Across the waves, through storm and foam,
Erik sails; forever to roam.
Cursed by gods, no home, no rest,
A ghostly helm, a fate unblessed.
The wind howled through the tattered sail, driving Erik’s ship ever northward. The sea was restless beneath him, dark and endless, as if it sensed the weight of his fate. He stood at the prow, gripping the worn wood, his fingers as calloused as his heart.
They called him Erik the Cursed. Once, he had been a great warrior, a jarl with men who followed him to glory. But he had angered the gods. Some said he had broken an oath to Odin; others whispered of a blood debt unpaid. He had slain his own brother in a rage, and from that day, his luck had soured. Storms found his ships, sickness claimed his crew, and even the strongest shields split under enemy blades.
Now he sailed alone. His men were gone—lost to battle, disease, or the waves. He no longer prayed for their souls. The gods had turned their backs on him, and he had done the same to them. Only the sea remained, cold and merciless.
The mist thickened around him, and the water turned black as night. He knew these waters. They were the border between the world of men and the realm of the dead. A shadow loomed in the fog—a great ship with a sail of tattered souls. Naglfar, the doom-ship of Hel, come to claim him.
Erik laughed, a harsh sound swallowed by the wind. He had fought all his life, and he would not cower now. He drew his sword, though there was no enemy to cut. The ship groaned, the waves rose higher, and the cold seeped into his bones.
Some say his ship was found days later, drifting empty on a still sea. Others claim he still sails, a ghost on the waves, searching for a shore that will never welcome him.
But the old skalds sing of Erik the Cursed, the man who defied his fate—and vanished into legend.
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