When It Rains

Madani had resolved to not cry today - told herself that crying wasn’t what a warrior did. A warrior was strong, striving for Valhalla and accepting death as it came, yet, her chest felt so hollow, she wasn’t sure what else she was meant to do with herself. The ordeal had been living off of her energy, clawing its way underneath her skin until it took every last piece of who she once felt she was. Madani had known she needed to be better than a distant commander, but she felt beyond herself, not quite within reach.

But that was to be expected for a commander at twenty three, barely an adult and now abandoned to face a future she was entirely unprepared for.

The day of mourning was long and draining, and the distraction of others made it easy to ignore what was happening within. Forget the hurricane of nothingness that swelled inside her, making it seem like it was merely a distant storm; it would hit eventually, but she’d be ready by then. After they had sent him down the river, a pyre burning in his ship, their torches leading the way back up to the great hall. All the while, Madani’s fist clenching hard to the arrow head, the edges pricking at her palm, yet it was the only thing that kept her grounded.

Madani was led up to the front table in silence, the wind from outside made the quiet even more palpable as she moved the overflowing large black furs that trailed behind her to drape over the back of her seat and settled in. The rest of her day was met with mead and meat, lyres and lutes playing solemn songs before turning into drunken melodies.

As she stared at the silver goblet in front of her, she couldn’t help but see the dark hair and golden eyes that reflected back at her, and even though she knew it was her own, she couldn’t help but see her father. His hair had been as long as hers, braided on either side to keep it out of the way in battle. For all his life, dedicated to be the a god amongst champions of a battlefield, Madani had cradled him in her arms as his golden eyes that lost their shine.

She was encompassed by her father’s twenty-thousand coin hoard; gifted or inherited she could not say. The unexpected money meant little to her; what was she meant to do with twenty thousand gold coins anyhow? Madani had no use in fanciful things and living within stone walls. It wasn’t what she was used to, but as they were offerings, she didn’t dare to return the kindness. In truth, she’d have to be immortal to spend as much coin as she received - but that was a lifetime reserved for the Gods.

An elder of their township came towards her table, bowing in front of her boots. Raising their head, he smiled curtly. Madani was already rolling her eyes. Age didn’t mean wisdom. “To our new commander, we gift you -”

“I don’t need any more gifts from you. You’ve taken enough.” Madani’s snarl was enough to send the elder away. After all, it was the elder’s command to send them into battle that led to her new title after all. Commander and orphan.

The day had been a blur or furs and food, mourners and celebrants, contrasting emotions that she had yet to process. And through it all, she sat at the long table alone. Received every gift, alone. Talked to people she had never met, alone.

Madani was alone.

Since the day of her birth, she had never known what it was like to be on her own.

She’d known violence and sorrow, pain and suffering; Madani had known every last inch of what war could do to a person. The things she knew were written into her skin, tattooed on her body and jagged scars interpreted her wisdom to show what she had learnt from her lack of knowledge.

And still, Madani had not been alone. She always had her father and had known she always would. At least, that was what Madani had thought.

“I am through with this,” she growled, kicking out her stool and wandering through the hall. As she waded through the crowd, everyone seemed to pause and take notice. In doing so, she was struck by how their heads bowed to her, a reverence for her that none of the warriors had shown her in the past. For that, Madani raised her chin, straightened out her shoulders and continued home with nothing but a blazing torch in hand.

At her home, opening the door and stealing herself into the darkness, Madani lit the firepit and took in her hollow expanse.

“I suppose this is mine now,” she muttered to herself, running her fingers over everything she passed. Everything in her father’s home was now hers, even when she didn’t truly want it. Yet, it was theirs, a monument to their success in battle and the value of being a warrior was declared on every wall.

Shrugging off her regel furs, she went to her cot, staring back at the one that would forever go unoccupied. Above his bed hung the first shield he had ever given to her, barely the size of a food dish, her first wooden sword with chips along each edge sat just to the side of the cot’s frame. It was positioned perfectly to never fall and he took great pride in that. His pillow was covered in furs from animals they had hunted.

Everything he treasured had been her; Madani had been his pride.

Her father’s ruined armour hung from the rafters, each a glory for deaths he had never faced. With the arrow head now laced through a string to form a necklace, she looked back at the armour that had one hole pierced through the chest. It was his last. As they had once promised each other, she took the arrow that had stolen him from her, laced it through string and draped it over the collar.

Madani’s home would have him running as its pulse, always.

As she sat in her cot, she could not tear her eyes from his - still unmade, with blankets flung everywhere and a few pieces of clothes and daggers strewn across the pillow. In the centre sat a black leather bound book, still in the same state he had left it the morning of his final battle. For all the years they had fought side by side, won countless battles and slept in the cots to fight the next day, she never thought she’d see the day where he wouldn’t be there to scold her for staring at his black notebook.

Her father had always told her she could never read the book until he had left the earth - body burned and sailed off to Valhalla.

For him to die like that - in battle and praising their gods - it was how a warrior should have gone out. Still, Madani felt resentment to the man, a hatred that he had lost his life for nothing more than an arrow to the heart. Any other warrior would have been proud of an ending on the battlefield, but to Madani, it robbed her of her father - a death that could not have seemed as less deserving to a man of his stature.

In an action of pure frustration and pain, she snatched the black notebook from the bed and read.

To my daughter, Madani.

I have taught you all that I could in my life. I raised you to be a warrior. But you will always be more than that.

I did not tell you all that you needed to, thinking I was protecting you, but as I realise now - that I am to die in my next few battles - is that I have not told you enough. My fate was decided long ago, as you will soon learn. Throughout this notebook - for which I hope you hold dear throughout your life - I will share with you all the secrets I had kept from you. All the secrets I am too sorry to talk about in life and the ones that shame me in death.

A God’s role is to be a silent witness of the world they are to rule over. But not those that influence how a world must fall apart.

I have not known a world without me in it, and neither have you. You see, I am not a warrior by chance. I am a God. When I said you have not known a world without me, I meant that war was in you, around you, seeped into your very being - because it was who you were meant to become.

You were not born a God.

But you are one now - in my death, I have passed on the role and so shall you. The feeling that surrounds you now is the calm before the storm. You will understand everything when it finally rains from the sky.

Through your pain and sorrow, you will bring about a war that I could only dream of creating. You are truly my greatest gift to this world, and I’m sorry I have also made you its most horrifying downfall. I would not wish that on anyone, especially you. But it is not up to me - your fate was foretold eons before your birth. I had always wished to save you from the truth, but with my death looming, this burden is one you will need to understand and take on with your head held high.

I hope that I will be able to see you from Valhalla, and see the gleam in your eye as you bring about the greatest war no one could ever dream of in history.

I love you.

And I am sorry.

Your Father, Erik.

Madani put down the book, a rush of emotions overwhelming her and finally she wailed, screaming out her cry of pain. She had held herself together, pushed past every emotion that she was taught would weigh her down. But she could not handle the weight of a God. She could not be her father.

And so she cried.

The hollow feeling that had taken over her since her father’s death was now filled, every muscle tightening as she roared a cry from deep within her chest - her body finally connecting with herself again and she felt whole. Outside it had started to rain, beating down hard enough that it felt like the earth was rumbling from the thunder.

Madani didn’t know it was supposed to rain that day.

But it seemed fitting.