Beorn Bloodshield
|
Beorn Bloodshield's Origin
Cold.
I woke to cold.
That was strange; I had always assumed that Valhalla, or perhaps the lady Freyja's meadow, Folkvangr, would be warm and filled with light, laughter, and the sounds of song or battle. This place was cold, and a mist swirled about my legs like transparent serpents, eddying about in a breeze that stung my face with its chill.
I realized where I must be, and made as if to take a step, to flee the endless ice of Niflheim, that pale realm of those who died in dishonor. It made no sense! The last memory in my mind was a blade hurling toward my eyes, a searing pain, and the sure knowledge that my hand was gripped tight around the hilt of my sword, ensuring my passage to the glorious feasting hall of the gods. I thought back upon it again, images and emotions whirling through my head in the fraction of a second before my leather-shod foot came down upon the treacherous ground, and then there was a growl.
It was a low, savage sound, full of threat, and I beheld a massive dog stalking menacingly towards me through the mist, an indistinct yet fearful shape. As the creature came closer, I saw that its teeth were bared, its eyes were bright with hate, and its head was stained and matted with blood, both old and newly run. I could do no more against it than could a babe; the sound of its challenge had stilled my breath and rooted my feet to the earth, and I could only watch as it came nearer and nearer, now in murderous silence.
“Has my pet alarmed you, Beorn son of Ulf?”
The voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. It was pleasant, mild, a welcoming lilt in its words… but it carried with it the clicking of skeletal teeth, and the rattle of death in an old man's lungs. I knew what it meant, and who I would see, and was already on one knee with bowed head when Hel emerged from the mist that had encapsulated her.
I was surprised to hear her laugh, again an odd, dual sound, and then I felt the touch of dry bone against my head, my cheek, and finally my shoulder, where the dead fingers gently closed and lifted me to my feet with surprising ease. I stood staring into the twofold face of Hel, one part majesty and one decay, as she told me that she had taken my soul from its reward for a purpose.
For too long had the gods shunned her and set her apart, she said. For too long had she been cast aside, left to collect the scraps, the dishonored dead, the sick and the weak. She would raise an army, a horde made of the souls of all those slain by her champion, and with that army she would challenge the very gates of Asgard. With that army she would lay waste to the Aesir and the Vanir alike, and with that army she alone would prevail at the time of Ragnarok.
“Aand all I ask of you, Beorn, son of Ulf, you with a heart of war, is to go and do as you have done before.”
She smiled—a chilling sight. “Aall I ask is that you kill.”
She reached out to touch my face again, with both hands this time, living and dead. I felt the cold fade away, and was blinded by a sudden explosion of light. Blinking, I looked around and realized that I stood, once again, in Midgard, alive and whole. The corpse goddess had returned me from her realm.
I set out to fulfill her wishes.
I have seen her once more. Men no longer knew me as the son of Ulf at that time; I had become the Bloodshield, the boards of my shield painted and dripping with the blood of my enemies, and word had spread. I had gathered men about me, admittedly few in number, but strong of arm and with hearts like mine that beat for war. Together we fought, and it was in one of those many battles that I saw the Lady again. She wore a gown of black, and a headdress, and seemed with every moment to launch arrows of hate against the enemy. Surrounding her, fighting with her, was a host of warriors, all garbed in the colors of an army made wealthy in victory: purest black, rich purple, and stark staring white.
It was an omen, I knew, and I led my men to her feet to pledge allegiance to her army.
They are called the Imperial Guard, and they are my brothers now.
With them I fight, and kill.
Hel grows stronger with every blow of the sword.
Every thrust of the spear sends another soul to my corpse goddess.
Fear her arrival, for she will be mighty.
I woke to cold.
That was strange; I had always assumed that Valhalla, or perhaps the lady Freyja's meadow, Folkvangr, would be warm and filled with light, laughter, and the sounds of song or battle. This place was cold, and a mist swirled about my legs like transparent serpents, eddying about in a breeze that stung my face with its chill.
I realized where I must be, and made as if to take a step, to flee the endless ice of Niflheim, that pale realm of those who died in dishonor. It made no sense! The last memory in my mind was a blade hurling toward my eyes, a searing pain, and the sure knowledge that my hand was gripped tight around the hilt of my sword, ensuring my passage to the glorious feasting hall of the gods. I thought back upon it again, images and emotions whirling through my head in the fraction of a second before my leather-shod foot came down upon the treacherous ground, and then there was a growl.
It was a low, savage sound, full of threat, and I beheld a massive dog stalking menacingly towards me through the mist, an indistinct yet fearful shape. As the creature came closer, I saw that its teeth were bared, its eyes were bright with hate, and its head was stained and matted with blood, both old and newly run. I could do no more against it than could a babe; the sound of its challenge had stilled my breath and rooted my feet to the earth, and I could only watch as it came nearer and nearer, now in murderous silence.
“Has my pet alarmed you, Beorn son of Ulf?”
The voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. It was pleasant, mild, a welcoming lilt in its words… but it carried with it the clicking of skeletal teeth, and the rattle of death in an old man's lungs. I knew what it meant, and who I would see, and was already on one knee with bowed head when Hel emerged from the mist that had encapsulated her.
I was surprised to hear her laugh, again an odd, dual sound, and then I felt the touch of dry bone against my head, my cheek, and finally my shoulder, where the dead fingers gently closed and lifted me to my feet with surprising ease. I stood staring into the twofold face of Hel, one part majesty and one decay, as she told me that she had taken my soul from its reward for a purpose.
For too long had the gods shunned her and set her apart, she said. For too long had she been cast aside, left to collect the scraps, the dishonored dead, the sick and the weak. She would raise an army, a horde made of the souls of all those slain by her champion, and with that army she would challenge the very gates of Asgard. With that army she would lay waste to the Aesir and the Vanir alike, and with that army she alone would prevail at the time of Ragnarok.
“Aand all I ask of you, Beorn, son of Ulf, you with a heart of war, is to go and do as you have done before.”
She smiled—a chilling sight. “Aall I ask is that you kill.”
She reached out to touch my face again, with both hands this time, living and dead. I felt the cold fade away, and was blinded by a sudden explosion of light. Blinking, I looked around and realized that I stood, once again, in Midgard, alive and whole. The corpse goddess had returned me from her realm.
I set out to fulfill her wishes.
I have seen her once more. Men no longer knew me as the son of Ulf at that time; I had become the Bloodshield, the boards of my shield painted and dripping with the blood of my enemies, and word had spread. I had gathered men about me, admittedly few in number, but strong of arm and with hearts like mine that beat for war. Together we fought, and it was in one of those many battles that I saw the Lady again. She wore a gown of black, and a headdress, and seemed with every moment to launch arrows of hate against the enemy. Surrounding her, fighting with her, was a host of warriors, all garbed in the colors of an army made wealthy in victory: purest black, rich purple, and stark staring white.
It was an omen, I knew, and I led my men to her feet to pledge allegiance to her army.
They are called the Imperial Guard, and they are my brothers now.
With them I fight, and kill.
Hel grows stronger with every blow of the sword.
Every thrust of the spear sends another soul to my corpse goddess.
Fear her arrival, for she will be mighty.