Protectors of the Fallen

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Ale splashed over the rim of a flagon, and hearty fists pounded the well-worn tops of the long, wooden tables. The heart of Valhalla, the glittering celebratory hall Fólkvangr, where nightly feasts and endless ale met those of the noblest and most courageous spirit, practically thrummed with the revelry of its occupants. Thousands of shields gleamed golden on its walls and reverberated the animated conversation and howling laughter of the warriors within.

Amidst the sea of feasting men and women, a single man of dark complexion and shining armor cupped both hands over his mouth to shout across the hall.

“Geirr!” he called over the din, pushing back from the bench once he’d locked onto his target. “Geirr, catch!”

The man, presumably Geirr, rose just in time to hear the whizzing of a spear being thrown. A fleshy thunk accompanied the spear as it found its home in the man’s chest, pierced well and deep beneath his heart through his leather armor.

The hall quieted to complete stillness for a moment, but then Geirr blinked back from his shock and gave an annoyed scowl, and his compatriots fell into uproarious laughter around him.

“Sigmar!” Geirr grasped the handle of the spear with both hands and began, stiltedly, attempting to pull the thing from his chest, though the difficulty with which he did so only resulted in further laughter from his fellow warriors.  

“Been wanting to do that for years!” the other man, Sigmar, could barely work out the words through his own drunken laughter. He gave a small bow to his audience’s applause before plunking himself back down into his seat to finish his meal.

A nearby Valkyrie enjoying her own food rose to assist the struggling Geirr, leveraging a hand against his chest to wrench out the stuck weapon. With her second tug, the tip of the thing emerged from his chest with a sickening squelch, and Geirr gave a sigh of relief.

“Ahh, thank you, my Lady!” he breathed, his coppery curls jostling with his nod to her retreating form. Though even as one Valkyrie resumed her place at their table, another could be seen hurrying down from the head table, anger evident in her hastening. Geirr rose his hands defensively at her approach.

“Now, Hylda—”  

“No!” the woman snatched the spear from his grasp in a quick swoop. “Do not ‘Hylda’ me. You both know better than to drag weapons into my citadel during feasting times!”

“But I—”

“No!” She pushed him forward so that the back of his legs hit the bench, and he dropped back down into his seat. “Eat and behave.”

Geirr rubbed at the spot where his wound had been moments before, but wisely remained silent and complied with her orders, turning back around to seat himself properly once more.

Hylda, her long, dark braids angrily bouncing down her back, began to stalk out of the hall, spear in hand, when Sigmar called out to her.

“Hylda! My Lady, my love! Where are you—”

Without pause, the Valkyrie whacked the back of his head as she passed, and it wasn’t until she exited through the doors leading out of the hall that the men and women finally let loose their laughter at his expense.

“Damn fool,” Geirr muttered, grinning into his plate.

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A svelte figure slipped into Fólkvangr’s halls. Her feet moved over the stone floor as silent as a specter’s, the bright torch light throwing harsh shadows over her expressionless face, and when she finally emerged into the main dining hall from an unused side door, she remained largely unnoticed, even as she approached the table at the head of the hall.

“Revna,” Gerdr gave the introduction with some surprise.

The woman flicked her dark eyes to the Head of the Queensguard before settling her gaze on the queen herself.

Out amongst the feasting crowd, one person did notice the arrival, however. Wedged between the dead and their keepers, Aldrif looked up to the main table lined with Valhalla’s highest-ranking women: Sygnet, Keeper of Coin, and an empty seat where Hylda, Keeper of the Citadel flanked the ends of the table; Valtrauta, Head of Infantry; Brunnhilde, Head of Cavalry, Eydis, Head of Artillery, and Gerdr, Head of the Queensguard; and seated directly in the middle of the table was her mother, the Queen and Head of Valhalla itself, Freyja.

Aldrif furrowed her brow as Revna, Spymaster, spoke in low tones to her mistress. She had been sent out to Vanaheim not too long ago, as far as she knew. How is it that she was back already? Freyja’s face offered no reactionary expression to fuel her speculations—she merely nodded once at the end of the spy’s report.

A boisterous laugh sounded from the end of her own table, drawing Aldrif’s attention away for a mere second, though by the time she had returned her gaze to her mother, Revna, ever the living shadow, was slipping from the hall as quickly and as silently as she had appeared.

Freyja began to rise from her seat.

Immediately, the echoing conversations that normally filled the hall and layered over one another all fell off to an abrupt end at their queen’s movement. Even Sigmar, whose mouth normally never knew the meaning of a comfortable silence, remained solemnly quiet and waited.

A fork shifted loudly and metallically across a plate.

The queen merely motioned to them all, a sign to continue on with their festivities, as she drew away from the remnants of her own dinner to head in the direction of Sessrúmnir, Gerdr in tow close behind her.

Slowly, following their departure, the conversation and jovial mood began to return to its usual state. Sigmar had evidently resumed his drinking, as a peal of laughter rippled through his companions at some kind of bawdy joke, and Geirr could be loudly heard complaining of the other man’s menacing to any willing and sympathetic ear.