There’s something that’s always appealed to me about Norse mythology. It wasn’t Valhalla in particular, although feasting, drinking and brawling your way through the afterlife with zero consequences does have a certain appeal. I guess the stories just feel more grounded than say, Greek or Hindu mythologies. The Norse mythos (what’s survived anyway) is full of blood and dirt, crass humour and goat-drawn chariots, balanced by an immense sense of tragedy overshadowing everything – after all, Ragnarok is coming, and no one’s getting out alive. Also, I guarantee you’ll never think of elves the same way after you learn that they sprang from the armpit sweat of the giant Ymir. They certainly like to keep that one hushed up.
Textbox: All my life I’ve longed for Valhalla.
Grizzled Viking veterans sit by the fire preparing for the next day - cleaning swords, mending wounds or just gazing into the flame. Most of them are in pretty bad shape, with a variety of wounds from a previous engagement.
Textbox: At dawn I’ll pass the gates, blood fresh on my axe.
A young boy sits among the seasoned warriors. He is lonely and scared, and stares straight into the flames, grasping his axe tightly in both hands.
So why do I wish
I could live to see 15 summers?