bets on how this will go down today, Robert?” Franklin asked, as he slid the charging bolt back on the rifle checking if the chamber was clear, it always was. “Well, those Hun champs are with us today so no more of that nasty bit with their mashers. Those Slavs are looking ready for fight. The good froggy bastards behind us have their, how did you put it? “Game faces” on? And that yank fellow with the two irons isn’t here so… I’d say moderate?” “Always the damn optimist, ain’t ya Robert?” Franklin stated with a smile trying to creep on to his face as he gently slid the bolt back allow him to place the magazine into its well. “Enough. May you both kill well today!” Bjorgolf said, his eye sliding open quite forcefully with his ice cold gaze landing on the chanting man on top of the tower. The chanting man stopped speaking his antique tongues with his eyes that stared off into the sky, two single propeller planes flew low over head. Every one watched them pass. Then when they were just to become specs in the sky again, a single white stream of cloud from the far side the rolling hills erupted in sudden spark. It crashed into one of the planes with an explosive squall of red and yellow that hurled its self downward in a black cloud signaling the first victory of to the nameless foes. “Damn! They're getting good with those things…” Franklin marveled as he clicked off his weapons safety. He eyes searched for one of the foes in the distant hills. “This is an omen!” Bjorgolf grunted. Then he raised his left hand and placed onto his head his large horned helmet. When the strange helmet rested on his head the giant man drew his blade and let out a fierce roar of turmoil from deep within his soul for his nameless comrades struck down. The action startled many near him; behind him two of the white robe knights of the Red Cross Templars crossed themselves from the sight and the sound. “Well, those gents are early, by 20 minutes I should say.” Robert stated watching his broken watch try and tick on. He wound the watch with three quick turns of his wrist before sliding the watch into his pocket. Slinging his rifle around his shoulder and opening the breach and placing a single round into the open chamber before closing it again. “Must be getting ready to hit them hard and fast…” Franklin mused aloud. “Or hoping they waste their daemons’ fire before our dragons of steel arrive.” Bjorgolf stated. Both Robert and Franklin stared at the giant and then each other before they rolled their eyes. His strange desire to want to believe in some sort of magic still bothered them, but given where they were they couldn’t decide whether or not to correct him. “Forward!” A voice from the front ranks yelled to be heard over the voices of the warriors their squawking amongst each other had grown louder after the display. However, as the lines of their formation began moving slowly forward and the noise dropped away. A dark and heavy mood settled over the group as their loud synchronized steps sounded across the rolling green hills. They marched on in that silence for some time, over green hills and grassy knolls; before long they came to a steep decline into a large basin that opened up before them. There another group of colors and silver glints stood. Having already made it a third of the way across from the opposite side of the open and flat ground and started dumbly at the new arrivals. The same voice that had ordered them forward gave a charge order that was quickly drowned out by thousands of different battle cries from both sides. As they screamed and stampeded towards each other the ground shook with enough force to felt miles away. Bits of rocks and dirt were sent bouncing up into the air which created a cloud of dust, before the two waves of bodies crashed together, like two avalanches forcing their way against each other fighting for dominance of a small mountain’s cliff. The energy of a sudden madness in the charge took hold of all and some knowing better surged forward with the mass into the blur of carnage. The clash of steel was loud and quickly followed by screams of men dying on blades. Bjorgolf smashed his way through friend and foe alike to drive himself further into the center of his now chosen foes. Any crossing his path was either knocked to the side by his massive shield that sent men flying or cut down with a single, silver stroke of his large sword. Those that could have escaped would only miss their limbs rather than their lives. These fortunate ones would live long enough to grieve their wounds in a loud chorus of screams that would be choked off by Bjorgolf’s allies struggling to surge forward with him. Franklin carried away by the charge soon realized his folly and vainly he tried to stop himself self on the last few steppes of the hill. However, the grass still slick from the morning dew provided the means by which he slipped onto his rear. As he landed painfully he continued to slide down the hill to its base. Raising his weapon, he sought a target to fall into the line in his iron sights. He found one in an Ottoman soldier. Ottoman soldier's bow slung on his back, with his sword raise in preparation for a strike on a downed man-at-arms. Franklin lined up his sights and squeezed the trigger, the short roar of the gun flared to life spitting the golden copper of empty castings to his right. One of the rounds caught the Ottoman in chest and then another in Ottoman’s head which exploded out from the back in a red halo. Robert was still at the top of the hill, the grey of Blitzkrieg flanking him as he carful pick his targets from a far. Firing, clearing the breach and replacing the shell with a fresh round in a practice motion bought on by centuries of use. The rush of each bullet's wake pass them by as hot lead was traded between the two group of troops before the bullets would hit its mark with deadly precision. Robert continued to trade these deadly volleys with the other side of the skirmish, till all of that group fell to the combined skills of himself and his comrades on top of the hill. Those not part of these shooting galleries would feel the rounds passing back and forth over thier heads. Franklin rose, realizing his exposed state and made a beeline for Bjorgolf. However, Franklin’s ally was clear across the field of battle and so where the people that want his life this day. Franklin tumbled away from an axe that flew toward him strait into the path of a large hammer wielding man in a breastplate. The warrior had the hammer raised to strike. Franklin pivoted on his heel dodging the death blow as it came down before slamming his rifle’s stock into the hammer-wielder’s jaw, sending him sprawling. As he approached closer to Bjorgolf he fell into the path that the giant once took, bodies cleaved apart formed an easy but slicked trail of the Viking’s berserker furry that he followed like Dorothy to OZ. Bjorgolf at that moment buried his sword through two men; he turned producing a small hand ax from beneath his furs, and before he shouted to Franklin by name as he let fly the ax. Franklin knew never to question Bjorgolf when axes were being thrown, as he had learned from past experiences. He just dove in to the grass as the hand ax whistled over his head. Franklin heard the wet splat and the angry grunt of another fur covered warrior as the ax sank home into a man's shoulder. Franklin rolled onto his back, raised his weapon and held the trigger down pointed in the direction of the now wounded warrior. The now dead man slumped down on to his knees before falling flat in heap. The fur covered warrior’s body shredded by the hail of lead. Franklin rose, ejecting the now empty magazine. Replace it with a fresh magazine now covering Bjorgolf's rush into the charging masses with a near wall of lead. Back on top of the hill, Robert continued picking off target with a brisk pace. He had traded his breach charge rifle for one of the dead Nazi soldier's bolt action rifle, now killing with ease. He lost count but had managed to keep himself alive despite the enemies' best tries with arrows, bullets, and sharpened steel. Robert was soon feeling very good, that was until one of the grey soldiers beside him shouted a single word while trying to run away from the group. “Panzer!” Robert looked up on the other side of the basin; a black tank’s cannon stared back like an evil eye of an angry god. “Bloody He-” was all the English soldier was able to get before the tank unleashed its ordnance in a flash of white smoke. Bjorgolf and Franklin both heard the cannon fire and the explosion of the shell. Back to back they looked up at one hill then the other. Every one was in a stun sense of silence before a yell of triumph sounded, followed by more yelling and the sharp clang of steel. “Come! We slay a dragon” Bjorgolf stated with a shining gleam of joy in his eyes. The tank began to fire indiscriminately into the crowd now, each blast of the explosions sent warriors, weapons and dirt raining down on others, friends and foes alike. Franklin gapped on in disbelieve as the giant warrior started his juggernaut swagger, foes falling before him as he started towards the tank. With a shake of his head, Franklin dropped his now spent rifle, drew his knife, hustling to keep up with Bjorgolf. The tank was led by Hauptsturmführer Michael Wittmann, an SS tiger captain. He stared down at the carnage from his observation periscope smiling. He was doing well today. Shouting, he order Rudolf Hirschel to radio to control to have them tell the planes where the battle was and make sure reinforcements were on their way. Then he turned to Henrich Reimers ordering him to move the tiger forward and down the hill. Karl Wagner and Günther Weber were still following their orders to continue their barrage on the crowd. Wittmann smiled wider. He sat down, in his posh chair placed in the tank, content. He did enjoy a good war. On the field, Bjorgolf's march had come to an end as the weight of his foes rushed in against the giant warrior stopping his momentum. Each of Bjorgolf's foes hopped that at least one of them could claim the glory of killing him. None could, as one of the oldest soul in Valhalla, Bjorgolf was a legend in his own right. A Templar in more modern plate was cut almost in half by the giant warrior's single stroke. A Byzantium sergeant’s sword and shield could not stop Bjorgolf’s heavy stroke that cut him down the middle. An American solder, one that Franklin recognized as a paratrooper, came charging with a rage-filled shout while he held his rifle with bayonet like a small spear. The paratrooper’s yell died short as Bjorgolf took the paratrooper’s head with his sword's superior reach. Another Viking with an ax came forward, Bjorgolf smashed the Viking’s skull in with his massive shield’s edge as he cut a blue skin highlander in half. Then high over head a wailing scream of a dying plane. Its engine choking on the black clouds it now produced as its propeller tried in vain to spin. Flaming wings like a dying phoenix accented the plane as it ungracefully fell towards the huge grind of warriors. In shock and horror, the men fighting below realized the plane was coming down on top of them. The sharp wail increased before it bounced, like a skipping stone on the calm pond’s surface, as it came back to earth. On its second bounce the plane hurled itself apart sending fragments in every direction but the canopy and massive engine block still hurling its self on fire forward. Before long this flaming coffin, with its burning charge still trying in vain to escape; began to roll. With each of its hops it become more dangerous as it smashed through warriors left and right. It continued to hop towards the mass of foes, surrounding Bjorgolf, who noticed it went diving for cover. Bjorgolf grabbed Franklin and hurled the soldier over several combatants. Franklin watched as the aircraft slammed into his friend but his vision disappeared before he like the plane came to a rest on the ground. As Franklin tried to gather himself up he heard a battle cry and a dark spear wielding warrior came towards him holding the spear high to strike. ‘Well this was fun…’ Franklin thought darkly. The sharp report of a pistol firing three times broke him from his dark musing. Franklin watched the dark skin warrior drop to the ground with ugly holes across his back. Staring dumbly as Richard came up and stood before him. The English soldier had lost his right arm which his tunic covered the ugly stub in dark strips that hung down like dried tentacles. In his left he held the pistol that had just saved his life. His face was covered with dirt and blood, his helmet gone as was the clean as sharp look he often held. “I’d offer you a hand but I am in need of a new one myself.” Richard smiled as he yelled. Franklin smiling as he go up, “Thought you bought it back there with the tank blast.” “What? I am sorry some bastard in that infernal machine shot at me with cannon! Although it is pleasant to not hear you butcher the Queen's language!” Richard yelled still smiling at the cheap jest of his friend. Franklin smiled too now, then he noticed an AK-47 on the ground. Franklin bent and picked it up. Rising back up with the rifle, a long range report of a rifle crackled off in the distance. Franklin looked at Robert as a large blood of fresh blood pooled from a new wound as Robert’s body fell backward to the ground. Franklin turned on the hill, a large coat wrapped figure held a rifle in what looked like surprise. The sniper's eyes large and his mouth wide in an 'o' of surprise as though he never thought he could actually take the killing shot. Franklin took aim at the man, with a scream of rage as he squeezed the trigger till the rapid click sound the rifle was spent. Almost all the rounds missed but one that caught the mysterious coated figure in his shoulder. Franklin was ticked ‘busted Russian weapons’ he snarled to himself. Franklin set off toward the hill in a spirint, he came to a dead stop as he realized he needed a weapon. He looked around and saw the closest was still being used by its owner. Franklin jumped on to the back of this mailed warrior wrapping his hands and arms around the warrior's head before he twisted with all his might. Sure enough, the warrior neck snapped and Franklin riding on his back slammed into the ground. Picking up the sword as he throw off his helmet he set off again toward the wounded soldier but more soldiers dressed in the same coats were coming down the hill now and several were trying to help the wounded sniper. Franklin snarled deep in his throat. He began to cut through them as he passed them like he had seen Bjorgolf do. The first one died as Franklin slashed at him in his stomach. The second vainly tried to aim before a deep slash to his side took him from the field. The third a thrust through the middle like a pinned insect as he came directly toward the enraged soldier. A fourth beheaded as he tried to strike Franklin with a rifle like a club. A fifth, half way up to Franklin’s target, was cleaved at the leg and rolled down the hill trampled as his comrade who tried to catch Franklin. The sixth, Franklin smashed in the face with the pommel on his blade before Franklin grasped the knife on the sixth’s belt and stabbed the knife’s owner in deep into the sixth's heart. The seventh from a slash in his back as this soldier was holding the wounded sniper up and helping him away from the field. The eighth coming to help in vain he caught Franklin’s blade with his chest after Franklin threw it, falling just next to the sniper as he dropped. Franklin grasped his sword pulling it free he kicked over the wounded sniper. Surprised to find him no more than a young babe of a boy, little more than 16. Franklin raised the blade for the final cut, with no feeling but the rage for his fallen friend. There was a sharp whistling sound as Franklin feels a solid weight slam in to his left soldier. He feels his feet starting to leave the ground; his head turned a bit, and he stares at a man larger and more muscular than Bjorgolf with a deep red beard and hair. The man was holding a hand hammer with a head the size of Franklin’s which was pressed against Franklin’s chest. A bright light flared then and with it a deafening roar of an explosion, which blinded Franklin. When his vision came back he saw his left arm was flying in an arc away from him and felt him self in the air. He watches in an odd numbness as the color slowly drains away from his vision and darkness overcomes him. As the sky over his head spins and spits with a thousand shapes and sound. Then sounds of feasting and the roar of drunken conversation started in the blackness. “Yes Robert of London that hurt, however, the iron Pegasus did not take me though it was a good try.” Bjorgolf said from across the darkness through a mouthful of meat and mead making his already gruff voice even rougher. “Oh?” Dry English voice of Richard cooed from beside Franklin's waking mind. “No it was that dragon, I had managed to tear off the top scale of the beast and toss one of the magic rocks.” “They are called grenades, they aren't magical Bjorgolf. They’re a mechanically timed chemical explosive.” Franklin raised his head off the table opening his eyes to find the Viking warrior across the table with a meat staked on and stacked up on his knife. Gone were Bjorgolf's shield and helmet. Swallowing down the last of what he was chewing Bjorgolf continued “So I use ‘Greek-naves’ and the dragon exploded but I failed to remember how the beast sometimes spills more of its fires upon its death and that caught me in its death throws. It is good to see you awake now, my friend Franklin of American.” “Wish I wasn’t” Franklin stated rubbing his head. A figure moved past and placed a six pack of unmarked brown, capped glass bottles covered in frost and a large plate of food before Franklin. Franklin dug in with zeal after snapping off one of the caps off using the table as his bottle opener. “Yes the reawakening is always a little unpleasant.” Robert stated as he drank from a tankard that Franklin was sure was warm beer. “Just wish I would wake up somewhere else. Instead of this nightmare.” Franklin stated between bites. “Can’t argue with that logic, old chap.” Robert stated before he took another draft. “Enough!” Bjorgolf slammed the knife down on the table. “Night after night I have to hear about how your god has left you to rot in Hel. That this can’t be the good paradise that you were promised, surely it must be your Hel. That you were good men in your lives that were not evil and you repented for your ‘sins.’ Which both of you seem to not see that according to your faith you deserved more punishment than this; you should be thankful! For the last twelve thousand winters I have been here, and this is my paradise. When winter came to my land and the season had been plentiful, I took it as a sign to go a Viking. I could have stayed and lived a long life with my children to see my grandchild become kings." Bjorgolf took a swift drink of the liquid in a cow horn before he threw it aside his angry glare settled on his two friends. "No, I left in a sturdy vessel leading six more such ships. We sailed along the coast attacking small villages and garrison for months. Finally we came to the ancient home of Odysseus finding many riches from traders’ ships and their ports. Then the Greeks rallied and trapped us in a harbor with their fire. I jump on to the Greeks’ ships one after another killing them and turning their fire upon each other till on the final they turn their fire on me alone, but still I was able to kill their captain the man that came up with the plan. Four ships would never return home, two to storms on the journey back, and two to the flames. My story would inspire countless generations and my bloodline would become kings of your England, Robert of London. I went out for fame and glory when I went a Viking, both of you became warriors for the same selfish reason that I did. Greed and bloodlust." Bjorgolf pointed one of his long digits at Robert as the English man tried to say something. "Don’t try and tell me you didn’t Robert of London! You went to that dessert of grass and death to make your father proud, by becoming an officer and hoping you would be knighted by your beloved queen for your stupidity. You died covered in blood still trying to kill your foes with your bare hands, your insides hanging from your open wounds after you tried to used your weapon as club, and the Valkyries loved you for it. Telling Odin of your death with love in their beautiful voices." Bjorgolf finished with tears threaten to spill from his eyes at the memory from so long ago. Turning his heavy gaze onto Franklin, Bjorgolf started again with heavy tone. "You, Franklin of American, you are no better. You went to that dark jungle prove you were more of a man than your father even though he told you the harsh truth. Yet you, thinking you knew better, went without paying the man that raised you any heed or respect. Hoping that when you came back you could raise your self up through your college to a high status as a freeman in the ‘new age.’ In that jungle did find yourself more of a man? No, you found your father was right and your death as you killed countless “Charlies” in the same berserker rage that the god of storms had to come down here to strike down on this day! You need to learn it this is the best thing to that ever happened to your pathetic soul. For it does not matter what happens tomorrow or the next day unless it is Ragnarök!” A chorus echoed around the hall “Ragnarök” echoed around the hall, leaving a heavy silence on the three men after it passed. Finally Bjorgolf continued when the silence began to drown out the rest of the noisy, joyful hall. “With how you died, how can you question the all-father and his Valkyrie maidens that brought you before him when he welcomed you as one of the Einherjar? If you have to question that, your right, you don’t belong here, you belong in Hel. Serving the twisted goddess that bares her name to that place, Hel herself, till Loki sails out from that cold pit with you and the other dregs to die again on my blade!” Bjorgolf shouted as he began to shovel food into his mouth again. The meal that night was a silent one, heavy with shame and anger. Both Robert and Franklin left that night early to fall into a deep sleep in their beds in hall of dreams. The next morning at the break of dawn an old man stands gripping, with one hand, the flagpole that stands erected on top of a tower. A tower stands before a crowd that mutters and clacks like a huge chorus of birds of thousands of different colors. The old man yells in an ancient language long dead to the world, as those beneath him lined up in a practice formation of a square rows. He shakes his free hand in the air grapping at the air with zeal and in time with his speech. “Wish that guy...” The deep voice of Franklin tried to bark out. “Could be worse you know.” Robert interrupting beside him as he too looking up at the tower, “We could have to hear Wagner ever morning.” A group of German soldier passing a cigarette around behind the two men burst into tears of laughter, along with Franklin and Robert equally laughing. Bjorgolf not understanding just shook his head as he smiles with his closed eyes waiting for another day for the end of all worlds.
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