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It was the blood that called her here. It always had been. Even before a single drop of it was spilt, it summoned her as it thudded through men’s veins - tinged sweet with adrenaline or bitter with fear, often both. And, once the blood called to her, she was obligated to go. For a valkyrie’s work was never done, as long as there were battles to be fought and warriors spirits to collect.
Which is how Hildr had found herself above Tettenhall, her great wings beating in the morning sun as she hovered over the battlefield. She could see swarms of men below her. The fighting had not begun yet, but it would soon. She loved these moments the most - the collective deep inhale before battle cries ripped through the air.
Hundreds of prayers whisked past her on their way to the heavens, hoping to land in the ear of a god - most in English, some in Norse, others in Welsh, and one in the Irish tongue. Most of those who uttered them were blind to the fact that it would be her who would be deciding their fate today, for the battlefield was her domain. They were also oblivious that they were all, in truth, praying to the same deities, regardless of which side of the battlefield they stood on. The great irony, and perhaps tragedy, of these clashes was that they were fought in the name of preserving divisions which did not exist.
The Old Gods, as the Norse called them, had existed since the beginning of time, and since their beginning humanity had spun tales of the gods into so many variations that Hildr had lost track of them all long ago. She herself had been called Mercury by the Romans who landed on these shores all those generations ago, Valkyrie by the Danes who followed after, and the Angel of Death by the Christians. The broad strokes of each were correct, with the finer details not really mattering to Hildr. Each man below her would fight today in the name of a specific god, completely and arrogantly self-assured in his own divine knowledge, only to die (maybe today, maybe another day) and realize that it had all been a petty misunderstanding. The reality was that most were dying for the pride of their leader, nothing more. Humanity was made up of fools.
“Die! Die! Die!” erupted from one of the Danes. Cnut, a man with hair the colour of flame, launched himself from the line and towards the Saxons. He was blind with rage, falsely believing his son to be dead. His vitriol hatred would be his downfall today. Hildr watched as he led his first charge of men towards their deaths, smiling as she heard the first clashes of sword and shield.
Folding her great wings around her like a falcon she dove for her prey, scooping up souls as if they were mice and bringing them to their final resting places, bending space and time as she did so. Half of the men today - the bravest and fiercest warriors - would go to Valhalla, to dine with Odin. There, they would wait for their final great battle - Ragnorak. It was to Valhalla that she would bring Steapa. His death would immediately be mourned by many, but they would be there to drink ale alongside him soon.
The other half of the fallen were destined for Folkvangr, where Freyja well rewarded a life served in battle. Most of the men fighting around Hildr assumed they were destined for Valhallah, but there was no shame in spending your afterlife in peace in Freyja’s fields.
There were, however, some men who Hildr was forbidden from collecting today. They were still needed by Midgard, their life’s purpose not yet fulfilled.
Chief among these was Uhtred. He intrigued Hildr, for he was unique among men. He was neither wholly Dane nor Saxon, and he fought according to his own conscience where other men fought for petty trifles. He was destined for Odin’s halls, but he would not be going there today. The Norns had woven his fate into the very fabric of this land and he was needed by it still. So, Uhtred enjoyed a level of protection from Hildr that most men did not receive. He rarely needed her help, but if a Dane’s sword came too close she would gently push it so that its aim missed, or she would ensure that one of his men was there to block a blow aimed for their Lord.
The Irishman, Finan, was Uhtred’s greatest defender. He fought like a bear and Hildr had always found herself in awe of his fighting. With a sword in one hand and a long blade in the other he practically danced his way through the enemy’s lines in a way that was both graceful and fearsome. Odin badly wanted him for his hall, but Odin’s gift of foresight told him that it was not yet Finan’s time. Neither was it Sihtric’s, who fought like a madman beside Finan. The ferocity of his spirit drew Hildr, but he was untouchable today. They would all be together in Odin’s halls eventually.
She was tempted to take Osferth, the man who her “untouchables” lovingly called “Baby Monk.” It was only due to her trepidation of breaking the fighting spirits of her elite warriors that Hildr spared him. He was not a highly skilled warrior, but his habit of throwing himself into battle alongside his sword brothers would earn him a place in Folkvangr one day. There, he would be reunited with Gisela, Uhtred’s wife. Her death in childbirth had earned her a place in Freyja’s realm, for a woman who died bringing life into the world was a warrior indeed. Just as Gisela’s death had destroyed Uhtred for a time so would Osferth’s, and both Odin and Freyja had made it clear that he was needed for some higher purpose. So, Hildr threw a protective shield over the “Baby Monk,” one which would thwart off any Danish attacker that came too close to hitting their mark.
The fighting continued, and so did Hildr’s work. The battlefield was strewn with the bodies of those who had left this realm for the next.
As she worked her way through the masses, Hildr found herself face to face with Aethelflaed. Time stopped as Hildr examined the scene. They were surrounded by Danes. Aethelflaed’s man, Aldhelm, held a knife to her throat, giving the pretense of being willing to spare her humiliation and pain at the hands of the Danes, but Hildr could read in his heart that he lacked the courage. It was up to Hildr to decide the lady’s fate at that moment.
The valkyrie was tempted to bring her to Folkvangr. There she would be reunited with Erik, the father of her daughter. She would be happy there. The lady had great value to her people, but so did many leaders who fell on the battlefield. As Hildr weighed her options, she noticed a dark shadow in a nearby ditch. She grinned as she recognized the familiar presence.
Hel, the goddess of death, was there. The closest approximation to a smile that the goddess could muster was twisted across her face as she stood over Aethelred, King of Mercia and Lady Aethelflaed’s cruel husband. Hel had her own realm for the dead, Niflheim. It was not the land of torture that Christians imagined it to be, nor a place of shame that most Dane’s made it out to be. It was simply a place for those whose lives were not meant for battlefields to go when they died. Uhtred’s beloved Biacca and Thyra were quite happy there, together. Hildr clearly remembered the day that she had collected Thyra. A phoenix in both life and death, Thyra had begged for an afterlife of solace and quiet, away from the warriors that had taunted her most of her life. Hel had welcomed her with open arms.
However, when men spent their lives on Earth poorly or cruelly, Hel often chose to play with them a little before allowing them into the afterlife. Hildr smiled and left Hel to her business as she stood over the Mercian lord - like a cat claiming her prize.
Aethelred’s impending doom would be Aethelflaed’s saving grace. Hildr knew that Mercia would unwind into chaos if both of their leaders fell, and it would stray Uhtred and his men from their paths. So, she spared Aethelflead by guiding an arrow shot by the “boy king” Edward into the throat of a Dane, thus allowing him to save his sister and strike fear into the hearts of the Danes that surrounded her. The warrior queen would live to fight another day, for now.
Eventually, the battle wound down. Cnut met his end at the hands of Brida, one which Hildr had seen coming for quite some time. However, as she prepared to bring him to Folkvangr, Hel stepped in once again to claim him. “A snake is no warrior,” the goddess had stated matter of factly, and Hildr had acquiesced, as the goddess of death was not to be trifled with.
The valkyrie stepped in to take Brida before she could become a slave, aligning herself to work through Uhtred. But as Uhtred warred with his own conscience Hildr saw Brida’s life threads spun by the Fates themselves. Her time in Midgard was not over yet either, it seemed. Her spirit would have to wait a little longer before it found peace.
It was this part of the battle that Hildr dreaded. When the scale of the loss of life became clear, and when those whom she’d spared would lose their warrior composure, even if only for a moment. However, it was important for them to do so. A warrior without fear of death and loss was useless to the gods. They needed to know that they had something to lose in order to be formidable on the battlefield. So, as Hildr’s great wings carried her back to the heavens, she let the survivors feel the full force of the losses they had suffered, even as it brought them to their knees.
They would need that strength for the battles ahead.