30 Days of Past Life Regression - Day 3: The Wolf & Wildfire

A Past Life as a Viking Warrior Woman

By the time I sat down for today’s regression, I could feel a hunger stirring, not for sweetness or sorrow, not for something soft or sentimental, but for the kind of remembrance that wakes up the bones, fills the lungs with cold air, and makes you feel like you could roar. I wanted to meet the version of me who was fierce, who did not ask for permission to exist, who had dirt under her fingernails and blood in her teeth and a voice that shook the trees. I wanted a life that burned like fire through dry grass, the kind of life that didn’t just happen but took up space, rattled cages, and returned home covered in sweat, salt, and stories.

She came almost immediately.

She was already waiting for me.

My Past Life Regression Experience

A Viking woman, tall, wild-haired, wide-eyed, standing on the jagged cliffs of Norway where the sea crashes against stone like thunder. Her feet were bare, her dress was leathered and worn, her breath made clouds in the winter air. She was not watching the storm roll in. She was the storm.

I was born just outside the place we now call Bergen, in a small wooden homestead nestled in the curve between mountain and fjord, where the mornings tasted like cold iron and the nights were thick with smoke from hearth fires. It was a quiet life by Nordic standards, no bloodshed in my early years, no raids or warfare that I can recall, only the steady rhythm of living close to the land and in harmony with the seasons. We were farmers and fishers, part of a tight-knit village where everyone knew everyone else, and community wasn’t just a word, it was a woven thread that held us all together.

We had animals: goats, chickens, pigs, a few sheep, and a patch of land where we grew what we could. My mother spun wool and taught us to sew and tend the gardens, and though I loved her with the kind of fierce loyalty that only daughters can carry, I found my body constantly turning toward the door, my heart pulled toward the horizon as if something beyond the village was calling me by name.

I had one sister, one brother, and a second little brother who came along later, and together we filled our days with laughter and dirt and the kind of games children invent when they are given the gift of freedom.

We ran through the trees with sticks as swords, scraped our knees on rocks, built forts of moss and timber and dared each other to leap across icy streams without falling in. We worked too, of course we did, but there was a sense of belonging in the rhythm of it all. And yet, even then, even as a child, I carried this sharp, restless edge inside me, as if some part of me already knew I wasn’t built to stay small.

The moment it clicked into place, the moment I began to remember who I was, was the day my older brother came home from his first hunt empty-handed. He was seven, proud, red-cheeked from cold, spinning a tale about how close he had come to catching something. But I saw the way he looked at our father, the shadow of disappointment in his eyes, and something inside me lit like a spark hitting dry straw.

I begged to go the next day.

My mother wasn’t thrilled. She didn’t like the idea of her daughter traipsing into the forest with a bow and a blade, but my father, who had always known there was something different in me, grinned and said yes before she could finish protesting. So before the sun had even begun to rise, I pulled on thick wool layers and boots that pinched my toes, and followed him into the still-dark morning with a bow nearly too large for me slung across my back and a belly full of nerves.

The forest was breathless in the cold, branches heavy with snow, every sound muffled beneath a soft blanket of white. My arms ached from trying to draw the bowstring, but I kept at it, gritting my teeth through each shot he asked me to take, until finally, after hours of tracking reindeer through the hills, we found one. I remember whispering to the gods, my lips barely moving as I asked them to steady my hands, to guide the arrow, to let me prove myself.

When the arrow hit, it felt like time cracked open.

I can still hear my father’s whoop of joy, the way his voice echoed off the trees as he clapped his hands and shouted praise. He carried the reindeer home on his back, and by the time we returned, the moon had risen and the sky was bruised with stars. My brother’s jaw dropped when he saw what I had done, and though I tried to play it cool, I could feel the pride burning hot beneath my skin. Something in me had shifted, something that would never shift back.

From that day on, I had no interest in spinning wool or helping in the garden. I wanted the axe. The bow. The thrill of the hunt. My father taught me what he could, but I outpaced his lessons quickly, and when he could no longer keep up, he sent me to his brother, my uncle, a giant of a man who was known throughout the nearby villages as a seasoned warrior.

He took me on without ceremony, without softness, and trained me with a brutality that would’ve broken a lesser spirit. But I didn’t break. I rose to every blow, every challenge, every tumble into the frozen mud. I learned fast, as if I had done it all before.

By twelve, I was more skilled than half the boys who trained with me, and I began to notice things that didn’t make sense, men who disappeared for long stretches and returned with strange goods, coins stamped with unfamiliar markings, jewellery too delicate and intricate for anyone in our village to have made. Sometimes, they brought people back, boys, girls, women, kept quiet in dark huts or kept close to the earls.

At first, I believed the stories. Trade, they said. Exchanges. Long voyages for silks and salt.

But when you’ve lived by the edge of truth, you know when something doesn’t sit right.

One night, I slipped into one of the huts near the edge of the village, the ones people pretended not to notice, and found a boy about my age sitting in the shadows, his wrists still red from rope burns. He looked up at me with eyes that didn’t flinch. I asked where he was from, and he told me.

He told me everything.

His voice was quiet but steady, and his words sliced through the illusion I had lived inside like a knife through wool. He spoke of blood in the snow, of villages burned, of mothers screaming and fathers gutted, of being dragged from everything he knew and tossed into this cold new life like a stolen relic.

I left with my heart pounding in my ears and stormed into my uncle’s house, shaking with fury. I screamed at him, demanded answers, punched him hard in the chest, and kept hitting him until he finally caught my fists and pinned me down with one hand.

“You don’t understand,” he said. And he was right. I didn’t.

But I would.

The next morning, I stowed away on one of the longships that was preparing to leave. I hid deep beneath the supplies, wrapped in burlap and the scent of dried fish, pressed between barrels of dried meat and crates of salted cod. For nearly a week, I barely moved. I rationed what little food I could sneak, slept in short bursts, and flinched at every footstep above my head, every creak of the timber. The rocking of the ship became its own strange lullaby, and in those long hours of silence and motion, I prepared myself for what I knew was coming, even though I had no idea what, exactly, that would be.

By the time they found me, we were too far from land to turn back. I had emerged from hiding just once, slipping above deck in the early dawn when I believed most of the crew would still be sleeping. The air was thick with sea mist, and I stood silently near the edge of the boat, staring out at the grey water, letting the cold wind slap against my cheeks like a second initiation.

But I wasn’t alone.

My uncle was there, his arms crossed, his face unreadable, though I could tell he had expected this. He didn’t shout. He didn’t drag me below or beat me as I had imagined. He simply looked at me for a long moment, then turned and walked away.

That evening, he handed me an axe.

It wasn’t a grand gesture. No speech. No ritual. Just a glance, a nod, and the weight of it in my hands. I was too small for a sword, he told me, but not too small to fight. Then he said something that stayed with me for the rest of that life.

“If you don’t kill them, they’ll kill you. Don’t hesitate.”

His words felt like a knife sliding into my chest, not out of fear, but because they landed on the part of me that still wanted to believe there was something noble in what we were doing, something honourable. But this was not about honour. This was survival. This was blood for blood, power for power.

And I wanted to understand it all.

After another week at sea, we finally made landfall on a strange and unfamiliar shore. The air was warmer, damp and rich with the scent of pine and something sweet and strange I couldn’t name. The trees were different here, shorter, broader, softer somehow, and everything felt lush, fertile, and wide open. I remember how eerie the silence was as we disembarked, our boots sinking slightly into the mossy forest floor. No battle cry, no warning horns, no resistance. Just quiet. That kind of quiet that always comes before the storm.

It didn’t last long.

Before nightfall, we met our first wave of resistance. They came running at us through the trees, clad in chainmail and painted with colours I didn’t recognise, their swords gleaming, their eyes fierce with the kind of desperate rage that only comes from defending home and kin. Our warriors, my people, moved like wildfire, swift and merciless, and within minutes it was over. The snow-damp forest floor was slick with blood and trampled earth. I hadn’t even raised my axe.

That night, we made camp not far from the edge of the skirmish, and though we were quiet, everyone could feel the tension thick in the air, like lightning gathering before a second storm. Whispers crept through the camp of another village nearby, and plans began to stir, low and certain, that we’d strike again before the moon reached its peak. Some men sharpened their blades with calm precision, others passed around skins of mead, not to gather courage, but to stoke the fire already burning in their blood. There was no fear among them, only readiness, only hunger.

My uncle approached me for the first time since the landing. He didn’t ask how I felt. He didn’t offer comfort or advice. He simply sat beside me, silent, until the firelight flickered across his face, and then he said in a low voice, “This is where the real fun begins.”

I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to hit him again like I had that night in the village. I wanted to ask how this could be called fun, the blood, the fear, the confusion. But I didn’t say anything. Because underneath my fury, something else had begun to stir.

Excitement. Curiosity. And, to my shame, a thread of pride.

Was this what it meant to be one of them? Was this what it meant to be powerful?

When the time came, we moved like shadows. The new moon had turned the sky to ink, and the other camp had made the mistake of lighting too many torches. One by one, we snuffed them out as we slipped between the trees, closer, quieter, colder.

And then the alarm was raised. A shout. A clash. A scream. It was like someone dropped a spark into dry grass and everything went up in flames. The air was filled with metal on metal, voices calling out, the sharp, wet sound of blades entering flesh. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would split my ribs, and I felt the cold metal of my axe slipping in my sweaty palms.

Then he came, a man, taller than me, broader, his face twisted in rage and panic, charging straight toward me with his sword raised. Everything slowed. Time split open. I saw the mistake he made, arms too high, ribs exposed, and I didn’t think. I swung.

The blade of my axe buried itself in his side with a sickening crunch, and he crumpled, still breathing. I hit him again, and the second blow finished what the first had started.

My body went still. The world spun. I couldn’t hear anything but my breath and the distant roar of everything else. Something inside me cracked open.

Before I could process what I had done, another attacker came barreling toward me, but I was shoved violently to the side by one of my own, who took the kill without a word. I fell, rolled, caught myself on my hands and knees, and when I looked up, the chaos was still burning around me. But I wasn’t afraid anymore.

I was in it.

By the time the fighting ended, the camp had been torn apart. We gathered what remained, not gold, not jewels, but our own. The woman they had captured was one of ours, stolen months ago, hidden away in this foreign camp. I recognised the embroidery on her tattered cloak. She was the Earl’s daughter.

And in that moment, the full truth dropped like an anchor inside me.

This wasn’t just about conquest or treasure. This was a war, an old, tangled, bloody war between clans and kin, stretching back generations. We raided, they raided. We took, they took. And somewhere in the middle, people like me, people who wanted to understand, got swept up in the tide.

When we returned home, the celebration was immediate and wild. Fires were lit, horns were raised, and the mead flowed like river water. Stories were shouted over each other. Bodies pressed close with the flush of victory. I sat among it all, silent, trying to make sense of what I’d done, what I’d seen, what I had become.

And then someone grabbed me by the arm, pulled me to my feet, and shouted my name into the room. My first kill. My first raid. A warrior born of blood and fire. Laughter and celebration erupted in my name, and I was dropped back onto my seat, still spinning of everything that had happened.

They passed me a horn, and I drank it in a single, unbroken swallow, the sweetness of it almost painful against the back of my throat. I felt it settle into my bones. Felt the eyes on me. Felt something change.

I wasn’t a child anymore.

I wasn’t someone’s daughter or someone’s sister.

I was a storm now. A weapon. A wildfire.

And I had only just begun to burn.

In the years that followed, I became something of a legend, not because I sought fame, but because fire cannot help but be seen. Word of my skill spread far beyond our village, carried by wandering tongues and wind-worn stories. My name was whispered in halls and spoken boldly in mead-soaked boasts. They called me shield-maiden, battle-born, the wolf-woman of the northern coast.

I trained relentlessly, day after day, through bitter winters and searing summers, until my muscles held memory better than my mind ever could. My axe moved like an extension of my arm. My instincts sharpened like the blade I wore at my hip. There was no ceremony to my rise, no coronation or title, and yet I stood taller than most warriors I fought beside, my presence both revered and resented by those who did not know what to do with a woman who bowed to no man.

And then they began to come. One by one. Earls. Sons of kings. Lords from distant coasts.

They arrived with longships full of offerings, chests lined with gold coins, jewelled goblets, bolts of foreign silk. They came with promises carved in flattery: land, cattle, titles, crowns. They wanted me as their wife, their queen, their prize. They painted images of a soft life beside roaring fires, of sons who would carry my name, of peace and ease and prestige.

And though I was flattered, though part of me even thrilled at the attention, the recognition, the weight of being wanted, I knew what they truly meant.

They didn’t want me to lead. They wanted me to pause.

To hang up my axe and fill my arms with children. To stand beside them, smiling but silent, as they claimed what I had earned.

So I turned them away, each and every one.

Some left in fury, some with pity in their eyes, as if I had made some tragic mistake by refusing luxury in favour of war. But I never questioned it. Not once. I was not built for a throne that required me to sit still. I had no interest in being softened into someone else's idea of royalty. I was a warrior. I was born to move, to build, to bleed and lead.

Years passed. Seasons spun through me like stories, and before I knew it, I was in my late twenties. I had earned every scar, every victory, every whisper in the halls that still carried my name.

And then he came.

Another earl, yes, but not like the others.

He did not arrive with showy gifts or velvet words. He did not try to dazzle or tame. He came with his weapons worn and his armour scratched, with dirt still on his boots and a quiet in his voice that caught my attention before I even heard his name.

He came not to claim me, but to fight beside me.

He said he had heard stories of me, not just the ones of battle, but of how I had led when others fell, of how I had returned stolen land to the villagers, of how I had refused a crown a dozen times because it came without a sword.

He didn’t want a wife who would sit beside him in silence.

He wanted a partner. An equal. A blade beside his own.

And for the first time in all my years, I listened.

I married him not out of duty or ambition, but because I saw in him something that mirrored the deepest part of myself: a hunger not for power, but for purpose.

Together, we ruled with a different kind of strength. Not with cruelty, not with greed.

We expanded our reach through strategy and service, gifting land back to the farmers who tilled it, returning stolen herds to the villages that had once been raided, distributing seeds and animals and iron to those who needed them most. The land began to speak of us, not with fear, but with fierce loyalty. We became a pair known not just for our victories, but for our vision.

They called us Warrior and Wolf. Fire and frost. Steel and storm.

But I didn’t care what they called us. Because we belonged to the people, to the land, to each other.

And though I had once sworn I would never become someone’s bride, I realised now that it wasn’t marriage I feared.

It was being dimmed.

And in his presence, I was never once asked to shrink.

The Lesson This Life Gave Me

That life taught me that strength is not the absence of tenderness, and power is not born from domination, but from knowing who you are, even when the world tries to convince you otherwise.

It showed me what it means to live without apology, to take up space in a world that never intended to make room for me, and to carry both blade and heart with equal reverence.

For so long, I’ve felt the tension in this life between wildness and softness, between my longing to lead and the pull to be loved. But in returning to her, to the version of me who refused to choose between being a warrior and being a woman, I remembered that we were never meant to divide ourselves into palatable pieces. We are fire and river. We are stillness and roar.

That life reminded me that true partnership is never about shrinking. The love I eventually chose didn’t ask me to be less, it called me to be more. It met me not at my most tamed, but at my most true. And in that reflection, I saw the kind of union I now know my soul still longs for in this life: a love that fights with me, not against me. One that sees my strength as sacred, not something to soften.

But perhaps the greatest lesson that life offered me wasn’t in battle or marriage or legend. It was in the becoming, in the raw, relentless journey of stepping into my power, not to be feared, but to be of service.

And so, in this lifetime, I do not come to be silenced.

I come to lead.

I come to rise.

I come to remember that my fire is not too much, it is my medicine.

I don’t need to search for a crown. I’ve already worn one.

I don’t need to question my path. My footsteps have already carved the way.

I only need to walk it, eyes open, head high, heart unafraid.

Because I am not here to be claimed.

I am here to claim myself.

And from that wholeness, the world will remember me, not just as a woman who fought, but as a woman who returned.

If you're ready to explore your own past lives through a guided regression, book a session here.

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Your story is waiting to be remembered.

Emma Elizabeth

www.RealmsofAlchemy.com