The Allfather looked exactly like he had imagined. He wore his hair long, well combed, as was the Norse custom, a full beard, but also wearing a mighty gold crown and blue robes. His famous spear rested at his side, carved in gleaming runes, and his ravens perched on top of his throne. Mimir’s horned head rested on a table, garlanded with flowers. Another old legend he didn’t think he’d witness; Mimir had been the wisest of gods, and now Odin received spiritual knowledge through his head.

And although the Norse were violent and warlike, Norse culture had its own sophistication. Odin reflected many of those behaviors. He was solemn and taciturn, with sudden bursts of anger that he seemed to try hard to control. That being said, it felt good for Blake to be called son. His own father had disappeared from his life, yet his grandfather had always been there, and Odin reminded him of him.

“Well,” Odin said with a deep voice. “I trust Eir has made a good choice. You, young Blake, have the shoulders of a warrior, and my children spoke much good of you. Hail to you. Skal.”

Eir stood at Blake’s right side, a proud smile on her face. She seemed much shyer than before, especially in front of Odin, but still unnaturally beautiful, making Blake stop and stare.

Apparently, she noticed that he was looking because a blush crossed her cheeks.

Suddenly.

A horn of mead magically appeared on the Allfather’s hand. He immediately drank a mouthful.

A young, pale and skinny human offered Blake a horn full of aromatic liquid. It smelled like bread dough and honey.

“Skal,” said Blake, bowing his head and taking a sip. It was truly the nectar of the gods, perfectly sweet, with an otherworldly sweetness and the slight tangy flavor of wine, perfectly refreshing like no glass of water after a long workout could be. He finished it in one gulp.

“Another one for my son,” said Odin once again.

Brynhilde elbowed him and whispered in his ear. “Godly liquor-holding another blessing that I’ll give you if you’re a good boy.”

“Girl, I’ll keep surprising you,” Blake said, feeling a buzz that had come much faster than he expected.

“Well, Blake, my son,” Odin said with his low baritone voice. “You have come to aid us in our direst moment of need. I have heard from Eir that you are much of a scholar.”

“I have read what I could,” Blake said, selecting Skald’s voice to prepare for Odin’s interrogation. “Although much has been lost through the ages.”

“You have heard the prophecies that the Norns have spoken.”

“Of Ragnarok?”

“Ragnarok is here. Each thread is in its place. Loki has been freed of his chains and the Jotun ravage our lands. Now it will spread to Midgard.”

"To Midgard? To my world?"

“Aye, and you know of Ragnarok. We shall all fight and die, the Norns have spoken. Few will survive this struggle. We will lose the war, but we must give our best. If we don’t, the destruction of this universe will be complete. We must fight, even if it is for a single thread of life to prevail.”

“Wait…” Yes, he knew it all, he knew of the devastation, he knew that Ragnarok meant Twilight of the Gods, the end of the world. But…

This dream was going on for too long, too complex, the stakes were becoming too high. Blake opened his eyes wide.

He didn’t want that to be true.

No, he was not dreaming. He was really dead.

And Ragnarok meant the death of all.

“The madness of Loki shall reach every corner, a great war will begin, and men will destroy each other in madness until nothing is left.”

“But how, how could it happen, I…”

“Do you believe the prophecies?”

“I…” He didn’t.

“The world will end, and we must fight. We must fight and die, so that the last man survives.”

Blake gasped.

Part of him didn’t want to believe him. He‘d been snatched from his life much too soon. Unexpectedly.

There was much he hadn’t been able to do. The biggest stab of sadness that engulfed him was knowing he wouldn’t be able to say goodbye. His thoughts first drifted toward his best friends, all in different states. His grandmother still lived, who’d raised him as his son, and he hadn’t been able to hug her one last time. His father… He hadn’t seen him in years. They hadn’t talked in so long, and there was still much to say, and much Blake expected to hear.

If it was all real, fighting for Odin’s cause was fighting for their survival. Loki wanted to destroy, and his attacks would soon reach the Earth, or Midgard, as the Norse called it.

“And you have been chosen to fight to defend this world, as an Einherjar,” Odin exclaimed. “You are of my blood, in this world and in Midgard, and…”

The valkyries exchanged glances.

Odin shut his single eye, sighed and then looked at Eir.

“What is it, father?” said the silver-haired valkyrie, lowering her head slightly.

Odin stared at Blake again.

“The Norns have much to say, you are in many threads regarding the Nine Worlds. But let it be enough for now.”

Blake blinked.

“What is it, Allfather?”

Odin breathed out. He stretched a hand and placed it on Blake’s head. He blinked, not knowing whether to flinch or not. “Fight, my son, be breve and do your duty. My daughters shall stand by your side. There hasn’t been a man from Midgard in these halls for a hundred years. The end of time has come, and you are here for a reason.”

Blake’s eyes shifted to the valkyries. It was as if Odin knew something very important, but hesitated to say it.

“Allfather, please, I’d like to know more of what you’ve seen about me.”

“Calm yourself,” said Eir in his ear. Her soothing voice made him breathe out.

“Allfather,” Blake said. “What is it? There is something you know. Please, I'd like to know.”

Blake couldn’t explain why, but he worried for his family and friends.

“Oh, yes, Blake, son of Clyde, son of Russell. There is much we know, and much that we don’t, much that we keep, and a bit that we tell. I cannot interfere, all I can tell you is to do your best.”

A far as the Sagas went, Odin was the wisest being in the whole universe. He wouldn’t be omniscient in the classical way, but he’d received countless secrets and had direct access to clairvoyance and knowledge of the different realms; it was also said that he was a master of Seidr; the magic of women, oriented around divination and knowing what fate had in store. From what Blake had read, many Norse people were afraid of that.

“Some knowledge must be kept,” Odin said solemnly. “You are not ready to know it all, you must perform your own sacrifice and walk, half blinded by it, but with one purpose.”

“Hey. Calm down,” this time it was Brynhilde, speaking on his ear. “It doesn’t look good when you stand dumbfounded like that.”

Blake nodded.

“I will do my best, Allfather.”

***

“Come,” Brynhilde held him by the arm. “We’ll go meet the boys and girls.”

“Blake,” Eir leaned in and spoke into his ear. She looked worried. “You look afraid, please be more confident or they won’t treat you well.”

“I… I am really dead, am I not?”

“Yes,” Eir said, shrugging.

Once again, Blake had to come to terms with what it meant. First, he wouldn’t finish his degree. Grandma would receive news of his death, another Olson to bury; and only his son being left alive. Blake wished he’d been there for her. She was too old and all alone, and dad didn’t care about anything or anyone. Angel, his best friend from high school, Tanner, the guy he went to the gym with and watched the UFC with, who had convinced him to try Brazillian Jiu-Jitsu, his ex girlfriend and failed fiancee; Bianca, they’d all probably receive news of his death. His friends from college, the leader of the expedition; Adriénne, the cute French-Canadian tour guide. Were any of them going to his funeral? Would he even see it?

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

“That means…” Blake said softly.

It meant he was alone. He had never been particularly religious, but he’d always hoped, if there was life after death, that he’d be able to see his ancestors, his grandfather, his mom, and maybe the ones who came before them.

“You died, but you’ve been resurrected.” Eir said reassuringly.

“Where’s my family?” he asked.

Brynhilde was the one to answer.

“Well, Olson, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but they didn’t die in battle, or did and didn’t call upon the gods during their lives,” Brynhilde said with a shrug. “We’d know, and they’re not in Valhalla. But, hey, maybe you’re related to Harald Sigurdsson or someone, Hel, maybe everyone of them. They’re your family now.”

Blake blinked. What a way to brush it off. But where were they? In the Christian heaven? In Norse Hel? Had they ceased to exist?

Now that felt terribly lonely.

“Now stop whining and let’s go,” said Brynhilde. “We’ve gotta start preparing you to fight for Odin’s cause.”

What about grandpa Russell? He had studied the Norse, he was not a pagan, but he’d respected them. He’d been a warrior, he’d fought in WWII. He didn’t die in battle, he died of a stroke decades later, but it had been as painful.

Was it all real? Was it all so unfair.

“Wake up,” Brynhilde said into his ear. “Meet your new family. The Einherjar. Pro tip: they might want to challenge you.”

“Challenge me?” The poems talked about Einherjar fighting all the time. He narrowed his eyes. He’d had a few fights since grade school, some which were successful, some on which he ended up with a broken nose. Going back to his memories made him shake his head. Those bad experiences were part of the reason why he’d practiced Brazilian Jiu Jitsu for a year. He’d been obsessed for that short period and gotten a blue-belt; it had increased his confidence back then, but he hadn’t practiced for years. And fighting someone with a sword or an ax was definitely something else.

What he saw in Valhalla reminded him of Oktoberfest feasts in Germany: long tables, and servants carrying enormous trays full of mead and beer, long trays with pork ribs, roasted meat, sourdough, and plates full of berries and grapes. The aromas were fantastic, especially the grilled meat. He’d have to see how it compared to authentic Texas steak. From glancing at the tables and seeing massive people devouring T-bone steaks and ribs, he could tell the meat was generally cooked medium-rare. He liked it as rare as possible, but that would do.

But the beer jugs caught his attention, there were different varieties, and he even thought he saw stout Irish beer.

“Beer? You’ve got actual beer?”

“The best invention your generation has produced,” Brynhilde said.

“Well, I can enjoy something from home,” he said with a shrug, relaxing for a moment.

The next shock to take in were the people: all of them were beautiful human specimens, even though most of the men looked tough, they all were fit and devoid of any imperfection, the men were strong, muscular, although of different builds, and the women among them all looked like supermodels. Most of them looked vaguely Norse or Scandinavian, but he heard a few words that seemed to be an ancient form of Slavic, and even Greek accents. He guessed the latter would have been pagan Varangians, who had moved into the Byzantine Empire as mercenaries. There were even a handful with darker skin and Asian or Native American features; he imagined them to be Native Greenlanders or even Native Americans that ended up among the Norse, either as captives or allies, had become warriors and died as such.

Some of them were fighting, groups of men and Valkyries gathering and cheering. The battles were brutal, with sharp polished axes and swords. Blake saw one of the men being pierced completely through by a sword. Blake paled, thinking that could not be really happening.

Then, he started to catch the attention of the crowd. Men that he would never consider picking a fight with started elbowing each other.

But they started raising horns and beer jugs, shouting Skal and cheering on him.

“Eh, newcomer,” said a voice. Blake felt a sharp pull at his sleeve. “Strong as an ox, heh?” The man was a blond giant with a braided beard. He was as tall as Blake, about 6’1, but seemed much larger, with a little bit of belly fat and broad shoulders. A silver necklace depicting Thor’s hammer hung at his neck. “We’ll see about that.”

“Two valkyries by his side,” said another, next to the blond. He wore an exotic pagan hairstyle, shaved in the back of the head and a long bang in the front, like a cossack. His eyes were blue and he had no beard. “Either he’s too good or he’s a coward.”

“No, didn’t you hear?” said the blond. “Brynhilde had to come and rescue them.”

Brynhilde cleared her throat and faced the men.

“He was facing a frost giant. Too bad we didn’t get the chance to see what he’d do to it.”

Blake looked at her and raised an eyebrow. Was she on his side or not? Then, she placed a hand on his shoulder.

“We’ll let you talk to the boys,” she said to him, like a mother dropping her toddler at pre-school. “We’ve got things to do.”

“Eh.” Blake blinked, facing the two men again. They frowned and stared at him like criminals. He could tell just by looking into their eyes that they were seasoned warriors, and he was nothing but a history nerd. Maybe women would be easier to approach. There were a few and far in between, some looked like shield-maidens, carrying weapons and chainmail, others wore traditional Norse dresses with tortoise breeches and scarves.

“Alright,” Blake said with a shrug, when he suddenly felt his senses tingle. It was a little too late, because someone had already shoved him back. He looked up, finding the blond giant standing and pushing him. “Newcomer, truly the time of the Wolf has come because these heroes are deficient. They say all men in your time are weaklings, cowards and cheats. They don’t deserve to be here in Valhalla. Now I challenge you to fight! To prove that you are a coward, and if you have an ounce of honor, you will accept or grab your own ass and throw yourself to Hel.”

Blake blinked in shock.

He instinctively activated [Skald’s Voice], searching for the proper way to respond.

And like Brynhilde had said, he had to fight. Was it supposed to be like Fight Club? He was joining an army, he had get some experience, and it was natural that they’d test his resolve.

“Well,” Brynhilde spoke beside him. “Maybe I can stay a little more,” she giggled. “Let’s see what happens here.”

Eir placed a hand on Blake’s forearm.

Blake cleared his throat and tried to sound convincing.

“Stranger, tell me your name,” said Blake, channeling the ancient custom. “For I am Blake Olson, and though I have lived in a world in peace, I have war and survival in my veins. You know not of the massive wars my generations have faced, where millions have perished in Hells of flame, and the wisdom of the ages, where braver men have lived and died as warriors. And now I shall fight you too, with no weapons.”

Well, that was true, Grandpa had been in Normandy, and Dad had done some tours in Iraq. He wouldn’t describe his dad as brave, though, at least, on his day-to-day life.

It felt somehow exhilarating to banter like that. Names were very important in that culture, and he remembered some sagas where the hero returned to his victims to tell them their name before their deaths.

He could feel adrenaline rushing into his veins.

The blond man seemed impressed, he narrowed his blue eyes and pulled a strand of greasy blond hair away from his face.

“Well, well, let us see. If you fight with no weapons, it shall be my honor. I shall tell you my name, stranger, so that you remember in Hel who cut you to pieces and made you drink your own blood, and shame your ancestors.”

Blake narrowed his eyes, the man truly meant to offend him. “I am Bjorn Harvaldsson.” He turned around, pointing at Blake while addressing the others. “And I shall unmask this talking coward.”

Blake sighed. In Norse lore, being called a coward was enough to ensue a fight and see who would live or die. He turned around. He knew he had been resurrected and had become, somehow, super human, but he’d never been a warrior. His Jiu Jitsu training had been for self defense and self confidence.

“Fight,” shouted the man with cossack hairstyle. Others cheered and raised their horns and mugs in the air.

“No weapons, very brave,” Brynhilde said, nodding with her arms crossed.

“Good luck, Blake,” Eir simply said, coming closer to him. “By the way, he also has the [Helm of Awe], gifted to him from Thrud, Thor’s daughter. And other gifts from Thrud. Be careful.”

“You mean… He…?”

Blake did not have the advantage he thought he had. And what Brynhilde had said… Very brave? When Blake turned, the other warriors had made way for them to fight. But what he saw next made him feel like fainting. Bjorn had extracted an ax from his girdle and was swinging it as a warm-up.

Blake looked at the valkyries, who had positioned themselves along with other valkyries to continue watching.

So, Blake had offered to fight him unarmed. He thought he’d imply that both would fight unarmed.

“Shit,” Blake mumbled, eyes wide open. He was about to open his mouth and tell Bjorn that he didn’t expect to fight against an armed man, but his knowledge of Norse culture told me that would be extremely shameful. Now he’d have to suck it up.

And be cut to pieces.

What if he died? Was he going to disappear forever? Or was he going to go to the Nordic Hel, without any hope of coming back? No one had explained anything!

The man with the shaved back of the head walked in between them, shirtless, showing a muscular body with a bit of belly fat, holding a jug of ale.

“Fight! Finally, a good fight. Bjorn, my brother, tear this boy to pieces like he’s begging you to do.”

“Yeah,” shouted the others. “Rip him to pieces!”

“It’s a wonderful night to witness a beheading!”

All seemed to be on Bjorn’s side.

In the meantime, Bjorn was also removing his tunic, revealing a massive chest and a little bit of a belly. Now, he wore nothing but leather briefs and tall boots. He looked like a pro wrestler.

Blake sighed.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

He took his own t-shirt off, revealing the body he had constructed with two years of powerlifting. He was much leaner than Bjorn, and tall, but not as bulky.

“What have I gotten myself into…” he said to himself.

That ax looked sharp as hell.

Blake shut his eyes. He remembered what Odin had said, and what his grandfather had said for years. Grandpa had been like them. He had fought in World War II, he had read Blake viking sagas as bedtime stories. He had taught him the value of doing one’s best or die trying.

He placed his arms forward, remembering his year of jiu-jitsu lessons. An ax was faster than a fist, so he’d have to close in.

“Fight!” shouted the brown haired man, lowering his jug, mead sprinkling the ground. Blake visualized his stats. As soon as he selected the [Helm of Awe], a smaller bar appeared next to it, revealing his [HP] buffer.

He shut his eyes, looking back at Eir. Her gray eyes were fixed on him, they seemed to say: I trust you, do your best, I’ll be here for you.

Brynhilde, on the other side, was trying to hold her laughter.

But Bjorn was not acting like it was another day in the park; the man’s face was somber, teeth clenched like those of a rabid dog, his eyes rolled backward and his veins seemed so tense that they seemed to be about to pop out. Suddenly, the man crouched, growling like a rabid dog, tensing every muscle in his body.

A runic sigil displayed behind him. Blake swallowed hard as soon as he saw the words Class: Berserker, displayed above Bjorn’s head.