Valhalla

Dawn breaks and light floods the silent halls of the Viking afterlife.

Drums begin to thunder in the distance, the poundings of hundreds of feet shake the earth.

An almighty roar splits the air as thousands of dead heroes clash in battle.

Steel flashes, shields are splintered, blood is spilled.

Battleaxe clashes against sword, pike against mace.

A warrior grimaces as a dagger enters his ribcage, pulling it out, he fights on.

The drums continue, increasing in tempo.

The sun reaches its zenith and many have fallen, yet hundreds fight on.

Sweat drips from every brow, the smell of death fills the air.

Block and attack, parry and thrust, initiate and counter.

Another falls to the thrust of a spear, his body thuds to the churned earth.

Yells echo across the landscape, the morning’s silence has long since left these halls.

The beatings of the drums begin to slow as the sun begins to set, only the best fighters remain.

One by one they fall to each other’s weapons until only man remains standing.

The drums cease with a final double beat, the lone man raises his head.

The renewed silence is once more broken as he yells his battle cry.

As darkness covers Valhalla, the fallen heroes begin to rise, their wounds heal quickly.

They enter the dining hall and sit down to the huge feast that awaits them.

The tables are filled with every meat and every glass is filled with mead.

Talk and laughter are the sounds now heard, discussions of the day’s fight.

All night long they eat and drink, all night long they look forward to the next day.

As dawn breaks, drums begin to thunder in the distance.