[ Maybe that's his only regret now. A warrior fights along with his men, drinks and spends his time by the fire, shrugs off the bitter frost and twisting wind while at sea; in all of these things they've shared already, but when he's dead and truly gone, and the Valkyrie bring him to feast in the hall of the gods—Bjorn knows Askeladd doesn't pledge himself in the same way. Wherever he goes when the time comes it won't be along that same path.
Bjorn tilts his head low, chin to chest. The smile is resolved to stay, and he holds onto the moment; a berserker loses all sense in battle, knowing nothing of friends and foes, the where or the why. But this is deliberate, a moment captured in the strength of both hands, a happiness clenched greedy between his teeth. ]
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Bjorn tilts his head low, chin to chest. The smile is resolved to stay, and he holds onto the moment; a berserker loses all sense in battle, knowing nothing of friends and foes, the where or the why. But this is deliberate, a moment captured in the strength of both hands, a happiness clenched greedy between his teeth. ]