Chapter 35: The Feast of Victory

The night in Skjoldheim was alive with celebration. The bitter chill of the northern winds was pushed back by the roaring flames of bonfires that dotted the village. Warriors sang, drank, and exchanged tales of the battle, their spirits high with the glory of victory. The clash against the barbarian horde had been the stuff of legend, and the Vikings of Skjoldheim reveled in the triumph.

At the heart of the village stood the Main Hall, its long wooden walls adorned with carvings of past victories and gods of the north. Tonight, it was the center of the celebration, where the three chiefs—Bjorn Thunderclaw, Eirik of Varhold, and Thrain of Skjoldheim—had gathered their closest warriors and allies for a feast in honor of their victory. However, not all the Vikings could fit into the grand hall. Many gathered outside around the massive bonfires, singing songs of bravery and drinking horns of mead as the night stretched on.

Inside the hall, the tables were laden with roasted meats, loaves of bread, and flagons of mead. At the very front, where the chiefs would traditionally sit, a curious sight greeted the gathered crowd. Gabriel, the ethereal being who had guided them to victory, was seated at the place of honor, his serene expression slightly tinged with discomfort.

"I do not wish to take your seat," Gabriel had said earlier, standing before the chiefs. "It is you, not I, who led these warriors."

Bjorn chuckled, clapping Gabriel on the shoulder. "Nonsense! If not for your guidance and your blessings, we wouldn't be here to celebrate. Tonight, you're our honored guest."

Eirik grinned, raising a mug of mead. "Besides, it's not every day we dine with a god."

"I am no god," Gabriel had said with a faint smile. "I am only a guide."

Thrain had smirked, gesturing to the seat. "Then guide yourself to that chair, Gabriel. It's where you belong tonight."

Despite his initial reluctance, Gabriel had finally nodded and taken the seat, his wings folding neatly behind him. Now, as he looked over the gathered Vikings, his pale eyes softened with quiet admiration. Their friendship, their joy—it was a stark contrast to the chaos of the battlefield. He smiled faintly, content to observe.

Before the feast began, Bjorn rose from his seat, raising his horn of mead high. The hall quieted as his deep voice echoed through the space.

"To the warriors of the north!" Bjorn bellowed, his green eyes shining with pride. "To those who fought with courage and unbreakable will! Tonight, we honor your strength, your sacrifice, and your victory. Not a single Viking fell on that battlefield—a testament to our resolve."

The hall erupted into cheers, the sound of clashing mugs and roaring voices filling the air. Bjorn waited for the noise to settle before continuing.

"But let us not forget," he said, his tone growing somber, "those who cannot be here to celebrate with us. For all the victories we achieve, there will always be those who pay the price of war. Tonight, we drink in their memory."

He raised his horn again, and the hall followed suit. "Skål!"

"Skål!" the Vikings roared, their voices shaking the very walls.

Next, Eirik stood, his lean frame lit by the flickering torchlight. His expression was lighter, his tone teasing. "And of course, let us drink to Bjorn Thunderclaw, the man who beheaded Ragnar and scared the rest of those barbarians into running like deer!"

Laughter rippled through the hall, Bjorn shaking his head with a small grin.

"But let us not forget," Eirik continued, his voice growing serious, "the one who made this victory possible. He sits among us now. A guide, a protector, and a light in the darkest of times. To Gabriel!"

The Vikings roared again, raising their mugs. Gabriel inclined his head graciously, his faint smile unchanged.

With the speeches concluded, the feast began in earnest. Vikings dug into the food with gusto, their laughter and voices filling the hall. Outside, the bonfires blazed brighter, and songs of battle and bravery echoed through the village.

Gabriel watched it all with quiet amusement, his plate untouched. Though he did not need to eat, he accepted the gestures of hospitality with gratitude. Every so often, he exchanged words with the chiefs seated beside him, their conversations ranging from battle strategies to the harmony of the northern villages.

Amid the revelry, a group of young warriors approached Bjorn, their gazes flickering nervously toward Gabriel before settling on the three daughters of the Viking chief. Astrid, Liv, and Eira were seated nearby, sharing a plate of food and laughing amongst themselves. Their presence, as always, drew attention.

One of the warriors, a tall and broad-shouldered young man, cleared his throat. "Chief Bjorn," he began, his voice steady despite the grin tugging at his lips. "Do you suppose your daughters might grant us a dance later tonight?"

Bjorn raised an eyebrow, a sly smile creeping onto his face. "My daughters, eh? You've got guts, boy, I'll give you that."

The young man laughed nervously, his companions joining in. But Bjorn's expression suddenly turned serious as he leaned forward slightly, gesturing toward Gabriel at the front of the hall.

"You see him?" Bjorn asked, his voice low and conspiratorial.

The young warriors nodded, their eyes darting toward Gabriel, who was currently engaged in a quiet conversation with Eirik.

Bjorn smirked. "That's Gabriel. The man who blessed our weapons and helped us crush the barbarians. If you think you're brave enough to get past him, then by all means, go ahead."

The warriors paled slightly, glancing at Gabriel again. Though his expression was calm and kind, the memory of his power on the battlefield was enough to make them think twice.

Bjorn chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Didn't think so."

Though he had overheard Bjorn's teasing, Gabriel chose not to acknowledge it, allowing himself to simply smile faintly. His attention returned to the Vikings around him, his gaze softening as he watched their joy and company.

These were people who had faced impossible odds and emerged stronger for it. Their unwavering determination—it was a reminder of what made them extraordinary. Gabriel felt a quiet pride in having played a part in their triumph, even if he did not see himself as the divine figure they believed him to be.

As the night wore on, the laughter and music grew louder, the flames of the bonfires outside casting long shadows against the walls of the hall. Gabriel remained seated at the head of the table, content to observe, his presence a quiet but steady light amidst the revelry.

The feast continued late into the night, the Vikings' voices echoing across the snowy village. Though the wounds of battle would take time to heal, for now, there was only celebration. Skjoldheim, Varhold, and the allied warriors had forged a victory that would be spoken of for generations.

And at the heart of it all, Gabriel sat silently, a guide who had helped them find their strength—and perhaps something more.