I was cast out.
A stain on my honor and my family's. Odin may forgive me… but I had no choice. My clan, Pilombrug, wasn't as shrewd as Ragnar's.
During a raid in one of the small villages of East Anglia, I saw a young drengr attempting to force himself on a girl and her mother. Never in my twenty-five years had I harmed someone without cause. My clan was feared, not depraved.
"Valrik of Pilombrug," my brother said, his gaze cutting into me. "You are a dark cloud over our clan. Go and never return, for what you did deserves death."
I gritted my teeth and shook my head. I knew the words forming in my mind wouldn't come out the way I wanted them to. Because deep down, I knew it didn't matter anymore. He had erased me for staining our clan's honor. I couldn't blame him for it.
"Brother," I murmured. "You would've done the same."
"You killed him, Val," he said, shaking his head. "And you denied him Valhalla by throwing his axe away."
"Odin is my witness—I didn't!" My voice rose. "You have to believe me."
"Go," a voice commanded from behind him.
"Be gone!" another jeered. "Valrik the disgrace!"
My brother stood flanked by men of our clan, their eyes filled with contempt. I was supposed to be the help Ragnar requested, the key to forming an alliance. But I had ruined it all by saving a handful of Saxons. I wondered if Odin watched me, stroking his beard in disappointment as my brother had.
Behind him was our settlement—the longhouse we had built loomed over it, standing tall and proud. Beside it, the statue of our dog, Gudboy, cast a silent watch over the land. He had passed not long ago, but his memory still lingered, just as strong. A few children were playing with swords and shields nearby, but they stopped when they saw me, their curious eyes tracking my every movement.
"Disgrace…" My brother's voice cut through the air, harsh and cold. He tossed two of my axes at my feet, the ones he'd taken from me earlier. "Get out of here, Valrik. Get. Out."
I bent down, picked up my axes, sheathed them, and nodded. For the first time in my life, I was alone. No home. No path. Nothing left but to seek an honorable death and hope Odin's valkyries would carry me away.
"If I see you near East Anglia again," my brother sneered, "you'll face the wrath of our clan."
"I won't," I said, my voice steady. "My last wish would never be to raise my axe against kin."
"Always the wise one," someone scoffed. "Get out of here, Höggormr!"
"Damn fool!" an old man spat. "This was our chance to stand beside Ragnar! And you destroyed it!"
I pulled my hood up and mounted my horse. Our camp lay deep in the forest near Norwich, surrounded by towering trees. Behind me, a river flowed beneath a wooden bridge I had helped build. I had crossed it countless times… but this would be my last.
I turned back once more. My brother stood there, his blonde hair tidier than mine, which was braided and unkempt. His beard was long, marked by a tattoo at its end—ᚠ ᛟ ᚱ ᛖ ᚹ ᛖ ᚱ. Forever. I bore the same mark. We were meant to be brothers, not by blood, but by bond.
"Odin guide me," I muttered, nudging my horse forward. "For I drift now with the wind. Lost. Without a crew."
"What now?" a man asked my brother. "We'll have to bow and scrape for Ragnar's favor now."
I had never understood why we bent the knee to Ragnar. He was strong, that much was clear. A master of alliances, a fearless raider. A man I would have followed into battle without hesitation. He would sit at Odin's side one day, his deeds sung by skalds. But we had never seen eye to eye.
At the start of the bridge, I paused. Ravens perched on the branches above, their crimson eyes locked onto me, as if judging.
Forever not.
I drew an axe and dragged the blade across my wrist, carving through the tattoo. Blood dripped onto the saddle. I took a breath, accepting my fate. I was no longer Valrik of Pilombrug. Just Valrik.
"Well, old friend," I murmured, patting my horse with a bloodied hand. "There's nothing left but to seek Valhalla."
The horse shifted uneasily. I steadied myself, exhaled, and crossed the bridge. This was it. A new chapter. Honorless and shamed, roaming England with no purpose. We had dreamed of ruling East Anglia, forging peace with other kings, building a home. Now, that dream was dust... at least for me.
After crossing, I looked back one last time. My brother still watched me. But his anger had faded. His eyes no longer burned with hatred—only pity.
That stung more than exile.
"Goodbye, brother," I whispered. "Goodbye."
I rode into the distance, following a winding, zigzagged road that carved its way down the slope. The path twisted and turned, disappearing around bends, the earth beneath my horse's hooves soft and uneven. On either side, thick forests rose up, their towering trees forming a makeshift roof above, their gnarled branches intertwining to block out much of the sky. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and pine, and the occasional rustle of leaves stirred as unseen creatures moved through the underbrush.
To the west, I could see the tallest building in Norwich—a grand monastery standing at the heart of the city. If this raid with Ragnar had been successful, that monastery would have been our next target. They said its riches were enough to buy the moon itself.
I turned my horse and trudged in the opposite direction. The only sounds were my axes tapping against the saddle and birds chirping overhead, ready to retreat into their nests as the sun cast golden hues across the forest.
A young man stepped out from the bushes, standing on the right side of the road. He looked weary, as though sleep had not visited him in a long time. His long brown hair was a tangled mess, with dirt on his hands and the hem of his pants.
"Valrik." Jerome, the Saxon boy, regarded me with concern. "Where are you going?"
He was our stablemaster, gifted with horses as if he whispered to them. I had never seen him struggle with an animal—horse, dog, or cat. When we first arrived here, we found him hiding in a tree trunk, having survived one of Ragnar's raids. The fear of my kind had been carved into him, but now, he was a friend.
"Far away, friend," I replied, slowing my horse. "What are you doing here?"
"Hunting," he said. "Did they… exile you? I heard them talking."
I nodded. "They did. They had to. If not, they would have to deal with Ragnar and his men. For the sake of my clan, this was necessary."
"How can you be so calm?" he asked. "You've been cast out, Val! And for what? Trying to be a decent man?"
"It's not the end, friend," I said. "Anyway, I shouldn't be seen talking with you. Go with Odin… or whatever god you believe in, Jerome."
"Goodbye, my friend," he said. "I'm going to miss you."
I smiled, patting my horse. "Mielda will miss you too, Jerome."
"Take good care of her," he said. "Make sure to brush her when she's agitated—she doesn't like being dirty."
"I will, friend. Take care."
"You too, Val. You too."
I nodded and kept riding into the distance. The sounds of my clan faded—the barking of dogs in the settlement, Jerome's footsteps growing fainter. It all felt surreal, as if I were trapped in a dream, desperately trying to wake. But this was reality, worse than any nightmare.
ᚹᚨᛚᚺᚨᛚᛚᚨ-ᚺᛟᚾᛟᚱ-ᚱᛖᚲᛚᚨᛁᛗ