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The day was gloomy and grey. Rain swept down into the streets. But Alfild could feel the storm brewing. A battle. A most ferocious one. Tyr had visited her in her sleep, promising that war was here. And now, in the stormy distance, Alfild could feel the vibrations of men marching to their deaths.
"What's wrong?" Hvitserk queried, looking toward the girl who seemed utterly fixed on the thundery distance. A crack of lightning jolted down, sparking a distant tree into a firey inferno. The Gods were ready.
Alfild turned, emeralds bright with the trees flames. With all of Freyja's strength, all of Mimir's wisdom, all of Tyr's bravery, she stood. "War is here."
It did not take long for the Saxon armies to approach. But, once again, the Vikings were prepared.
Alfild emerged early on. Her hair was braided intricately down her back, flowing locks still free as her sword swung. Many of the men had watched in awe as her blade crashed into her opponents with grace and blood smeared her sun kissed cheeks. She was like a goddess. War, rage, fury. She was beautiful in the end of every life, she was calm yet filled with unwavering rage. It was indefinable, this immeasurable glory. A goddess among men.
Again, her sword swung into the chest of a Christian, his eyes widened as he realized it was a heathen woman who took his life. The steel lodged in his chest, blood pouring down it. As he fell, she jarred it free with a force that made the man's insides eject from him. Blood and guts splattered across the girls features. But she did not flinch, she simply turned and mowed down her next opponent. This dance was hers, and she always won.
At the attack of another, her sword swung with ease and clashed into that of her opponents. He pushed back, knowing that strength was his main advantage was strength. But Alfild was smart and her speed outdid his. She, pulled her sword free, the man's slashing past and almost striking her. In rapid succession, she leapt out of the way and spun. Her sword swung once more, this time striking the man in the back. He crumbled to his knees, looking up to the girl.
In that singular moment, a strange feeling came across her like none she'd ever felt before. As she looked into his eyes, she saw his pleading gaze. He wanted honour, to face his God with dignity. Alfild gave a nod, reaching down to pick up the man's sword. He watched her cautiously, awaiting her next move. She seemed fearless and unyielding. And yet, she held this air of compassion. The woman handed him his sword, eyes fixed on him. He gave a nod, signalling to her that he was ready. In an instant, both swung there swords. However, before the Saxon could even lift his, he was impaled by the girl.
War was her talent. While some delicately picked word after word in poetry or sagas; some made intricate songs, wove or danced; Alfild had only a mind of war. She could not carve would or bend steel. She loathed sports and petty politics. Her mind held no love for pretty dresses and other feminine themes. But when it came to battle, she was the master of the scene. She spoke with her sword. Death was her music. And how all the world could tell when they watched her fight. Saxons and Vikings watched her with alike minds. All held the same question on their lips; How could one mortal girl look so much like a god?
