Alright. It's kind of short, so here it is.
Copyright © 2007 by Wilhelm Stroven
KINDRED BLOOD
IT WAS A COLD and dreary day. The sun was blood, as the ravens cried, and sought new flesh. Hrelskar wandered the earth, in a fit of rage. His heart had turned to obsidian stone, when he had seen the battlefield where so many of his kin had been slain. “Brother,” he muttered coldly, in the thick, guttural accent that manifested his Nordic heritage. He stumbled over the limp bodies of men once grand, and sought the one that he prayed he would not find.
His feet were blocks at the bottom of his legs. His legs were logs that branched from his torso. His torso was a pulseless thing, forlorn to even him. It was marred by dried blood, and cracked skin.
“Tell me you have gone…tell me you live!” Hrelskar cursed as he tripped over the body of a man who had only recently died. “Blast you! where is Ignar?!” he shouted at the corpse. Tears fell fresh from his bloodshot blue eyes, as he stared at the body of his father— the very body he had just cursed. He plodded on, grateful that his father had passed with a sword in his gut. Still, he missed him, and always would, but such was his fate. He had been doomed to fare ill since…
“Brother!” Hrelskar fell to his knees, heedless of the tiny stones of the beach that bit his skin, and caused fresh blood to stain the earth. He wrapped his arms about his brother, Ignar, and muttered his name over and over, weeping and rocking back and forth.
“I…live…” Ignar whispered hoarsely. Hrelskar, so pained was he at the sight of his brother lying on the battlefield, and assuming that he had died, had not taken the time to notice that no wound even marred him.
“Coward!” he cried suddenly, throwing himself back, and staring at his brother in shock. “Dog! How could you lie, as slain, who is not dead?!”
“No, brother,” Ignar groaned. Then, Hrelskar noted that his condition was poor, though no outward wound was shown, save the green taint of the skin on his face. “A dark curse has betaken me,” said the older Viking. Ignar’s shoulders were broader, and his chest more hulky, but now he seemed almost fragile. “As I fought the traitorous Normans of Rollo, I fell suddenly, taken by some disease. Brother…” Ignar paused a moment to fall victim to a hacking fit, then continued more desperate than ever. “You know our religion— ,”
“You’re religion, brother,” said Hrelskar. “Not mine.”
“So be it, Hrelskar Christ-follower!” Ignar shouted, suddenly strengthened by his hatred of the Christians. Presently, another fit took him, and he softened his tone. “Brother, be you of any religion, save the false Christendom of those Norman dogs— ” He spat the word. “— you would respect my beliefs and let me go to Valhalla, and join the Einherjar.”
“Ignar, you know that Valhalla is a fantasy,” Hrelskar reprimanded. He placed his hand on Ignar’s chest. “You know, deep in your heart, that Odin is not God.”
“Foolishness!” cried Ignar. “Would that you left and joined the traitor-Normans! But alas! I cannot let you go, without…”
“No, Ignar!” Hrelskar shouted, angrily. “I will not help you attain your pagan death!”
“Hrelskar, you are all that I have! If I die by this fell disease, you know I won’t go to Valhalla!”
“Then kill yourself!” Hrelskar replied, but he knew that Ignar would not do it. To kill oneself in the Norse religion meant that you would condemn yourself to the lowest afterlife. Ignar was shooting for the highest.
“Hrelskar, my heart is failing me…” Ignar’s breathing became haggard and he coughed for nearly a minute without stopping. “I beg of you…”
With tears in his eyes, Hrelskar decided. He knew what he had to do, and he did it, though he didn’t like it. He drew his dagger, and bent low over his brother. He leaned forward, past his brother’s face, and whispered in his ear. “I love you…” he said, and with tears in his eyes, he slit his brother’s throat. Blood spurted onto his hands, but he didn’t look down. He felt the last sigh of life leave his brother, and dropped the cold dagger to the ground.
With a deep groan, he fell back, and sighed. Tears ran down his cheeks, but relief also. The deed was done, but his heart was gone. He had loved his brother since birth. There was never any rivalry between the two; both were strong and brave— Vikings to the core. Ignar had always been a bit larger, and stronger, and their father’s love was always directed towards him, but Hrelskar had found a new love: Jesus Christ. While on a raid on Lindisfarne in 857 AD, he had found a Monk, smitten by a Viking axe, and lying on the ground, dying. The Monk’s faith in God had proven stronger than Hrelskar’s doubtful faith in Odin, and in the end, Hrelskar had seen a greater way to live than serving a god who demanded a violent death.
Hrelskar had accepted Christ, and gone on to try and convince his brother, Ignar and father that Christ was the true way to Heaven. They had ignored him, however, and rejected his beliefs as traitorous and foolish. They had banished him from Viking society forever, and turned him out.
Hrelskar turned to the sea, watching the many small ships sailing out on the horizon. “They have slain my kin,” said he. “They have destroyed all hope I had of turning them to God, and saving them from hell. They have betrayed Scandinavia, and they will pay.”
Is this vengeance? asked the voice in his head.
“No, not vengeance,” he answered aloud, in a strong voice. “Justice. I will bring the traitor, Rollo, to justice for his crimes against his own kin. He will pay out, with his own blood, all the kindred blood he has spilled.”
With that, he set out, in a longboat, to catch the traitor Rollo, and avenge his country’s betrayal. It was not vengeance; it was the Viking way.
~ Wilhelm Stroven
