Battle cries and taunts cut over the sound of metal-on-metal, echoed through the thick fortress walls ahead. A group of armor-clad warriors hang to the flanks of a trio of individuals bearing the mark of a sun-backed spear. The one at the head, however, stood taller than all of them; he walked with a stature of nearly seven feet tall, physically ripped to the point of the human physique's limit. Even the armor clinging to his body strained against its form.

"My boy Heimdallr will lead me out."

"Heimdallr?" Gullveig asked. "You mean the child?"

Dagr smiled, his eyes alight with delight. "No, not a child. Not even a man. But he is my son."

"And how do you expect him to take up the mantle when he is still so young? He hasn't finished his training nor-"

Dagr shoves the doors wide, light bursting through the doorway and across the few of us still living within the fortress. "I do not ask for anyone's approval, Gullveig. I know my place in this world. I have always known it. And I will be there as well, watching from afar as our people are brought low in this siege's darkest moments and my son brings us to far greater ones!"

I feel the weight in my chest growing, my wrist shaking. Unlike the weight in my chest, the weight of my spear doesn't lessen, especially as my father's gaze falls on me.

"Heimdallr Dagrsson," he says, ignoring the whistle of a pair of arrows passing him and striking Gullveig's waiting shield. "Let us show them! Lead the way as any son of mine rightfully should!"

The few huskarl remaining whisper prayers to their gods and raise their shields, parting as I finally raise my shield and grit my teeth. I settle the spear's tip along the edge of my shield, letting my own dangerous smile take its place.

"I'll write stories of this once we're finished, Father!"

Gullveig turns her gaze to me, only sighing as she inevitably grabs the wand on her hip. "Dagr's brat for sure."

My father laughs and turns, giving me the space to lead and taking up his place at my side. Like a wave, the remnants of Dagrs' Fall surge from the inner keep and toward the scrambling-to-the-ready defending line. And at their head, the pair of father and son clad in magical protective spells slam down with as much might as their legend holds.

My name is Heimdallr Dagrsson: I am one of the many younger sons of Dagr the Sunspear, greatest warrior in all of Daesal, and the leading skald of Heiðr. The story I tell will be the truth. Our victory here today will be told for generations. My tale will stand as tall as the stories of my father's exploits. On the day of my sixteenth birthday, our home in Dagrs' Fall was attacked by the forces of the Enslaved Empire.

On that day, I fought so long that my body gave out for weeks. I killed almost twenty men before my wounds dragged me into the clutches of unconsciousness. My father was-

Alert: you have one new, urgent email!

The pop-up blocks the words on my monitor, forcing a surprised sputter from my lips and making me forget all about my story.

"An email now? I told them that I needed an extension!"

I groan and get up, ignoring the pop-up and heading to my bathroom. I quickly shut the door with a sigh, bending over the sink and closing my eyes to try and recapture my interrupted writing before it slips away. Of course, just like it always does when my editors and publishers annoy me, it doesn't.

My name is unimportant. What matters are the facts: I'm almost ninety-three years old, living a solitary and peaceful life of a writer. Most of my friends and family died or lost touch with me a long time ago. I didn't have kids, but I had a few pets over the years that now were all but gone. On paper, I'm nothing more than just a guy struggling to find his place in a world getting ready to erase him.

Specifically, I've been fighting that erasing with the creation of stories like this one. Heimdallr is just the most recent of my protagonists and was designed to cater to my younger audience who were recommended my works by their parents ages ago. It's odd to say that there are multiple generations reading my writing, but even now I'm glad that I didn't fade away and had a swelling in my reader base of young people. They always say they loved my older stories that my older audience now find somewhat... boring.

At the end of the day, it's because of the themes. Protagonists like Heimdallr face adversity and find friendship and gains where most would just be thankful to have survived. It's unrealistic but inspiring, if I had to put it another way. Younger readers also assert themselves over the work in some cases, imagining themselves to be in his place instead.

For someone like me who wants to leave a legacy, it'd be better to do this than just keep writing something boring. All of my old works may not be too fun, but even the older ones who've been with me since they were kids sometimes ask if I'll ever go back and work on those older projects again.

Although I've been making good progress on Heimdallr's story, it feels like I've been dreaming too much of it lately to really focus. Visions of the various monsters and people of Heimdallr's world constantly haunt my sleep with the deadline closing in on my writing... and all the while, they feel far too vivid to be just simple dreams. Some of it acts as direct inspiration, but never direct writing; all of the dreams of the setting may share that tie, but they distinctly don't feature him at any point in his story. From dragon-like kobolds to eerie streets of the Enslaved Empire's capital, I keep seeing more and more of Daesal to the point I started taking medicine for hallucinations. And despite my doctor's best wishes, it hasn't helped me in the slightest from having them.

Couple all of that on top of the stress from having my publishers pushing me to the limit? I was so satisfied with this life that I had forgotten just how bad they could be when they just wanted your next big published piece.

I open my eyes and look into the mirror at the old man I'd become with disgust.

"How can I just lose it from that? I was so close to getting the introductory chapter properly poised. Has age... really slowed me down this much?"

The old man in front of me hardly resembles my characters or what I had long looked like; even with the current age of medicine being so great, I had begun rapidly aging in the last two years of resuming my writing. Once I had looked roughly in my sixties... now I certainly looked like a man in his final years.

I sigh and turn my sink on, collecting a handful of water and washing the sweat of my anguish away in one seamless motion.

If I could go back and do it all over again, I think I'd like to write again. Maybe I'd find someone to keep by my side or not push away what little family I'd had... but overall I wouldn't feel any less to dedicate myself to this line of work. I'd have the knowledge of what sort of people to avoid, too, which would make it a lot easier to avoid the publishers and partners that led me down the wrong paths and almost destroyed my reputation and works over the decades.

That word punches me in the gut harder than losing my thoughts: decades. Just how long had I slaved away hoping to find that one last story that'd make me truly regret nothing, only to find out later in my life that the truth was simpler and all I needed was self-confidence in my own work?

As a writer, I had been successful but not a great all because I tried to pursue what would make me popular... but after all of that, I found my best success catering to the few fans who'd stuck with me and bought my books through my peaks and lows.

I lower my hands and take a deep breath.

"I'll finish this story," I whisper, turning the sink off and facing back toward my office. "If it's the last thing I-"

My first step is my last: I step through the doorframe and feel my right leg buckle. My age slowed me just enough that I can't reach the wall nor the frame as I fall, nor get my other arm out in front to pillow the drop. I crash against the floor loud enough that you'd think I shattered the tiles, but I don't suffer any great cut. Instead I feel my consciousness snap with an instantaneous rattle of my head.

At the age of ninety-three, in the final editing passes and moments of finishing my final novel, I died. I wouldn't know what would come when they found me, when they salvaged my works, or when they inevitably forgot about me long after my passing to move onto the next big author.

At the very instant I hit the ground and died, however, I simultaneously awoke somewhere new: inside a vast space of white that expanded as far as my eyes could see. I couldn't move or speak, but my mind knew this place was something different from what I'd known. A place not of material but still of substance, this white field was a plane between. It was-

Do not be fearful of me.

The plane in front of me bore forth a new being of runic origin, its symbol dancing across my vision with purpose.

This one has deemed you worthy; hold yourself high in this decision for it shall see you rewarded a chance.

I try to speak my words but they fall silent; instead, the symbol shivers with recognition as if it heard it anyway.

You wonder who I am but that does not matter. In time, you may yet find out. Your world is godless and our reigns forgotten... but you shall find ones who still know us in your new life. From this moment forward, I grant you the chance to live again. Succeed in my eye and you will become one of my few eternal followers. Fail and this life will be the last you retain anything.

The whiteness around me begins fading to darkness along with the miraculous rune, but its voice still pulses to me clear-as-day.

You will lose much of yourself in your first reincarnation... but that is the test I give you. Live anew, Heimdallr. Live and prove yourself as you did before. Where you gained my eye with selfless devotion to your craft, now I suspect you will do so again in a new way. Or, perhaps, the same. I and others will be watching... and... waiting.

All at once his words burned into my very being, wretching out most of what I was: my memories of family and much of my past world were taken or made to fit more fitting ideals. Gods arguing with one another and fairy tales of a new place unlike mine spun into my head... but their familiarity was undeniable. The dreams I'd been having since working on my book wove into them without a moment's pause, painting a picture of a life and knowledge that are both mine and not at the same time.

I was undone. Who I was isn't important... but who I am is.

My consciousness slips back and I feel my chest breathe in; I quickly push myself up to my hands and knees with remarkable ease, running my hand quickly to my face.

I don't feel wrinkles, but instead the warmth of blood on smooth skin. I pull my hand away at the pain stinging along my brow, looking around me and seeing the worried faces of children. They all look to be between five or ten years old... save one who holds a stick in his right hand who looks to be twelve or thirteen, even.

"Stupid Heimdallr," the teenage boy spits, his glare fixated on me. "You're just a concubine's spawn. You should know better than to have talked back to me, even if you're stronger than my other half-siblings!"

That name.

My mind races as what I recall does paint a picture: this is one of the flashbacks in my novel... and quite possibly the earliest one to date. I try to stand up in confusion only to feel the teen whack the stick across my face again, knocking me down into a crowd of the other kids.

"Heimdallr," one of the younger girls cries, tears streaming down her face. "It's okay! I-I said you don't haveta protect me! Big brother was right to scold me, so-"

Her voice fades in my mind as the name pulses louder than the rest of it.

Heimdallr... that's... me?

I turn my blood-addled gaze toward the other boy and realize why it's hard to gauge his age much: he felt taller than most... but that's because I'm shorter than him. Rather than my previous height almost reaching six feet tall, I was now closer to four feet tall, give a few inches. My body's energy and tolerance against the pain helped me hold my maturity, but the weakness of my younger and smaller frame made everything hurt.

"What's wrong with you, bastard? You thinkin' you can do more than be a training dummy? Maybe I should beat you and the others together!"

"... No."

My words come out in a voice that's not mine but is: a youthful and brash voice of someone who'd been exposed to a poor servant's life and now fought against pain that most adults couldn't tolerate without tears.

The other boy's face twists with a sadistic snarl. "What was that, you brat? You think you can just defy me?"

Although my body is young, my spirit is far from that of a fearful child. After all, I knew this story well... and if it truly was my story I could test it in an instant. I clench my right hand into a fist and throw a punch so fast that the older teenager doesn't get a chance to react.

And the punch lands directly over his right lung, causing him to immediately gasp and gag for air as the weakened ribs he'd hurt on a previous trip were broken. Or, at least, agitated.

"I said no," I bark, reaching out and grabbing his collar in emulation of the memory. "And don't call me bastard or brat, you twerp!"

I raise my fist much to his shock, delivering another punch this time directly to his face. Unlike my first punch that had an easy target, this one glances with my inexperienced strike... and the two of us tumble down to the dirt amidst the group of kids' cheers and taunts. Neither of us knows what to do even if the book did help me start the fight; after all, the flashback only appeared to highlight a weakness that Heimdallr's half-brother had.

I never wrote whether or not he won the following fight... and the dark snarl on his face made it clear that this wasn't going to be just a one-and-done fistfight. He clenched the stick in his hands and swung again, this time breaking it over my shoulder and sending splinters all over us.

I don't know how or why I reincarnated... but what I know is that this pain is real. It's not writing... but this feels vaguely like what I was supposed to do. After all, now that I had a second chance at life, I had a new responsibility. I grit my teeth and grab the teen's shirt amidst the chaos, twisting it up in both hands and gritting my teeth. I draw my head back and bring it down, feeling the thud of our skulls no differently than when I'd fallen in my previous life. Unlike then, neither of our brains rattled. Instead, we both snapped back in pain and threw more blows like stupid kids would when trying to fight.

It's my job to live.