The thick columns of Valhöll soared toward a vaulted ceiling spanned by long spears that served to remind all gathered this was a place of warriors. Though in repose now, dozens of shades all named as einherjar sat between two great tables, those divided by a hearth of etheric blue flame. They were raven-feeders, one and all. When they were not here, in camaraderie, enjoying the feasting, the occasional favour of the valkyrjar, or the tale telling, they would train for endless hours in the field outside. In life, many had hated one another, had slain one another. But here, they fought side by side, in the shield-wall, preparing for the day when the Valfodr would return and call for them.
After more than three centuries of the king missing, Hermod had begun to lose faith in that day ever arriving.
The einherjar fought with fierceness, with wrath, even, though they could do each other no lasting harm in this place. Those struck down would reconstitute given a few hours and join again in the festivities and merriment. Mayhap centuries of this had allowed them to burn out the aggressions that might have otherwise festered betwixt the numerous factions that Odin first, and Hermod now, had used the valkyrjar to gather here in preparing for Ragnarök. Assuming such a prophesied end still impended, though Hermod rather hoped it would not.
Still, he could believe it might all end, and soon. Vampires spread their Deathless faith across the North Realms. Their emperor, Nikolaos, had proved more aggressive than ever Kvasir had, and more effective in spreading their religion by missionary where it would not spread by sword. The old ways were dying, helped along, ironically, by the slow decay of the Serkland Caliphate that could no longer hold back vampire power. Not that he could be brought to regret the killing he had wrought among them, or his part in their decline.
Too, the jötunnar were restless, as ever they had been, and Hermod could not say if Narfi could keep their natures in check forever. Nor if Lokison would wish to do so.
When he was not busy aiding the remnants of the old ways and the Odinic cults against vampires or jötunnar or the other ills of the World, Hermod would come here, sit with these valiant men and women, and pretend he did not still secretly long to see one missing face among them. He never did and never would. But he came here, told the tales of the gathered, because the tales of who they had been were all they had to cling to, to remain themselves and keep from giving in to the ennui of death.
For some few, even that was not enough. Once, ages ago, Fitela Sigmundson had wandered out and been gone, and Odin had said then that he would be reborn. Well, now he was there, Helgi the Bold they called him, and Hermod wondered if it was true that man held Fitela’s soul.
Such thoughts brought him to Sigmund Völsungson, whom many thought still the greatest among them. If any surpassed him, it might only be his son Sigurd, sat on the man’s right hand now. The father garrulous and accepting of this lot, the son dour for the thought of never seeing his love again. What a pair they made. Helgi, too, oft sat at their table, joined as he was by the valkyrja Kára.
There, too, further away, were the remnants of the Döglinar. There was Hervor Angantyrsdotter and her son Heidrek. And his son and daughter, Angantyr and Hervor, as well. Not well-liked, the lot of them, though Hermod supposed they had earned their place.
At another table sat Didrik of Bérna and a half dozen of his knights. There, Heym, there Fasholt the Proud. There, loyal Hilldebrand and great Hornboge. Mighty Detslaff and, looking half asleep, Wildefer.
Then, of course, among the greatest of men, were Hrólf Kraki and his champions. Not Svipdagr, no, but Bödvar Ecgtheowson, whom men called Beowulf. And too, Beigad and Stárólf, Hromund Gripson, and Hjalti the Righteous. Brave men all. All with tales to tell and be heard.
And Geri. Poor, lonely Geri, who Hermod oft feared would one day venture out as Fitela had done and not return. He feared it; sometimes, he hoped for it, for the peace she might find.
Hermod, at the table’s head, slapped a hand upon it, as much to jolt himself from his melancholic musings as to draw attention. Both worked. The einherjar ever looked to him as the voice of the Valfodr, even if some of them had begun to think Odin would not return. Besides, ’twas Hermod who now wore Draupnir and thus commanded the valkyrjar. He was the lord of Valhöll, for the nonce, even if he would sooner have been lord of a good stew, a warm hearth, and the comforts of a woman in his arms. Not that Syn had forgiven him, had ever abated in her quarrels. Not that he could look at her face and not see the echoes of their daughter, who had gone from them and would not return.
“I …” Hermod shook himself. Mayhap the Lethe set upon him, too, and tried to steal him from himself, for having spent so long wandering the dark of the Penumbra. If so, he would counter that by being more himself than ever. “Long have I been away,” he said, casting his voice to boom among the rafters. Up there, his monkey fylgja perched, watching and, he dared to think, offering encouragement. “Too long, those who are generous might say, and not long enough those who are mostly arseholes might suppose. Either way, it’s been long enough since I’ve told any of your life stories that I fear you forgetting them.”
He paused, quirked a smile, and nodded at Sigmund. “So. Völsungson, I appreciate you volunteering by the wiggle of your ears. Aye, I saw that.”
Sigmund rolled his eyes as Hermod began, telling first of the drawing of Gramr from the tree, Barnstokkr, and on, till Sigmund’s final vengeance fell upon Siggeir Wolfsblood. ’Twas a good tale, if the part already best known. “Of course, that was scarce the end of Sigmund’s story,” Hermod continued. “No, that would come some five years after his vengeance, in the thirty-first year of Sigmund’s life.”
