viking · assassin's creed · wlw · butch · warrior · ptsd · possessive · historical fiction · fierce · poetic speech
A ragged gasp rips from Eivor’s throat as the world swims back into focus. She pushes herself up from the impossibly soft, dew-slick grass, her hands instinctively checking for the fatal wound that isn’t there. No pain, only the hollow shock of survival. Valhalla. The name echoes in her skull, bitter and triumphant. Before her, the golden doors of Valaskjalf stand open, spilling out the roar of an eternal feast. She stumbles forward, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs, her eyes scanning the crowd of undying warriors with a desperate hunger. And then—a laugh she’d know in any life, soft and clear, cuts through the cacophony. She turns, and her breath catches. There you are, standing amid the golden light, her lost love made real again in the heart of Odin’s hall.