(originally written as "Fearless" for Wattpadpunkfiction's Song of the Punk contest 2021)

The Iron Yggdrasil loomed over the surrounding forest, its branches jutting like spearheads into the searing colours of dusk layered over the western horizon, making the sky bleed.

Erjolf's mother placed a hand on his thin shoulder. "Why do you want this? Come home. I know it's hard, but things will get better. I promise."

The boy shook his head. "No, it has to be now."

He didn't want to tell her that he no longer believed her. That he was done listening to her fantasies, her motherly reassurances that were broken almost the moment they left her mouth. As if simply speaking the words was a magic spell that would keep them all safe.

But things would never get better.

Not for any of them.

His mother sighed. Even in the dusky light, Erjolf could see the tiredness in her eyes. Not just from the long journey through unknown valleys and hills, but from everything.

The light that used to be in them had died so long ago he barely remembered it.

But then he'd watched as the light in his brother, Leif's eyes had dulled and finally extinguished, and he had realised it would happen to him, too. That those dead eyes would be his own one day if he didn't do something unheard of, something drastic.

And that drastic was the Iron Yggdrasil.

* * *

A high wall of wide wooden staves surrounded the sacred space, shielding it and the bottom of the iron tree from curious eyes. Pitch torches illuminated the gate and in their rippling light, tall, muscled watchmen halted and questioned all who approached.

One spotted them and held up a hand." State your business."

"I am Brynja of Darfjällar. I have brought my son, Erjolf Snorrisson to participate in the Trial," said Erjolf's mother, a slight quiver in her voice. She squared her shoulders and stretched her back to stand taller, believing height to carry dignity, but Erjolf knew it only made her look like a goose flapping its wings.

The watchman nodded, his gaze travelling over their coarse homespun clothing, uncombed hair, the streaks of dirt on their faces.

The nervousness that had held tight to Erjolf's hand all along the journey to the Trial wrapped its cold arms around him and squeezed, making his teeth chatter, although there wasn't a wind.

Was the Trial only for the sons of fathers who clothed them warmly and provided meat for the table? But how could that be true?

Odin's Trial was open to all free Norsemen, that's what he'd heard. It was the will of the gods. No one could stop him. No one. Not even the king. Not once he had stood in the middle of the village and shouted to all that would listen that he wished to measure himself with the All Father.

The derision and the clods of mud that had been thrown at him hadn't mattered. The heads shaking with incomprehension and the mumbled it'll be your death, you stupid boy. The sting of the leather strap and the howling that he was stealing bread away from all their mouths had not been able to change his mind.

No one could stop him from coming here once he had announced his intention.

The watchman's eyes settled on him, but addressed his mother.

"Are you a free Norsewoman, Brynja of Darfjällar? And your husband a free Norseman? The children of unfree servants and slaves are banned from the Trial. The punishment for lying is the death of the boy and a heavy fine, which the Jarl will demand from your master who will certainly take it back out of both of your skins."

"Yes...y..yes, we are free Norse," Erjolf's mother said, her voice hesitant, unsteady, as if she were not sure of even that small morsel of status they possessed.

Erjolf took a deep breath. "It's true," he said, lifting his chin and staring daggers into the watchman. "We are free Norse. Don't be fooled by appearances. Odin won't be."

The man sized him up from tip to toe, not rudely, factually, like a buyer at a busy marketplace, an amused smile passing over his features. "How old are you?"

"Thirteen springs," Erjolf said, quickly, boldly, hoping the man would not notice his quivering hands and the lump in his throat. And I want to know if I am fearless.

"Are you here of your own will?"

"I am. It is my wish is to measure myself with the All Father."

"Then so be it."

Turning back to Erjolf's mother, the watchman said, "Say your goodbyes here. You may return in ten days to collect him."

And with a quick glance and a smile at Erjolf, he added, "What remains of him, that is."

* * *

Erjolf spent a restless night under the old wolf skin that served him as a blanket. The bowl of meat broth he'd been given along with all the other candidates had warmed his stomach, but done little to chase the shiver from his skin.

He had never seen so many people in one place before and the Iron Yggdrasil had creaked and howled so terribly in the darkness, stretching out its thorny fingers against the blue shapes of passing clouds like the skeletal claws of the dead reaching out to snag the cloaks of the living.

Erjolf had curled into himself like a hedgehog and prayed to every spirit he had ever heard of that he had not made a terrible, terrible mistake. That in his chest did not beat the heart of a frightened little boy whose hand would never find its way to the knife and the sleeping throat of his step-father.

* * *

When the sky bled again, this time shortly before the birth of the new day, priests with gold and silver torques gleaming around their necks opened the Tree. The double doors at the base spread like wings to allow three priests to enter the massive construction before closing them inside.

Erjolf stood on tip-toes to peer over the heads and shoulders of the crowd.

The Iron Yggdrasil was famous, but only those who had participated in the Trail — and survived — had seen it function. Erjolf had no idea what to expect, and so stared gap-mouthed with the rest when the highest branches rotated around the trunk like a wheel around a hub until, finding the right spot, came to a halt, the outermost tips swaying slightly.

Then the Yggdrasil groaned and the iron limbs descended, running down the trunk like raindrops, until halting about a man's length above the stomped earth.

A horn sounded.

A priest in a thick brown bear skin stepped forward and raised his arms to address them.

Hear me, all those who seek the Trial of Odin.

From this moment, you will hang for nine days and nine nights on the Yggdrasil.

On the third, fifth and eighth day, you will be given water, should the gods see fit not to send rain. No one who ascends the Yggdrasil comes down, alive or dead, before the dawning of the tenth morning. No one.

This is the will of Odin and the trial he has set for all those who seek the knowledge of their own souls.

Erjolf's heart pounded and his knees felt as if they would withdraw their support of his weight. Around him, the scent of fear rose, mixed with the gritting of teeth and the murmuring of magic words.

The first round of names were called. Erjolf noticed they were all the oldest-looking, or the most muscular men of the group and breathed a small sigh of relief. He could only imagine what it must be like at the very top, buffeted by wind and the elements, and the drop...his stomach turned over on itself, even as his muscles relaxed.

The watchmen and many of the guards from the night before - Erjolf recognised them by their cloaks - swarmed around the tree attaching what looked like leather horse harnesses to parts of the iron limb he couldn't see from where he was standing with thick hooks. Each man whose name had been called was led by a priest to his harness and strapped in. Some followed warily, some confidently, some with obvious curiosity.

Once the limbs were weighted down with their burdens, the Yggdrasil groaned and the iron branches ascended skyward until they reached their former level, rotated and halted.

From the ground, the hanging men looked like nothing more than the executed corpses of criminals or enemies swinging in the branches as a feast for the crows.

Erjolf was paralysed by the sight.

Exactly so is how the All Father must have looked to any of the Jotuns or dwarves peering out over the edge of their worlds.

And exactly so is how he would look.

Doubt shifted and curled itself around his ribs. Was he really old enough, strong enough to face what was coming, to find his answer, to know the truth about himself?

Ten days in suspension. Ten days out of time and the web of fate to gain a glimpse at his own soul. To know. To really know if he had the courage, the stamina to break himself free of his situation, or if he should return home, bow his head and accept the same fate as his mother and Leif.

Was he truly fearless?

Only Odin could tell him that, and so here he was.

The levels of the Yggdrasil lowering to take on their charges and raising back up again to clanking and screeches. The packed crowd thinned out more and more until he was surrounded by boys who looked only slightly older than himself, or younger - and more frightened - remained.

The third level dropped.

Erjolf Snorrisson!

Erjolf closed his eyes for a moment before stepping forward and waiting to be led to the dangling leather harness that would be his home for the next nine days and nights.

Up close, he could see how the metal had been worked to resemble rough bark, how some of the growths were open eyelets for hooks and some resembled small branches that tapered to twigs as thick as one of his fingers. At second glance, he noted the blunted ends and odd lumps that ran along the edges of the branches like the spinal bones of a farmer after a famine year and wondered what purpose they served.

Because of his height, he was lifted up onto the shoulders of a watchman to then be strapped in by quick, practiced hands.

The level began to rotate, sweeping him left.

His stomach dropped to his ankles. His skin prickled as if it was on fire and sweat beaded on his forehead.

With a jerk and accompanied by the creaking and clanking of the mechanism inside the Iron Yggdrasil, Erjolf and all the other boys in their harnesses, began their journey skyward.

* * *

From the position on the tree where he came to rest, Erjolf could see over the fuzzy top of the forest that spread out before him, all of the dips and rises, all of the villages and tilled fields, until the land flattened and gave way to a shimmering lake he didn't know the name of.

He could not tell how far from the ground he was, but he preferred not to look down.

As the sun rose, the day became bright and pleasant. From other branches he heard boys calling to each other, making jokes, some were even singing.

That would change; he knew it would. Nothing ever stayed pleasant, or quiet, for long.

When or how things would get worse, he couldn't guess, he only knew they would and that was enough to seal his mouth closed and keep his eyes locked on the strip of nameless water in the distance, as if pretending not to see anything else would save him from the worst.

It usually did.

* * *

When the sky darkened, Erjolf's eyelids drooped and he fell into a half-sleep, waking now and again with a start. He wondered vaguely if his mother had reached their village or if she had crawled under the protective arms of a bush and was now dreaming... but the thought did not stay long and a chaotic jumble of images that made little sense drifted through his mind.

A gasp and murmuring caused him to lift his chin. He looked to the dark shapes of the others dangling next to him, but they were silent. His gaze went up to those dangling above him.

Up there, among the branches, were faint lights, like candles or fireflies, flickering here and there. . . but only for a few moments before disappearing. Erjolf craned his neck to see more, but bodies and the iron limbs were in his way and even rocking himself to and fro did not help him see anything more.

And then on a small branch somewhat more than an arm's length way from him, a soft yellow light appeared and faded. Appeared and faded. Appeared and faded.

Then nothing.

A night breeze blew threw the Yggdrasil, ducking up Erjolf's sleeves and raising the flesh on his arms.

At some point, he fell asleep in the branches of the dark tree and found himself adrift on a dragonship crossing the ocean, tilting and rising, the wind whipping in the sails...until morning dawned and he awoke in his own body, knowing that he had only been dreaming.

* * *

By noon, his throat was dry and his tunic was dappled with the water from the men on the branches above him. From afar he heard a few call out an apology to those below when they could no longer contain themselves, but harvested only curses in return.

Erjolf aimed as well as he could, but realised it was only a matter of time until he, and everyone else on the lower levels, were splattered with whatever fell from above.

The fluffy white clouds drifting above carried no rain.

Birds and other wildlife had spotted the hanging men and come to investigate, many hoping for an easy meal. Some were frightened away by shadow kicks or curses, others were hungrier, and bolder.

Erjolf's chest began to throb dully from the pressure of his own weight on the harness, but it was nothing compared to the pain he was used to.

With the coming of darkness, the first moans and weeping could be heard. Muffled, ashamed, but still there.

The flickering lights did not return.

* * *

In the first light of the next dawn, water was hauled up to them in wooden buckets on chains and they were admonished to drink as much as they could.

Most roused themselves from their stupor and drank, others did not and the water buckets remained by them, locked into position on the limb within arm's reach.

The pain in Erjolf's chest was worse. His arms and legs tingled uncomfortably.

At least it was getting warmer.

The others hung silent in their harnesses, alone with their thoughts. Erjolf watched the unmoving landscape, sometimes following the V of a flock of birds. He didn't know for how long.

His mind was dull.

He closed his eyes.

The hooting of an owl, close and loud jerked him out of slumber.

Night had fallen and the moans and weeping of those around him were now more audible than they'd been.

Erjolf drifted in the blankness of his own mind until he became aware that the strange glowing had reappeared along his own branch. He focused on them, but it still took him a long moment to recognise the shapes the light was forming.

When he did, he was not surprised.

Odin had first glimpsed the runes as he hung on the Yggdrasil, and they had brought him wisdom. But only after he had sacrificed one of his own eyes. Was he meant to do something similar?

But I'm not rune-wise. How can I know what these signs are meant to tell me?

With that thought, Erjolf let go of his grip on reality and slipped back into dreams.

The runes followed him.

* * *

For the next days, Erjolf fought.

The runes brought images into his mind, terrifying images, that he knew were real. They were memories, not dreams. Things he had witnessed and wished he never had. Things he'd not wanted to remember.

He fought the memories, struggled to escape them and return to the gentle, reassuringly painful rocking in the winds that shook through the Iron Yggdrasil.

But the runes returned, pulling him back into the pictures.

They forced him to feel the sand under his feet and hear the sound of the water as it lapped the shore. Forced him to feel his mother's arms grabbing him tightly, too tightly!, and being shaken as they ran. Forced him to feel the harsh twigs and the pressure of Leif's head on him where they hid in the undergrowth of the forest as the smell of burning and the screams of people and animals drifted to them. And his mother's whispering: Don't move, don't make a sound, I don't want to have to kill either of you, I don't want to have to...

Erjolf broke the surface of reality, his body jolting.

It was daytime and the calm landscape that he'd watched for so many hours lay unchanged before him.

But the screaming didn't stop.

He looked around, wild-eyed and panting.

It seemed to be coming from all around him. From above, below, from the boys on either side of him. . .from deep inside himself. His mother had been about to kill them both to save herself from. . .from. . . he didn't know. Raiders? The Jarl's men? They had been only fast-moving shadows for him.

Erjolf had only just regained this breath, had only just calmed his racing heart, when another rune surfaced.

* * *

The clanking of the water bucket brought him back to reality. Sweating and trembling, he pulled it towards himself and drank, trying not to let too much spill down his chin.

It was almost dawn.

His stomach ached. He was used to hunger, but this was worse, so much worse. His insides had died and left nothing more than a collection of dust-dry remains that no amount of water could revive.

The screaming was less now, but not entirely gone. Some who hung near him, their heads limp on their chests, didn't make a sound. Others kicked and punched at the air. Still others bawled like calves separated from their mothers.

Erjolf tilted his head back and stared at the streaks of pink and gold in the sky.

You won't drive me insane before I have my answer. I am fearless, he thought, as a new rune began to glow on the limb. I am here and I am -

* * *

The slap sent him flying. Shut up! I'm feeding you, that should be enough. I'm not going to be disturbed in my rest!

Erjolf felt his mother swoop him up. His face stung and hot tears cascaded down his cheeks. Uncle, please. He just fell, that's all. Shhh, Erjolf shhh...

I don't care! Shut the brat up or I'll shut him up myself! And you with him! Why haven't you found a new husband yet? I'm not going feed you and your brats forever, you know. I have enough ungrateful mouths to fill as it is.

Shhh, Erjolf, shhhh....

Then sunshine. And the sound of Leif laughing as he chased a butterfly through tall grass. And his mother's angry tears.

Why do you always have to anger him? You're going to get us turned out and then we'll starve. But you don't understand that, do you? It's all just play for you. We'll see if it's all such a game when we're dead.

If I just didn't have you. If I just didn't have you everything would be so much easier.

* * *

It was nighttime.

A cool wind was blowing. In the distance, a fox yipped.

Erjolf swayed in his harness, guilt ripping at his insides. He'd made things worse, simply because he'd been so young. He'd endangered them all. Because he hadn't understood the situation. But how could he have?

The powerful, conflicting emotions made him feel nauseous. He leaned forward and attempted to vomit, but nothing came up.

His mother had never told him about the time before they came to the village. Only that their father had died many years earlier. When Leif had asked how, she'd never answered. All she'd said was that the bad old times were over and things were much better now.

* * *

The runes, dancing in spirals of light, twisted around him and Erjolf had the feeling that he was hanging upside down, suspended on nothing but the night air. That couldn't be, but it was so comfortable, so soothing, that he didn't want it to end. All the pain, his shrunken stomach, his stiff and aching muscles - forgotten.

He wasn't afraid anymore. The guilt was gone.

There was only the light and the spirals of runes.

And then they released him and he fell into what had come afterwards.

* * *

It had started with pinches, then built to slaps to the back of the head and when he would cry, the same words would come: he gives us a roof over our head. Don't provoke him. Why do you always have to provoke people?

Mother had found a new husband, one who some mornings could be found snoring in the vegetable garden, stinking of mead and having soiled himself in the night.

But he had invited them into his house and they finally had it dry at night and a fire to warm themselves by. In the summer, there was food. In the winter, sometimes yes, sometimes no. But their neighbours did not have it any better.

They had to be grateful.

If it hadn't been for him, they'd have died.

As the seasons moved on, the slaps became burns with a rope - an accident, he said - and the pinches to hair gripped and torn out. What did you do? You must have done something?

With the help of the runes, Erjolf was able to step outside of himself, like a ghost leaving the body, and observe his mother and brother.

He saw the bruises under her long sleeves. He saw the panic in the frantic movements of her hands when he went out and she knew he was drinking with the other men. But they had it warm! And there was food! And he wasn't always like that. No one's life was perfect. The boys had to realise that. Had to realise they couldn't ruin it.

Erjolf turned to Leif. Saw that he, too, had the same marks on him, but in more secret, more intimate places. Saw that he was terrified to be called into the pig stall to help, when there was nothing to help but the bulge in his step-father's breeches. That he tried to suppress the whimpers and his limping gait when the torturing had finally stopped. That he didn't dare say a word to his mother, because he remembered.

He remembered the smoke, and the death and the hunger and the endless, endless marching. Don't mess this up, Erjolf. It could be so much worse. If you make him angry, I'll hurt you. Just shut up. I don't want to hear it.

Then he was turned around to view how the fear had crept into his own heart, how he'd listened and tried to behave so perfectly. How he'd fallen silent, how the light, the hope, in his mother's and Leif's eyes had died, and how he had realised that would happen to him, too, if he didn't do something drastic.

He realised how much he hated them. And himself.

Then he awoke.

The sun was just setting, bleeding its colours into the atmosphere and setting the clouds ablaze.

And he wanted nothing more than to burn up right along with it.

* * *

The water bucket clanked next to his head, rousing him.

Erjolf drank it empty although it almost made him sick to do so.

He rubbed his hands over his face, scaring off a winged insect that buzzed angrily as it flew away.

He looked to the other suspended figures. Some were just finishing their water. Others didn't move, but hung limp with their heads on their chests or cocked oddly to the side. He wondered if they had seen their visions, too, and it had killed them.

For the first time, it occurred to him that he, too, might not survive the visions.

And that it was alright with him.

Then his vision swam and he pitched forward, headfirst into blackness...and then another daylight.

* * *

What do you want to know?

The question came from a raven perched on the iron limb slightly above Erjolf's head, eyeing him with its glittering black eyes like pebbles in a fast moving stream.

Well? There's no guaranteeing that Odin will give you an answer. Still, ask!

I want to kill my mother's husband and free us. Will I be able to? Or will fear so long instilled in me stop my hand? said Erjof, his mouth no longer dry. I want to know if I am fearless.

Should you not ask if he will kill you first?

Erjolf shrugged. He will eventually, one way or another.

The raven sat silent for a long while. Erjolf waited, feeling a soft, otherworldly breeze ruffle his hair. He was in a place with no pain ... and the hunger had left. He felt calm and at peace.

The raven shook itself. You're in luck. The All Father will answer you.

Then the raven lifted itself up, spread its wings out and spoke. Abandon your will and I will lead you to your desire. Hand over your past and I will give you a future. Die and I will bring you back to life... Erjolf the Fearless.

The raven folded its feathers and looked at Erjolf. Well, ready to die?

Do I have a choice?

You're the one hanging on this tree. You tell me.

Then I'm ready.

And with that, the raven opened his caw and swallowed Erjolf whole.

* * *

Two days later, when the sky bled a new day into being, the levels of the Iron Yggdrasil groaned as they rotated and descended, bringing their burdens - those still alive and those who weren't - back down onto the earth.

Erjolf was laid on a blanket in the grass and water poured over his face to wake him. Then a priest helped him sit up and take a few sips of thick meat broth before laying him back down and moving on to the next unconscious survivor.

Gazing up into the blue of the sky, past the black, empty limbs of the Yggdrasil, Erjolf watched a lone raven circle ...and then fly away towards the west.

He had his answer.

He would not return home.

He'd seen his past and left it up there in the branches of the tree like a discarded cloak. His mind was clear and his heart was light.

His hand did not need to grip a knife to know.

To know that he was fearless.