𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 , vikings.¹

-ˏˋ━━━ 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 :: 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐲𝐧.

『 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 』
❝ 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐎 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐒 ❞

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐒 were always apart of the way of life for my family. Ever since I can remember — and, likely, before that — my mother and father spent countless hours recounting the tales of the Old Ways. I spent a large part of my childhood cradled in my mother's lap, surrounded by my brother, sister, and our friend, Ivar, as we would listen to my father's animated retellings. He told us of Odin and Thor, Freyr and Freya, the creation of the Nine Realms and the soon-to-be Ragnarok, when the Gods would die and the Realms would end. Ragnarok was his favorite story to tell us.

When my father was away on raids in the summers, my mother would take over the storytelling — she especially loved to tell us of Freya and her cats, who drew the Goddess's chariot. Of all the Gods, I loved Freya the most, and it was because of this love that I begged for years to be allowed a cat. On our eighth birthday, my brother and I were gifted kittens — twins, just like us. My brother named his Tyr, for the bravest of the Gods; I called mine Muninn, for Odin's raven of memory. I often pretended that, when he got back from his hunting trips, the little black kitten brought me knowledge of the goings-on in the lives of our neighbors and that, occasionally, he spied on Ivar's older brothers. I believed he also brought me news of my sister, Angrboda, who had died a few years before. I always pictured her in Valhalla. Though she was not much older than me when she passed (she was the same age as Ivar's brother, Sigurd), she has always been fully grown in my mind's eye.

In my dreams, Angrboda looks like my father; tall, thin, agile, and strong. She has the same prowling walk as him and my brother, the same eyes and the same hair — but her smile is my mother's. When I was little, I decided she was a Valkyrie, one that Odin himself had assigned to watch over her younger siblings. I held onto that idea for the rest of my life, even if it wasn't how the legends described the Valkyries.

After her death, in the later years of my childhood, the story we always begged to hear was the life and death of Baldur — the story of Loki's punishment, and of me and my brother's namesakes, Vali and Sigyn. Sigyn, wife of Loki, who displayed the ultimate act of love and loyalty as she shielded Loki from the snake's venom during his punishment. Vali, whose birth was for one purpose; to avenge his brother Baldur's death, by killing Hodr and binding Loki.

My father was an odd man with an odd sense of humor. I could never be sure why he had named his children how he did, but I often wondered if it was coincidence or fate.

"And so begins the Saga of Sigyn Flokisdottir and Vali the Reaper," My father had once remarked, out of the blue, not so long after my sister had passed. My brother had been given the title "the Reaper'' just after he was born because Ivar's mother, Queen Aslaug, had foreseen him to be a great warrior with an even greater fate. He would avenge not one death, but many. His name would be remembered for centuries to come, all throughout the world.

I don't have many memories of my life during that time when we were very young, around the time my sister left us, but I have since been told of how my father was given Loki's punishment for killing a Christian. My mother, always gentle and steadfastly loyal, had readily taken on the role of Sigyn.

What we never heard in the story of Baldur's Death was that Loki's eldest daughter would die while he was chained in the cave. But we did often hear afterwards, from my father, that "All things come to pass as the Gods will them." Though my mother would always nod silently at this phrase, Vali and I knew she never truly recovered from losing our sister.

Every day, my father prayed aloud and talked to the Gods. He made sure to include his children in his conversations, both by mentioning us and encouraging us to join in. We spent many formative spring days speaking to the Gods, learning how to pray and practice our religion and the ways of our people. My brother and I loved this season, when everything was new and our father did not yet have to go overseas to raid. As we became older, spring became Vali's time with him as he helped our father design and bring to life his great longships. And while Vali learned the art of boatbuilding, I learned how to help my mother around our secluded land.

We lived on the edge of Kattegat, with our house overlooking the water, the trees behind our home sheltering it from the bustling noise of the city. Ivar, the youngest prince of Kattegat, was my only close friend besides my brother. He pretended he didn't like other people, who excluded and underestimated him because he was a cripple. It was easier for him that way: to pretend he hated them instead of acknowledging that he wished for their love. Similarly, I didn't have other friends either, though I tried to make them, because I was odd to the other children. Ivar found me odd, too ("You are always in your head and never really here!"), but I cherished his company despite his blunt words and often mean temper. All through our childhood, we stayed by each other's side, listening to my father's stories and prayers, watching my brother and father build boats, keeping me company as I did the "women's work," following all of our brothers around the streets of Kattegat and the forests outside it as they grew up before we did.

As we got older, things began to change. I was still odd (I had only begun to grasp what it was to be 'here,' present in the world outside of my mind), but people began to pay more attention to me. Ivar was still an outcast, but he had become handsome and strong, refusing to fall behind his brothers in any way. My brother had become his own man, skilled and clever and confident. He remained good friends with Ivar's older brothers, and though Ivar & I continuously tried to keep up, we were usually able to make peace with it just being us. And it was, usually, just us.

Slowly but surely, Ivar and I crawled our way out of our childhood; as it was with everything, we did it together, following the footsteps of our many brothers.

As it had once been told to us: "And so begins The Saga of Sigyn Flokisdottir & Vali the Reaper," — and, as it had been told many times to us, "Sigyn, destined for steadfast loyalty and acts of love; Vali, born to avenge the deaths of many, to kill and bind and be remembered."