RAGNAR WANDERED THROUGH the Darkness, alone and with no idea of where he needed to go.
He struggled to shake the memory of the wolf tearing him apart, and of his god dying. He had brought on Odin’s death, and he had watched as his god was torn apart and devoured.
The memory made him shiver.
No matter how long he waited and how many deaths he suffered, the big bright veil into Helheim would not open for him, as if even Helheim did not deem him worthy.
Walking through the chilly Darkness almost made him feel like a true farmer again. That was all he had ever been; a farmer, no more. He had never belonged in Ash-hill. He had lied about everything, and his lies had allowed him to stay there and become their skald. The villagers had believed his words; had regarded him as a hero. They had made him into the person he had been the last winters of his life in Midgard. Alone he was no one. He was not clever, not brave, not capable. He was just a farmer’s boy.
He was unworthy of what he had owned back in Midgard, and he had lied his way to all of it. Right from the moment when he had first woken up in Ash-hill’s campsite and they had asked who he was. Vigmer had found him floating on a raft that had survived from the burnt longship from which he had escaped. It had been before Vigmer had become chieftain, back when Bjorn was chief of Ash-hill, long before either Hilda or Leif had been born.
When they had asked Ragnar where he came from, he had realised, despite the dream caps and ale he had been given, that they knew little if anything about why he was there and who he was. So, he had lied. It had been so easy.
He had told them of the great battle he had fought, how he had been the lone survivor, had killed everyone else. How their ships had been burned, and how he had bravely navigated across the open sea on the remaining planks, and passed out from the effort.
But he was a farmer’s boy, and had never been more. He had never killed a man, had never hunted, had never been brave, never wanted to raid and had only survived as a young man because he had run from the battle before it had begun.
Perhaps they had learnt the truth before they had finished burning his corpse, and decided not to give him the honour after all. Perhaps that was why he was here and not in Helheim.
His lies and dishonesty, his greed and his fears had brought him right into this Darkness that had no end and no light and no good at all. He had provoked his own misfortune.
The irony dwelled on him and he had to restrain himself from laughing. The madness swelled up inside him. He was a fool, a true fool, walking blind through the dark, wanting to laugh at himself and his situation, despite the fact that he knew it would get him killed. He was a coward who deserved this sentence the gods had given him.
He took a loud breath to calm his madness, gulped, realising what he had done. He had made himself heard.
A spear hammered into his chest. His ribs broke. The Darkness swallowed his scream.
Death, pain, and fear.