Berserker.

That’s what they call us. Famed for our savagery. Lauded for our reckless fury. Mythologised for our frenzied destruction.

We stride the fields of our battles, unleashing havoc; our howls, our mayhem, terrorising both enemy and ally alike. Do they see me as bear or wolf? It matters not, for what they see is merely the harbinger of their earthly departure. We are merely the bringers of their passage to Valhalla, and they should thank us for such deliverance.

None, however, consider that we too have a conscience. That we, too, may, occasionally, regret the actions of our insanity. That we, too, endure loss, and fear. In truth it is our fear that drives us, makes us what we are. Not the fear of death, for that brings eternal salvation in Odin’s great halls; feasting with our ancestors; basking in the glories of our victories; watching over our descendants. Death is what we crave, for she brings with her the rewards for our sufferings; the passport to our eternal life.

It is the fear of dishonour, of shaming my family, of being denied entry to the great feast, or of being lost to our great heritage. Our foes should be thankful for our mercy in granting a quick death, for we speed them, too, to their own eternal reward.

I stand here now, knee-high in the bodies of my enemies—resplendent in the blood of those who would dare assail my home—and it is not fear I smell, it is the future. I look about the burning ruins, the carpet of death, for where my future takes refuge.

Where is my Lizbet? Where are my cubs?

I must ensure their survival, their continuing safety, for they are not yet warriors grown. I must rebuild our home, in order that Lizbet raise our sons, as is her sworn duty. It is not for I to coddle or console—that is a task for their mother—but to strengthen their resolve, to harden their determination. To have them follow in the pathways laid down by their father.

Lizbet must provide the softness of their lives. For I have more important tasks to complete. It is incumbent on me to seek my passage to the afterlife, to find the earthly release of my final battle. And for that to come about, I must depart our small village once more. In the company of my brothers; toward battle; toward glory; toward eternal acclaim.

How else am I to greet my children when they, too, eventually seek their own place in Valhalla?