She said it was Odin and the Valkyries that filled the fog with cries that day.
“Master!” Lars, my assistant, called, “This one yet lives.”
The blood-caked warrior’s breath faint, we dug between the boulders to free the wedged body, then dumped him on the cart with the dead, both comrades and foes.
We’d started removing the warrior’s armor as he lay on the table. Lars froze, gasped at the revelation.
She’d laughed in later years, Lars blushing.
Her intimate limp now echoes, longed for. Aegir’s breath ripples dry reeds about her grave. I sit to rest and talk again.
Picture is copyright by Berit Sundman.
