Good Morning
- The Grave of Valkyries – Part 1
- The Grave of Valkyries – Part 2
- The Evidence
- A Stopping Place
- The Storm
- Pieces
- Ragnar’s Hall
- Not Like Indiana Jones
- A Homecoming, A Gift
- Dragon Heads
- Dust and Misogyny
- Reykjavík
- Yule
- Stone Walls
- The Vikings
- Mikligarður
- Circumstantial Truths
- Dance With Me
- Antonia
- Find a Question
- A New Home
- The King
- Newcomers
- Three Springs
- Goodbye, Hello
- Unexpected Arrivals
- Bishop vs Rook
- Cause of Death
- Midnight Visitor
- Dark Nights
- Exposé
- Cross
- Good Morning
Content Warning: Suicide
Derrick dropped his checked bag onto the scale and handed the ticketing agent his boarding information. The woman scanned his papers and handed them back with a plastic smile. They both watched the red numbers on the scale tick up until they finally stopped. His bag was three ounces under the maximum allowed weight, and he sighed in relief. The three shirts and jacket he’d donned to make space sat heavily on his torso. Thank God it was cool enough they weren’t annoying.
The agent moved his bag to the conveyor belt and waved him away. Derrick thanked her and dragged his overstuffed carry-on away. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Taylor and Kally by the doors to the drop off, waving their arms, trying to get his attention. Kally cheered when he waved back.
“Text us!” she yelled loudly. Several parents with children glared at her. One kid took that as her cue to scream at the top of her lungs. Taylor winced and covered his girlfriend’s mouth.
“Land safely,” he said in a normal volume. “Video call whenever. We’ll keep you updated on what we find out. Kally nodded around Taylor’s hand and flashed a finger heart at Derrick.
“Love you bunches, babe,” she said. “We’ll miss you!” Derrick’s throat swelled, and his eyes prickled.
“I’ll miss you too,” he called back. The bus outside began to shriek and his friends waved as they rushed to catch it. Kally held her hand up to her face in the “call” sign, pointing between the two of them emphatically while Taylor sprinted to flag down the departing bus.
Derrick chuckled around the lump in his throat. They’d said their goodbyes outside, but it seemed like so much was left. In the sterile airport lobby, five minutes seemed insufficient to express what needed to be said. He swallowed down the disappointment and trudged over to the check-in. The guard squinted at him and his passport, but didn’t call for a random search. Small blessing, he supposed. He was pretty sure the “random search” had been called for as soon as he got off the plane. Once he located his gate, a fresh, overpriced coffee in hand, he picked a chair by the window and pulled up the article.
It had gone live that morning. Mr. Ibekwe titled it “The Grave of Valkyries: Archaeologists Discover Grave of LGBTQ+ Viking Couple.” He snorted at the blatant buzzwords tacked onto the tags. As he skimmed, he had to acknowledge Mr. Ibekwe had done an excellent job summarizing the context information and his, Kally’s, and Taylor’s research. Callum and Ida got a brief mention, a quote, and a sizable photo of the stone they’d taken rubbings from. Maggie had also received a call and a quote. He skimmed towards the end and felt a petty rush of joy that Kingsly hadn’t gotten more than a footnote.
Some pictures of the artifacts and the interview were sprinkled throughout, and the captions explained them in ways that were easy to follow. Derrick smiled at the vague description of the three cat skeletons Kally had meticulously reassembled.
Overall, the article was good. Before he could forget, he texted Kiara the link and a reminder that he’d arrive in Boston tomorrow morning with a layover in Louisiana. She promised to pick him up, but the flight wasn’t supposed to land until 9 P.M. He hated asking her to drive the two hours to the airport late in the day. In less than a minute, she replied with a thumbs up and a kiss face emoji. Fifteen minutes later, a shocked face emoji and a loud ‘Congratulations on the article!’ lit up his screen.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a woman’s voice bellowed over the speaker. “We will now begin boarding for Flight 2937 to Boston. Will all first-class passengers, active military personnel, and veterans please come to the desk to board?” Derrick got comfortable in his seat. As usual, he was in Group 4 in the cheapest seat he could afford.
Getting on the plane was easy. It was a hassle to force his carry-on into the overhead bin, apologizing repeatedly to the teenager who was almost hit. He apologized again to the young girl as he squeezed past her to settle in his seat by the window. He buckled his seatbelt and leaned back with a sigh. International flights always had the best seats, even in economy.
Before he drifted off, his phone buzzed again. He wiggled it out of his pocket and opened Taylor’s email.
“They’re going to be re-interred together once we finish,” it read. “Dr. Todd was against it, but Dr. Fraiser threatened him with something and made it happen. We found out right after you left. Vid call after you land to talk more. Kally is crying.”
Taylor attached a selfie of himself, flashing a peace sign while Kally crouched in the background with her head in her hands, presumably crying tears of joy. Derrick snorted and started to message him back, but the attendant began the safety demonstration, and he turned his phone off.
The plane trundled down the airstrip before ascending over Edinburgh. Derrick watched the buildings get smaller. It’d be a minor miracle if he ever made it back here. He’d miss it for sure. The plane shook with turbulence, and Edinburgh disappeared under thick white clouds.
Somewhere below, his deadpan professor, who scared department deans, and his new best friends were continuing their project together. The sets of remains were being handled by people who cared about their stories and wanted to give them the best treatment. Despite any circumstances, the two “Valkyries” would be laid to rest together as they deserved. And Kally was crying. He smiled to himself, closed the blind, and settled in for the long trip to Boston.
Scotland 895 A.D.
Rionan lowered herself into the grave. The damp soil was blacker than pitch in the predawn light and smelled of soft loam. Inside, Ingrid’s body rested, carefully arranged with her arms crossed over her chest, sword in one hand, and head on her shield.
It started with headaches. Some were ignorable, while others left Ingrid screaming and whimpering in the darkness. Rionan had done her best to help, talked to every local midwife and healer, and even visited a shaman and a witch. Nothing was effective. When it wasn’t her head, her joints ached, or she walked so stiffly one might think she was a cripple.
Rionan was the one who braided Ingrid’s hair for death. She fiddled with the heavy plait, liberally streaked with gray. She remembered braiding and washing this hair multiple times after the cart incident. Some stubborn donkey lugging their delivery of lumber and bone rammed into Ingrid too hard a few years ago. Her arm and leg both broke. The healer said she’d never seen anything like it. It had been a tough few months with Ingrid confined to the house.
Less than a league away, their house sat like a dark blot against the purple-gray sky. They’d built it together, raised their small animals and a stray pair of siblings together. Every carving was proof of Rionan’s mastery of her craft. Each trinket and cloak were a gift from Ingrid’s trading. It wasn’t always a comfortable life. Ingrid had to return to the sea to ensure they were always fed. Their daughter never went, but their son would now inherit his mother’s business. She moved Ingrid’s shield and pulled the stiff form onto her lap, cradling her head and stroking the wrinkled brow. The sword thudded to the ground, but Rionan re-wrapped Ingrid’s hand around the hilt. The stiff fingers didn’t want to bend, but she knew even a loose grip was better than dying without a weapon.
Fifty-four winters sat heavily on Ingrid’s tanned face. Rionan traced the lines wrought by the sun and smiles. She ignored the bandage wrapped around her wife’s thigh. A simple robbery on the road back from town. It was a day when she told Rionan her bones felt so stretched they were trying to leap out of her skin. Ingrid had handily dealt with the man, an outsider traipsing his way through the countryside. Gunnar had taught Ingrid to deal with aggressors once and never again. A bandage, some stitches, and a salve should have been enough.
Then came the fever, the chills. No matter what they tried the wound remained filled with puss and an unpleasant odor. Ingrid spent days muttering in a daze, pulling Rionan closer and then screaming at her to get away. Sometimes, she fought enemies in the corners of her room. Sometimes, she screamed at Gunnar to leave Rionan alone. It was over now, though; finally, she was at peace. Rionan settled into the grave wall and looked at the brightening sky. A few constellations still winked above.
“Look at the stars, love,” she whispered. “We shall be among them together tomorrow.”
She pulled the cross from her pocket. The one she used to kill Gunnar. It had sat in a box under their bed for years. Rionan refused to look at it, and Ingrid wouldn’t push her to. It seemed right to be buried with it, though. It would bear witness to her final sin. Already, she could feel the poison working through her body. Her heart rate slowed, and her breathing quieted. Slowly, the light turned dark, and she could no longer see the sharp nose and high cheekbones she ran her fingers over.
It was a gentle way to die, so she chose it for Ingrid. She bid her love farewell yesterday morning with a few drops in her medicinal tea and a soft goodbye kiss. Then, she and the children prepared the grave and the grave goods. They washed and outfitted Ingrid in her finest. Their children laid all her favorite trinkets from their collection beside her, and her Hnefatafl game made of whalebone. When they discovered her, Rionan wondered what goods their children would place beside her. With the last of her strength, she squeezed Ingrid closer, already hearing the birds rising with the light.
“Good morning, my darling,” she whispered.