“It’ll be a hard-won battle,” they said. Hardly won, more like it. As I sit and rest my weary legs, warmed by the flames of destruction, I think about the massive loss of life in this “win.”
Valhalla gained her fair share of warriors this day, on both sides of the field. I didn’t see the Valkyries come for them, so blinded was I by blood lust and righteous vengeance, but no war this bloody, no battlefield this littered with bodies should have missed their attention. I hope Grommvir gets to dine with Odin. Odin was always his favorite.
When they spoke of this war, they spoke of glory and honor, of feasts and plenty. There will be no feast tonight. No wine nor mead remains in the burning wreckage of the camp. What little food is left must be rationed for the journey home.
Home. The word brings no fond memories, nor hope, nor happiness. I return on the morrow to an empty home, a village decimated by its false bravado and thirst for glory.