How Valkyries Are Made

Title: How Valkyries Are Made

Hilde had abandoned the old gods—abandoned her oath—and now the storm came for her.

Salt spray lashed her, but she didn’t flinch.

She was already soaked; fear was the only thing she refused to wear.

The longship lurched, hurled skyward by a wave, and her stomach twisted with it—

sick as a dog that had fed on the dead.

She gripped the rope as the wind bayed around her, thunder pounding like war-hooves across the clouds.

The rope snapped.

It ripped through her palms, flaying flesh. Hilde slammed against the deck as lightning raked the sky—white fangs tearing heaven open.

She knew the truth the missionaries never spoke plainly:

This was not weather.

This was the Hunt.

If she did not seize the tiller, the ship—and her soul—would drift into their jaws.

She had fled Seaxland for Angle-land, trading sword-oath for cross and sacrament.

The priests promised their god could break the old oaths.

And that promise was worth more than gold.

Lightning flashed, casting a shadow of antlers across the ship.

In the woods, barefoot and fleeing, she had told herself those shadows were trees or a stag.

The sea had no trees.

And no stags.

The next wave reared. She braced—braced as she had been trained—

as if shield-lines and armored men were crashing down on her.

The wave smashed into the hull, driving the tiller into her ribs. Something cracked, same as when the weapons-master taught her the price of failing to hold a shield.

The longship plunged again.

Just enough time to breathe—and pray.

“Our Father who art—”

Her flayed hand clutched the golden cross.

HOWL.

A chorus of hounds bayed over the storm.

Hilde’s eyes searched the sky.

Clouds. Shadows. Rain.

Too dark to tell where the Hunt truly rode.

HOWL.

The baying of hounds was closer now, echoing across the water.

There—through the rain—she saw them.

Hounds, dark and bristled, shapes made of storm and hunger. Their panting only paused for thunder.

Her hand reached for her sword—

and closed on nothing.

She had left it behind in her flight.

The priests said she would not need steel in Angle-land, land of the Lord’s light.

But the hounds’ eyes found her through the storm, and instinct took over.

She needed a weapon.

Her hands grasped blindly—rope, pin, bucket—

then closed on an oar.

She leveled it like a spear, point toward the nearest hound, toward her freedom.

The first hound leapt, clearing the gunwale like a stag.

Hilde thrust.

Rage, hope, and prayer all drove the blow.

The oar met it with a crack; splinters flew and the beast tumbled with a broken yelp.

No time to breathe.

The second hound hit her arm, teeth clamping and shaking her.

Hilde roared back.

Her free hand found her dagger—

small, but hers—

and she drove it down.

The hound bit deeper; pain flared fire-hot up her arm, but Hilde only stabbed harder.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Until the beast went limp.

She flung it aside—

and the sea swallowed its corpse whole.

Her heart thundered, as if it were trying to break free of its cage.

Blood ran down her arm in warm rivulets.

Her eyes widened as the remaining hound dissolved—

fur shredding into droplets, bodies becoming rain.

Mist swirled where it had fallen.

Thunder cracked overhead—

a sound too cruel to be anything but laughter from a pleased god.

Antlers loomed closer, their shadow falling across the longship.

Hilde tore her blouse, binding the fabric tight around her arm.

The mist gathered again, twisting and knitting itself into hounds that paced the water behind her.

She staggered upright and ran for the tiller.

Lightning struck.

The mast split with a scream, splinters raining down.

Thunder followed—

like a hoof the size of a hall door kicked through the sky.

“No,” she spat through clenched teeth.

“The sky-father is a demon.”

She wanted to believe the Latin priests—

that the old gods were demons sent to deceive them.

She wanted it with every drop of blood she shed.

But the hounds were still here.

Another flash tore the heavens open, blinding her even as she threw an arm across her eyes.

When her sight cleared, she saw them—

those she had sworn to become.

Shield-maidens.

Their hair braided and streaming,

skin pale as death,

mail gleaming on breast and arm,

round shields rune-scarred,

spears raised.

Each stared at her with the look every warrior knows—

the look one gives an oath-breaker.

“I won’t go,” Hilde spat at their feet.

“I pledged my soul to a new Lord!”

The women did not move,

even as the longship lurched beneath them.

“I said I won’t go!”

She thrust her cross toward them.

“I will not be his bride!”

A voice rode the wind—not thunder, but intent:

“I claim no bride,” it murmured.

“I claim a hand.”

The wind buffeted past her, cold as fingers, speaking to her of the truth.

“I AM MY OWN!” she screamed, forcing courage to sound like defiance.

The storm laughed.

Lightning hit the deck.

The world went white.

Hilde clung to the tiller rather than be flung into the sea.

“No, no, no—”

Her mouth betrayed her courage.

Before her stood Wōden.

Antlers shadowed from his helm.

Mail hung heavy on his frame.

His skin was cut with scars of countless wars.

His one eye pinned her—

not seeing her, but measuring her.

Hilde struck at him—useless.

As futile as striking the trunk of an oak.

His hand seized her hair.

He yanked.

Hilde screamed, clawing, dragging herself across the slick deck—anything not to be taken.

But Wōden dragged her.

The Hunt came for oath-breakers.

Her body thrashed,

but her spirit already knew—

it was over.

She had been chosen, not captured.

Taken, not damned.

She was his weapon now.

Wōden had come to collect her,

and she would collect the dead.

The old gods did not break oaths.

Men feared the Wild Hunt.

Hilde now belonged to it.