They fled toward the ships,
steel and smoke behind them.
The tide of England was turning,
and the gods were silent.
But one man stayed.
No name carved on his shield,
no song promised him after.
Only the bridge,
and the oath in his chest.
He faced them alone —
axe heavy, breath steady,
not for victory,
but for honour kept clean.
Blows rained like storms,
and still he stood,
laughing once —
not at them,
but at the fear that never came.
When he fell,
the river ran red,
but his spirit walked on,
unbowed, unbroken —
and the gates opened.
For Valhalla is not for those who win,
but for those who stand
when all else runs.