The night sky was beautiful. The pattern of the stars, timeless, showed the gods and told their story. The cool night air was refreshing as it was moved around by the winds. The sounds of the forest were something that only hundreds of years later people would call a symphony. The lake provided a mirror image of the world. Meldún loved this land. He had known many through ought his life, as his days as a raider had taken him far and wide. His small boat slowly moved outwards while everybody else were on the shore.
-A long time ago, a young boy came to me and said “Father, I want to come with you next time!”. In my drunken joy of that night, some victory celebration of mild importance to us, I shoved him away and told him that the battlefield was no place for one who’s balls still have no hair on them. He proved me wrong. Some of you remember that night, how we were attacked, how the great “warriors” were to shitfaced to even lift a finger. How we were saved by our sons, and how my boy forged his friendship with your sons through blood and steel.
The old man told the story of Meldún’s ascension to manhood. It was a story rarely spoken, because none of the elders wished to remember the day they were saved by a young boy and his friends, with arms that could barely hold a shield. However on this day, they would gladly hear it again.
Meldún’s friends, real friends, were few. Their cheers at the story were lost in the cheers of everyone else. Even those who regarded Meldún with eyes of envy or discontent on this day forgot that and joined in the celebration. After all, such an event comes once in a lifetime.
The small boat slowly drifted further out, while the warrior lay still in it. His eyes were closed, his lips were in a smile.
Back on shore, the old man gave the word to a younger Norseman.
-Less than 5 years ago, we were somewhere in the south of Europa. King Björn was leading an attack on a settlement. To our surprise, it was heavily guarded. Apparently news of our travels have reached that area before us and they prepared. It was a battle worthy of poems. We were outnumbered and on the clear path of losing. It was a dream. A chance to die in such a glorious battle, to call out our war cry that even the fallen brothers in Valhalla hear us… it was glorious. We charged. In the heat of battle, I saw Meldún. The fire in his eyes was somehow different than all of ours. He fought with not only for the glory of it, but for something more, something that goes beyond the words of mortals. His gaze was clear, his moves were poetic, each blow he dealt was clean and deadly. I consider myself lucky that in my lifetime I saw someone with such passion for what we do. Özurr, your son would have made the Gods marvel.
The battle of five years passed was not so great as described. It was true that the Vikings were outnumbered. It was true that they relished in the battle. It was even true that Meldún fought like no other man on that field, but to describe it as something that even the gods would marvel at, was an exaggeration. But on this day, it was allowed.
In truth Meldún had always been a great Viking warrior since joining their ranks. And he had always been one of the best. However the battle from the North of Italy was not his best. It was not the one that made him shine. The one battle that marked Meldún as poet of war was a duel. Years prior to King Björn into Europe, in the homeland of the Vikings, he was challenged to a fight by the champion of a neighboring village. The premise behind the duel was stupid at best as this monster of a man felt Meldún had insulted him by not attending his homecoming from a war.
The sun gleamed that day, a rare occurrence in this part of the land. The air was cool, the skies clear and everything around them was silent. Swords and shields were ready to clash. Both men were fighters but neither expected the fight to go the way it did.
Fast swings of steel met each other and the silence was broken. Shields collided as the two charged each other. They were equal in stature and strength. Skill alone would determine the outcome of this battle. Moving as swift as the wind, they countered each other’s moves in a cascade of flurries and blows and yet neither landed a hit. This WAS a dance fit for the Gods. The two mirrod each other’s blows and the spectacle let forth by them was something seen only in Roman Gladiator fights. This time no one was there to cheer, no one to admire their skill, speed, technique and most importantly their heart.
Meldún had come into this fight looking to defend his honor, while his opponent looking to impose respect. Now they were friends. Fighting to the death, but they admired each other. They knew that what they were doing was not just a fight. It was something more. It embodied the spirit of their people. The reasons disappeared in the flashes of sunlight that shined of the steel. Now the fight was one for the purity of combat. They were warriors doing what they were bread to do. What they were born to do.
It did not last long. No real fight lasts long, especially one on one fights. Soon both were standing up only by pure will. Their swords were heavy in their hands, their shields more so. Each fighter had a smile of joy and friendship. Though these two would never be close, they would be brothers forever. They knew what they had created in that small meadow was as close to perfection as anyone dared to achieve. They did not feel pride in themselves, but more in their spirit and will. Even though no one would know – oh they’d tell the story time and again but no one could truly know without seeing – what kind of battle took place, it would always be part of them and be the source of their fire in battle.
The small boat was being slowly pushed further out into the waters of the lake. Meldún’s weapons lay by his side.
-YOU BASTARDS!
The cry broke the cheers and the joy. It was Meldún’s mother. She loved him more than anyone at that celebration.
-You all sing stories of my son. You parade his achievements like they were worthy of Valhalla. And yet now…
-Silence wife. You cannot understand.
-Understand what husband? That you sit here talking with joy as my son is in that boat. An earshot away and yet he can’t hear us. Most of you even hated him. Were jealous of who he was. And now you dare cheer him? You make me sick.
-Mother of Meldún, I beg you hear me.
Sighvatr was the one who fought in the meadow. He was not one with gifted with speech nor with a silver tongue. His sword was what made him. He was no friend of Meldún, but he shared something with him that right now made his words speak as if written by poets.
-Your son may have enemies here. Your son may have few friends here. But what your son has and will forever have is ALL of our respect. We live for one thing, and that is to be great warriors, so much so that Odin himself welcomes us to Valhalla. That the skies brake forth and Valkyries come down and show us that we DID live honorably. That we DID come as close as is humanly possible to an ideal that we all carry in our hearts. Your son throughout his life has been that kind of man. Why do you think he has so few friends? Envy. However now on this day, no matter who you are you can’t do anything BUT put aside your ill will and honor Meldún. Be it as a son, friend, or warrior, his life has earned him the respect of all of us. And that is why we sing. We sing for him. He touched all our lives as if he lived and died in a single moment. Great were his deeds, all his words were true, he lived and died a man of honor. His name shall never die.
-I hear you well Sighvatr. I hear you well.
As if the tears and smile of the weeping mother were the sign, a flaming arrow shot forth and hit the now far off boat. The hey and oils light up. Soon the small vessel was engulfed in flame and the fallen warrior’s body was sent, as is the ways of old, to Valhalla.
The Norsemen were lead into one last song by the mother.
“Take thy shield, take thy sword, all thy weapons to the sky, ye shall need them when Odin bid thee rise. For none but the brave, shall rise up from the grave, to see the Valkyries fly”
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