They built his pyre before dusk.
Rain had ceased some hours earlier, leaving behind the damp scent of earth and blood still clinging to the stones of Hrafnvargr Holt. The storm clouds lingered, heavy and brooding, but the sky held its tears as wood was dragged into the clearing.
No one celebrated.
Holmgang did not permit mockery of the dead, not when they had met steel with steel until the end.
Eirik's body was cleaned, armor removed piece by shattered piece. His severed head was placed carefully upon his chest, both hands bound around the hilt of his sword, locking his grip in place even in death. He had called on pride, and in the end, he met death as a warrior should—facing it with steel in hand.
That alone earned him this burning.
Not forgiveness.
Not respect.
Only the right of passing, so his spirit would not wander dishonored and restless.
Silent villagers watched as logs were stacked high, forming a funeral crest. Torches flickered in hand. Housecarls who once served him stood with bowed heads, their expressions a mix of grief, shame, and quiet relief.
Some whispered he had deserved worse.
Others whispered that, at the end, he fought like one of them again.
All remained silent when his name was spoken.
"Eirik Sigvaldsson," Thane Viggo intoned in the formal voice of a rite-giver. "He walked into the circle, raised his steel, and met death standing. Let his soul travel the smoke-road without chains."
The flames were lit.
Fire caught slowly at first—licking the edges of wood—before racing upward as though hungry for release. Orange light cast long shadows across the Holt, washing Eirik's form in flickering gold as if the fire wished to burn memory from him before it took flesh.
Ragnar stood with his Pack slightly apart from the others.
He neither gloated nor grieved.
He only watched until the sword slipped from Eirik's burned fingers and was swallowed by flame.
Beside him, Eivor folded her arms, her gaze level and unblinking. She did not pity Eirik—but she acknowledged the way he died.
Brynja murmured, "In the end, his spine returned to him."
Hakon simply nodded.
Sigrun whispered, "May Hel judge him fairly."
A fresh wind stirred, scattering sparks upward into the darkening sky.
A raven's cry echoed once.
And then the pyre burned on, crackling with the sound of a name consumed.
When only embers remained, the Holt became silent again.
Only then did the Earls summon Ragnar forward.
For now that death was settled…
The living would decide what came next.