IV.
a warrior must face a true death, for anything less seals the gates of Valhalla, leaving them to wander with the damned

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    "ONE DAY WE'LL BE THE MIGHTIEST WARRIORS IN ALL OF ASGARD," the little boy with blond locks proudly proclaimed. He wrapped his arm around the shoulders of his best friend, Eirik, who tipped his head back and roared fiercely. "I want to wield a greatsword double my size!"

    "I want a great axe!" Eirik said, swinging his hands down in the air, mimicking a slice. "Whoosh!"

    The crown prince glared at the two friends, puffing out his cheeks and crossing his arms. "You can't be the mightiest because I already am."

    Eirik rolled his hazel eyes and shook his head. "No one asked you, Thor."

    Thor pointed a grubby finger towards the blond boy. "And you've got worm arms, they're too weak to wield a greataxe."

    The blond boy frowned, self conscious of his lanky build. You needed to be buff to be a strong warrior, or you were nothing.

    A girl with locks the color of summer sunsets walked up to Thor, her chin held high and her eyes narrowed onto the prince as if he were a lamb and she a hungry wolf. "You're one to talk, you can barely lift a sword."

    "Neither can Calder, he's too weak!"

    The girl raised her practice bow high, and then cut the air, landing it onto prince's arm, hard enough to sting, but not enough to harm. "He's more of a warrior than you'll ever be, brat."

    Eirik and Calder snickered quietly to themselves. No one dared to stand up to Thor, fearful of his father, no one but her.

    "Ow! Why don't you ever do that to Loki?" Thor clutched his hand, his chubby cheeks red. "I'm sorry, Ylva."

    Ylva did not reply, instead she looked away with a huff.

    "I'm sorry, Calder," Thor finally mumbled after a few moments. Then his blue eyes lit up, and he smiled. "Do you want to train with me?"

    Calder nodded. The prince was many things: obnoxious, immature, and bit of a brat for starters. But beneath his imperfections was a heart of gold.

    "Calder, run!" Eirik suddenly clutched his friend's shoulder. Calder's eyes grew wide, noting the sudden blood on his hands and cheeks. Eirik no longer resembled a boy, instead he had grown tall and broad shouldered, his dirty brown hair longer, his jaw square, and his once bright eyes, dimmed and pained.

    The courtyard that Calder was in faded away, along with Ylva and Thor.  A rush of white snow filled its place, sharp and blinding. Red rivers carved their way into the ice, trickling away from slain bodies that the two warriors tiredly stepped over.

    Calder's grip tightened on Eirik's shoulders, pulling him upright as his legs battled to lead them away from their enemies. "You're a damn idiot if you think I'd leave you behind."

    "And you're a damn idiot to die with me." Eirik's lips pulled up in an attempt to smile, but instead he grimaced and drew his hand away from his ribs. "The Valkyries will take me to Valhalla. I am not afraid."

    Eirik may not have been afraid, but Calder was. He was afraid of losing his best friend, and living long enough only to die alone with the corpses of his companions, either the wolves tearing him apart or their hunters gutting him first.

    Worst of all, he was afraid of leaving his mother and sister behind.

    "I hear something," Eirik whispered. His skin was a sickly color, almost as pale as the snow around them. "Over there, from where we came."

    Calder stilled, hunched down and drew his greatsword, not before setting Eirik down, propped up against a tree, his greataxe beside him, and a dagger in his hands.

    "You can't fight them, Calder. The Norns have not destined for you to die here." Eirik's voice was strained and drawn out. "I will distract them, you go."

    Calder shook his head. If he had to accept his death, then he would do so and enter the halls of Valhalla with Eirik.

    The cry of a wolf bounced off the the mountains and mixed with the howl of the wind blaring in Calder's ears. His heart was beating rapidly as he held his breath, waiting, listening, for anything to come after them.

    Just when Calder thought he and Eirik were in the clear, they broke through the branches in a flurry, swords raised just like when they ambushed the Asgardians, screaming a twisted, guttural war cry. When he thought they would attack, they froze. It was if they were toying with him, waiting to see what he'd do first.

    "Why won't you run?"

    "Run, boy!"

    Two voices screamed at Calder, one was Eirik's, the other belonged to a woman. Her fiery red hair was riddled with braids, and for a moment Calder thought his sister had somehow found them, but it wasn't Ylva.

    It was his mother.

    Eda Halsdottir stood on the great mountain, washed in golden light from the colossal gate behind her. Her armor was scratched and dented, proof of her many battles. Two women in similar armour stood beside her, watching Calder intently.

    "Run!" Eda's voice was as sharp as a whip, bellowing down to her son.

    The greatsword loosened in Calder's grasp as he stared at his mother in shock. How was she here?

    Like a punch to the gut, reality hit him, and Calder realized his enemy was no ordinary one. The day of the ambush had men attacking, not the skeletal figures before him. Their hollow eyes watched him, waiting for him to move.

    "I told you the Valkyries would take me to Valhalla." Eirik was standing now, his wounds miraculously healed.  His gaze was on the two women beside Eda. "But they will not take you."

    "What? Eirik what's going on?" The words left Calder's mouth in a rush. He needed answers.

    "You're dying, Calder. Poisoned," Eirik answered. He turned to Calder, his eyes sorrowful. "If you fight them, you will lose. They will drag your soul to Hel. So run, run until you're among the living again."

    The greatsword fell to the snow, and Calder was running, the damned chasing him.

    Eda stayed on the mountain, unable to go down to her son, watching and praying that he was saved in time.