The Longhouse of Shadows

The smoke curled thick above the rafters of the Longhouse, mingling with the scent of roasted meats and mead. The fire pit blazed at the center, its light flickering across carved beams that seemed to twist in the shadows. Tonight, the hall was alive with voices, voices that carried both awe and dread, for they spoke of my father.

I sat among the Norse gathered, though my heart was heavy and my tongue silent. My father had not fallen to Saxon steel, nor to a storm or sickness. He had been claimed by something far older, far darker. A draugr. The restless dead that haunt the barrows.

The bard, our skald rose, his voice commanding silence. He began to weave tales of my father’s deeds. How he had once led us through frozen seas. How he had stood against raiders with nothing but his axe. How his laughter had carried through storms. Yet each tale was tinged with unease, for all knew how he had died.

Everyone within the longhouse drank deeply, but their boasting was subdued. My uncle leaned close, his scarred face grim.

“Your father was strong,” he whispered, “but strength means little against the dead. The draugr cannot be slain as men can.”

My other uncle slammed his mead horn down upon the table, though his voice shook, thick with emotion. He looked right at me, his eyes fierce, sad and scared all at the same time.

“I saw it,” he said. “Its eyes glowed like embers, its flesh blackened, its stench foul. Your father struck it down once, twice, thrice, but it rose again, laughing.”

The hall grew colder. The fire sputtered, though no wind stirred. Shadows lengthened unnaturally, stretching across the walls like hands that wanted to grab you.

A woman screamed, her drinking horn cracking in her grasp, spilling blood-red wine across her lap. The skald’s harp snapped a string, the sound as sharp as bone breaking.

My mother’s voice cut through the murmurs.

“He was more than a warrior,” she said firmly. “He was a husband, a father. And now he walks with the gods, not with the cursed dead.”

But even she could not banish the chill that crept through the hall. The rafters groaned as though under unseen weight. Looking up, I thought I saw from the shadows above, eyes, faint, glowing, watching.

I felt the eyes of my fellow Norse upon me. Some looked with expectation, others with pity. My throat tightened, but I forced words past it.

“My father taught me that courage is not the absence of fear, but the mastery of it. I will not forget. Nor will I ever forget him.”

All in the hall roared their approval, fists pounding, horns raised. Yet beneath the noise, I heard something else. A low guttural laugh, echoing from nowhere and everywhere.

I see it still when I close my eyes. We had gone to raid a Saxon village, but the night before, we camped near an ancient burial mound. My father warned us not to disturb it, but some men laughed, saying the dead were long gone.

At midnight, the ground split. From the mound rose a figure. Tall and twisted. Its skin gray as ash. Its eyes burning red. A draugr.

It came with the strength beyond just one man, tearing shields apart and hurling warriors like children’s toys. My father met it head-on, axe flashing. He struck its skull. Split its ribs. Severed its arm. Yet each wound closed. Each limb re-knit.

“Back son!” my father roared, shoving me aside. The draugr’s claws sank into his chest, black blood spilling. He fought, even as it tore into him. His axe biting deep, but the creature laughed. A sound like stones grinding in the grave.

My father fell, his eyes meeting mine.

“Do not weep for me boy,” he whispered, though his voice was already fading. “Carry the flame… and beware the dead.”

As my father died in my arms, the draugr vanished into the night, leaving only silence and the stench of rot.

The next morning, the village gathered by the fjord. The sky, black with storm clouds, the sea restless, as though it too feared. My father’s body lay upon the funeral ship, freshly washed, adorned in the best warrior’s clothing specifically made for his voyage to Valhalla. Alive, my father was an imposing figure, but now, with his face pale, lying there in the boat, he looked small, almost withered in the shroud he was wrapped in. I placed his axe upon his chest so he would have it with him in the afterlife. As I moved back, I scowled at those who I heard whispering how his axe had failed him against the draugr.

Norse men and women stepped forward one by one, laying gifts and tribute onto the ship.

One of my uncles placed a mead horn, muttering, “May you drink in Valhalla and not wander as a draugr.”

My mother placed a carved figure of Freyja, whispering, “May she guard you from the draugr’s curse.”

Torches were lit. I, along with my two uncles stepped forward. My heart was pounding, as each one of us touched our fires to the ship’s timbers. The flames caught quickly, racing along the vessel’s frame.

The ship began to drift, pushed by the tide, its prow cutting through the waves that were forming from the oncoming winds. Fire was consuming the boat quickly, bright against the ever darkening storm clouds. My father’s body was swallowed by the blaze, his spirit carried upward in smoke.

Yet as the ship burned, the unnatural signs returned. The flames hissed as though resisting, turning black at their edges. The wind howled, carrying a voice. Guttural. Mocking. And in the fire, I thought I saw movement. A shadow rising, eyes glowing red. My breath caught, but when I blinked, it was gone.

The warriors raised their arms and banged their weapons against their shields. Everyone along the water’s edge began to chant, voices rising in unison.

“Fenrir! Fenrir!”

Their cries echoed across the fjord, across the mountains, across the sky itself. In that moment, I felt him. Not gone, but watching. Whether from Valhalla or from the grave, I could not tell.

I raised my axe high, the weight of it grounding me.

“I will carry your flame,” I whispered.

The wind answered, cold and fierce, as though the gods, or something darker had heard.

That night, the Longhouse was quiet. The feast was over, the songs had faded, embers glowed, and only the shadows remained. I sat alone, staring into the withering fire. My father’s shadow seemed to flicker there, but behind it, I thought I saw another. Taller, twisted, with eyes like glowing embers.

The rafters creaked. The shadows stretched. Somewhere in the dark, I heard it again. That laugh, low and grinding. Promising that my father’s story was not yet ended.

I knew then that my path was set. I would fight. I would lead. I would honor Fenrir, my father. But I would also hunt the draugr. It had stolen more than a life. It had stolen my family’s peace. And when my own time came, I prayed I would not rise from the grave, cursed to walk as the restless dead.

Until then, I would live as my father had taught me. Bold, unyielding, with the gods, and the shadows watching.