Rotagoll Short Scene (Patreon)

A forest of beech trees spanned around Rotagoll, allowing the Bleeding Moon to stare from its perch in the sky above. Fallen leaves coated the earth, choking most undergrowth that might attempt to sprout. Blood coated their hazel colors.

Winter approached with alarming speed, and she could feel it on the breeze, the way it sought to reach beneath the layers of her furs and freeze the muscles underneath. The way her breath stained the air with ivory, the way the woods sat still as she choked for breath.

Dying away from the battlefield would surely cost her a place in Valhalla. Perhaps she might have luck finding mercy with Freya and be allowed to rest in Folkvang. Perhaps she would simply fade into Hel’s embrace and be the only in her family not to be honored as a warrior at Odin’s side.

Ravens spouted their words from the branches, watching Rotagoll as the young norse warrior struggled to keep her insides from spilling onto the moist dirt. Rot watched the duo as she grew comfortable in the space she settled into between the roots of a lone oak. She thought them to be Huginn and Muninn. Foolishly, she dragged her dying body away from the war and to this solitary wood, where she would be known as a coward. She followed them, never once considering it might be Loki in disguise.

The croaking birds grew in volume as Rotagoll took a strangled breath. Iron and rain mingled and spun within the stink of death that encapsulated her. She peered down at her stomach and pulled her gloved hand from the wound. A Christian’s blade split her belly in half, gloated as she staggered, gurgled as she cut his head from his neck. She prayed Odin might watch over her siblings, that they might win this fight, that they might survive the advance of those who sought their complete destruction. Rotagoll closed her eyes and the birds fell silent. She took a deep breath. Rust lingered on her tongue.

No.

Fur burst from her wound, sprouting out from the gouge, already soaked with blood. It pressed against her palm hard enough for Rotagoll to startle alert. Long, thick strands dripped red onto Rotagoll’s mud-soaked clothes. The pain of death faded. The ravens began to scream.

Skin and fur connected, as if it always intended to be so, the laceration gone, her guts safely trapped beneath her skin. She pressed on the fur, tugged it, moved it aside to see where it grew from, and all she found was the pale, freckled flesh she was born with. Fur spread the length of the where the incision once remained, and yet no injury waited for her to find. Upon pulling on the strands, discomfort greeted her. The fur was hers. Whatever just happened sealed her wound.

To the chorus of screaming corvids, Rotagoll struggled to her feet. She gripped the bark of the oak, staining its surface, and found her stomach held. The exhaustion, the breath of death upon her neck--all of it fled now, replaced by a vigor Rot felt before she entered the battlefield. It seemed as if she never got injured. As if the Christian did not seek to cleave her in twain.

A grin crossed her lips. She looked to the ebony ravens and wiped her blood across her face. She thanked Odin for his gift. The birds took flight, disappearing somewhere between the tangle of beech limbs. Rot picked her axe from the earth and gripped the handle tightly as she followed the trail of blood she left when she first entered. Blessed by Odin, her siblings would say. Certain death could not take Rotagoll from battle. She returned with a strip of wolf’s fur across her belly, and a look of hunger in her eyes.