3) On A Sea of Blood

Alone on a ship on a sea of blood, attacked by a dragon.

Alone, I row. My pitiful little craft crawls across the mighty sea. The cloth I rigged as a sail hangs flaccid. The black water forms a thin film of ice on my oar each time I dip it in. There are no waves - the sea is mirror calm.

Where am I? I don't know. Nor do I know from where I departed or where my destination lies. Just a man alone on Ægir's domain. Somewhere along the way I dubbed my pathetic little raft Fyrdraka - the Fire Dragon. The name seemed a childish mockery out on the flat expanse of ocean.

There is no one here, yet I hear a voice anyway.

"Put your back into the oar!" it roars.

I comply.

Each pull brings me closer to nothing, yet I strain to hasten my arrival. My sword hand is callused, but not my left. With each pull blood runs like water from that palm. Somehow, I know this oar like I know myself. Each notch where the wood has weathered; each crack where it has split - it all feels as familiar as a best friend. If my grip is off by even a hair's breadth, I notice.

My belly has grown flat and my muscles hard from my ordeals. There is no food left. I must row and starve, or don't row and starve. Somewhere Loki laughs at my choice.

I watch as a drop of blood reaches the water. It lands, a tiny crimson blob upon the inky depth. Slowly, the droplet of battle-sweat expands from a drop into a circle. The circle grows, surrounding the raft. It continues to grow and as it reaches the horizon; the sun paints it orange. The orange of doom. The orange expands from the horizon into the sky. The orange hue deepens until the sky itself ignites.

In the blazing sky above, I see a black dot. It grows, high above the sea of blood. The details emerge as it flies closer. First wings become clear, then a long neck and equally long tail. I recognize this wyrm. As the claws and fangs become clear I think of my own hubris. Níðhöggr himself comes for me. A fire dragon to destroy my Fyrdraka.

Why does it come for me? Níðhöggr is known to attack those who lack honor; adulterers and oath-breakers. I broke no oath, but I did kill The Earl's man. Am I to be destroyed by The Gods for my mistake? Or does the appearance of Níðhöggr signify that Ragnarök approaches?

It bellowed a deafening screech as it made its first pass overhead. I stood up, afraid, but facing the dragon regardless; for no one remembers a coward's name. The whole world, even the sky and sea, seemed to shake from the power of its cry. Its claws skim the ocean, and it erupts in fury. Venom drips from its fangs and the sea hisses and boils as each drop lands. Waves of blood and gore emerge from the instant maelstrom.

There is no escape. Whatever is to be, will be. If I am fated to die here on a sea of blood, so be it.

Beneath me, my Fyrdraka has somehow evolved into a full drakkar. Its sail catches the wind as the wind and sea toss me about. Rán's daughters have returned with a vengeance. My belly turns to liquid and I shake, but my face is grim. I arise and stand up on a bench to face my foe.

Níðhöggr is believed to suck the blood of the slain, but he shall not find me so easy to kill. I draw my sword.

The beast wheels and heads for me. Claws and fangs extended, it flares its wings to sink and attack. Its hot breath fills my nose with the stench of a thousand putrid deaths. I stand steady and slash overhead, but to no avail. The claw sinks through my mail shirt into my shoulder. Its jaws clench my helm, and my head seems to explode as its bite crushes the metal into my skull.

Then, somehow, it is gone.

I scan the sky and the sea and there is no wyrm. Yet I know all is not well. I still feel an ominous warning in my core. The sea and sky still rage crimson and orange. I still taste iron as the blood drips into my throat.

I turn around.

Behind me, awa for battleiting its turn, is me. I scowl at myself, an utter look of disdain. Yet it isn't I. Yet it is. Is it the past? Is it the future? I can no longer tell which one was me, which one is me. They clash. The battle is brief. I run myself through and watch myself die. Then all disappears.


I am back in the cave. My body is covered in furs. The are soaked with sweat - mine. Next to me a cup has been spilled. A pitcher of water sits next to it. The fever is broken and my mind has returned to Miðgarð. Yet I am weak. The Vagrant is gone. Some intuition tells me his departure is permanent this time. He has left a hare behind, but after that I am on my own.

The boy who fled the village is gone now, too. The boy was destroyed and a man rises now to replace him. My destiny does not end in this cave. It lies outside, beyond, in the world. My path has yet to be walked. There is still vengeance to be had. Whatever my destiny may be, I will fulfill it in the world. Glory and honor call from beyond the cave. As I put away the furs I notice blood stains on them from my hand.

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962 Words