Og dei spora eg trår er kalde, så kalde

 

Title: { Helvegen by Wardruna }

(Not related to the story but { this } is a very aesthetic performance of this song.) 

Working title was: “Reflecting on the current pandemic by writing a story set in the Viking Era because why not (this seems to be the most reasonable coping mechanism)”

Now you know. Then I looked for some resources so that my story would be at least somewhat close to reality (as we know it, if I might add). Anything I wrote down I based mainly on information provided by { this } and { this } article, and also just by my head. (Yeah, I’m actually pretty informed about the history of Scandinavia.)

I created this document on the 16th of July, lol. 

(It’s the middle of September, in case you haven’t noticed.) 

This only proves how good I am at time management. (Hah.)

I started this story thinking it was going to be just generally about the Vikings, but then it became more specific. Anyways, what I want to say is that it doesn’t matter at all if you are not familiar with the fandom. Just enjoy reading it. The characters are characters, the names are just names. I literally only gave them these names and personalities because it was easier. The only point of this story is in the working title. That is the only thing that really matters here.

Okay, enough blabbering. Onto the story we go.

Vikings, about 1300 words 
Angsty, but not very much 
Trigger warning: well. Death, plague, diseases, killing; just... Viking stuff, you know

He crouched down, clutching onto a handful of grass. His side ached where the sword had cut into his flesh. There wasn’t any use checking the wound again; the image was vivid enough in front of his eyes. The people around him had thought he’d die in a few blinks of an eye, but then he had gotten to his feet and on his horse with some additional hissing and making painful faces. He hadn’t said a word though, endured the journey back home without so much as one complaint. He was only crouching now because nobody was around to see. He didn’t want his loved ones to worry, and really, it wasn’t that bad. The pain would go away in no time with the right substances, the wound would heal longer but well, and he’d be healthy right in time for the next raid.

The læknir took care of him right upon his arrival, and provided him with a supply of the appropriate medicine. It took some time, but ‒ with the aid of Eir and the Allfather and everyone else who he could think of ‒ he did recover, just as he’d hoped.

Not in time, however.

He was still sickly when the men started planning another raid. He helped. He helped in any way he could ‒ which was a lot ‒ and the best he could ‒ which was the very best ‒, but when it came to setting sail, the men said, “You must stay. You’re not well.” 

All he could hear was “We don’t need you.”

Even his generally very strong will couldn’t make the men reconsider; he was just about to fight them, but he got the alarming feeling that he’d fail, so he left it at that, and just watched them sadly as they sailed away.

He returned to his wife and children. They had some animals to look after, too. It wasn’t too much for his wife ‒ she always managed just fine every time he was away ‒, so she didn’t especially need the help now either but it was nice to have him around, she said. He knew she was worried every time he sailed off to foreign land; at least now she knew he was safe, and could keep an eye on his sufficiently recovering wound as well.

When the men arrived back home, most of the village’s people gathered at the port. Ragnar could sense that something was wrong immediately as the ship came into eyesight and swam nearer and nearer slowly. It was all too… funereal. 

And right he was, but oh, he shouldn’t have been; as the ship stopped and the men hopped off, one by one and all at once, their faces were thin and pale, and the way they dragged themselves to the shore made their wives wince in deep worry.

There weren’t enough of them. Many women started weeping.

Some of them, then, pointed back to the ship with beaten faces. Ragnar couldn’t fight down his curiosity; he approached the ship and checked what the men could’ve been referring to.

Well, it wasn’t what he’d expected, and the sight filled him with horror. The deck’s wood was barely visible; it was buried under the rest of the men, even more pale, and awfully stiff. Flies buzzed on and around them.

Immediately, Ragnar got washed over with anger.

“Why didn’t you deal with them there and then, as usual?” he demanded. “You’ve brought them here, and put us all in danger!”

A man raised his head, and said, mournfully, “We gave funerals to the first ones. But there were too many.”

Ragnar felt the anger reside a little, and dread took over. Whatever this was, it wasn’t any good.

He didn’t let his feelings show though.

“You should’ve released them to the water, and ask for Odin’s blessing.”

“We did that too, with some of them. Hugall, and a few others,” said another man. “But then so many of them fell seriously ill, died quickly… We thought we should get them home to their family. Give them a proper ceremony.”

Most of the women were crying by now, loudly, as they realised that if they didn’t see their husband standing there now, it meant he was dead.

Ragnar looked around, and decided against further scolding or questioning. Let the families mourn. They would get back to this. 

They had a more pressing matter at hand though: whatever this illness was, it had killed off most of the crew, and would probably do the same with the remaining in due time. They were going to have a shortage of men in a month or less. That meant they probably wouldn’t be able to go on another raid before the winter, and all the supplies they had now had to suffice.

He sighed. It wasn’t going to be good.

“See?” Lagertha walked into the house after him. “The gods made sure you didn’t go. You’re lucky.”

Ragnar hummed thoughtfully. It might be so, but that didn’t make their current situation any easier.

The rest of the crew died in the weeks to come, just as he had suspected. Some stayed around longer, the healthier, bulkier men ‒ the skinnier ones passed away sooner.

Then came the others ‒ people who hadn’t been on the ship. They passed away the same way, and the people of the village couldn’t even calm themselves with the fact that the deceased could join Odin in Valhalla.

The village held funeral after funeral, and begged Odin to welcome these people in his great hall. 

Some animals died too. 

Ragnar ‒ and soon all the people too ‒ became worried about the winter.

It proved rightful to have been worried. The winter seemed longer and darker and harder than usual. They had to spare the food; they were all weak and tired for those months. 

Many died in the winter, too ‒ if it was because of the illness, or weakness, or both, nobody could say with certainty. Frozen people on the side of the road, people collapsing when stepping out of their house, piles of pale people stacked near the forest ‒ it all was though a tragic sight, they got used to it during this dark, mournful winter.

By the time the last cold month was about to end, the village was rumbling with dissatisfaction and anger that was soon to become rage. The people demanded to go to Uppsala. Although Ragnar advised them against it, as they all were too weak for such a long and difficult journey, his words went unnoticed. Their belief that this was the only solution was much stronger than any reason Ragnar could’ve proposed.

So they began the voyage when the winter started to fade. Four more people passed away on the way, but in general it seemed as if the people got their strength back by the sheer hope and faith they laid in the ceremony that was about to be held.

And so it happened; they drank freely and feasted well, then with bellies full and drunk on ale some of them went to face their deaths.

The ceremony lasted nine days. On the tenth day they left behind the place, with nine men and numerous animals hanging from the trees. Now feeling much healthier and stronger, they marched back to their home.

Once again, the village was filled with smiling faces and women’s bellies were big with children. Soon the streets would be crowded with little white-blonde boys running around with full, pink faces, laughing and playing carelessly, then growing up to be strong men who carry on the traditions of their fathers.

Ragnar looked up at the vast sky and whispered a prayer of gratitude to Odin.

(Meg amúgy mi ez velem meg a történelmi sztorikkal mostanság?)