Mead Hall Quotes

I have these guilts about never having read Chaucer but I was talked out of learning Early Anglo-Saxon / Middle English by a friend who had to take it for her Ph.D. They told her to write an essay in Early Anglo-Saxon on any-subject-of-her-own-choosing. “Which is all very well,” she said bitterly, “but the only essay subject you can find enough Early Anglo-Saxon words for is ‘How to Slaughter a Thousand Men in a Mead Hall’.

Naptime,ʺ said Christian, leading her toward the bed. ʺI still need a shower.ʺ ʺSleep first. Shower later.ʺ He pulled back the covers. ʺIʹll sleep with you.ʺ ʺSleep or sleep?ʺ she asked dryly, sliding gratefully into bed. ʺReal sleep. You need it.ʺ He crawled in beside her, spooning against her and resting his face on her shoulder. ʺOf course, afterward, if you want to conduct any official Council business...ʺ ʺI swear, if you say ‘Little Dragomirs,ʹ you can sleep in the hall.

I should have cracked his skull mid song and sent his blood spraying out wet through the mead hall like a shocking change of key.

The present life of man upon earth, O King, seems to me in comparison with that time which is unknown to us like the swift flight of a sparrow through the mead-hall where you sit at supper in winter, with your Ealdormen and thanes, while the fire blazes in the midst and the hall is warmed, but the wintry storms of rain or snow are raging abroad. The sparrow, flying in at one door and immediately out at another, whilst he is within, is safe from the wintry tempest, but after a short space of fair weather, he immediately vanishes out of your sight, passing from winter to winter again. So this life of man appears for a little while, but of what is to follow or what went before we know nothing at all.

Okay?Okay?" People in the hall stared at us. I realized I was practically shouting. "He's out of his mind. He set Ralf on fire. I thought we decided you weren't going to see him anymore.” "You decided, Rose. Not me." There was an edge in her voice I hadn't heard in a while. "What's going on here? Are you guys…you know?…” "No!" she insisted. "I told you that already.God." She shot me a look of disgust. "Not everyone thinks—and acts—like you.” I flinched at the words.

Naptime," said Christian, leading her toward the bed. "I still need a shower." "Sleep first. Shower later." He pulled back the covers. "I'll sleep with you." "Sleep or sleep?" she asked dryly, sliding gratefully into bed. "Real sleep. You need it." He crawled in beside her, spooning against her and resting his face on her shoulder. "Of course, afterward, if you want to conduct any official Council business..." "I swear, if you say 'Little Dragomirs,' you can sleep in the hall.

Many robins got in the church from the trees and roosted among the congregation. They were drunk from some berries and fallen persimmons. Come into the mead hall out of the chill. In Viking history, once a Christian described human life as the flight of a bird through the mead hall. The outerness afterward, eternity.

J.R.R. Tolkien, said a student, "could turn a lecture room into a mead hall in which he was the bard and we were the feasting, listening guests.

But when dawn broke and day crept in over each empty, blood-spattered bench, the floor of the mead-hall where they had feasted would be slick with slaughter. And so they died, faithful retainers, and my following dwindled.

Do you remember where the glory in Beowulf is?" I asked him. "It is out amid peril in strange lands pitted against monsters and the mothers of monsters. It isn't in the warm mead hall with roasted meats and the comfort of jesters and wenches.

But, in the end, it was none of these things, of course. It was only Hrothgar's claustrophobic mead hall with the monster waiting in the darkness without. We had our Grendel, to be sure. We even had our Hrothgar if one squints a bit at sad King Billy's poor slouched profile.

Famous for his deeds a warrior may be, but it remains a mystery where his life will end, when he may no longer dwell in the mead-hall among his own.

Polly Hall was thirteen but wore enough makeup to rival a 40-year-old whore.

… he handed down orders for men to work on a great mead-hall meant to be a wonder of the world forever; it would be his throne-room and there he would dispense his God-given goods to young and old

...grudge worsening. He knew who he hunted: wine-drunk, mead-met men, and he pined for his prey. Under storm clouds he stalked them, in his usual anguish, feeling a forbidden hearth, that gilded hall atop the hill, gleaming still, through years of bloodshed.

I sprinted past the onlookers without a backward glance, taking the stairs two at a time. I shut myself off to Lissa’s feelings as I walked down her hall. It seemed silly, but I wanted to be surprised. I just wanted to open my eyes and see her in person, with no warnings as to how she was feeling or what she was thinking.

Time and again, when the goblets passed and seasoned fighters got flushed with beer they would pledge themselves to protect Heorot and wait for Grendel with whetted swords. But when dawn broke and day crept in over each empty, blood-spattered bench, the floor of the mead-hall where they had feasted would be slick with slaughter. And so they died, faithful retainers, and my following dwindled.

In the third part of the year When men begin to gather fuel Against the coming cold Here hooves run hard on frosty ground Begins our song: For centuries we lived alone high on the moors Herding the deer for milk and cheese For leather and horn Humans came seldom nigh For we with our spells held them at bay And they with gifts of wine and grain Did honour us. Returning at evening from the great mountains Our red hoods rang with bells. Lightly we ran Until before our own green hill There we did stand. She is stolen! She is snatched away! Through watery meads Straying our lovely daughter. She of the wild eyes! She of the wild hair! Snatched up to the saddle of the lord of Weir Who has his castle high upon a crag A league away. Upon the horse of air at once we rode To where Weir's castle looks like a crippled claw Into the moon. And taking form of minstrels brightly clad We paced upon white ponies to the gate And rang thereon "We come to sing unto my lord of Weir A merry song." Into his sorry hall we stepped Where was our daughter bound? Near his chair. "Come play a measure!" "Sir, at once we will." And we began to sing and play To lightly dance in rings and faster turn No man within that hall could keep his seat But needs must dance and leap Against his will This was the way we danced them to the door And sent them on their way into the world Where they will leap amain Till they think one kind thought For all I know they may be dancing still. While we returned with our own Into our hall And entering in Made fast the grassy door. from "The Dancing of the Lord of Weir

We are better informed about Valholl than we are about Hel, undoubtedly because people preferred to envision heaven rather than hell. Valholl was a large, easily recognized hall. The rafters of the building were made of spears, it was covered with shields, and coats of mail were strewn across the benches. A wolf was hanging west of the doors, an eagle soared above the building, and the goat Heidrun, from whose udder flowed mead, could be spotted atop the roof. Odin did not live there. He resided in the Hall of the Slain (Valaskjalf) or the Sunken Halls (Sokkvabekk),* where he drank with Saga, a hypostasis of the goddess Frigg.

I rolled my eyes at the newcomer. "Hello, Carter." I'd known the angel was lurking in the kitchen, just as Peter had felt me coming down the hall. "Where's your better half tonight? I just saw him. I thought he was coming too." Carter strolled in and gave me one of his mocking smiles, gray eyes alight with secrets and mirth. He wore his usual transient ware, ripped jeans and a faded T-shirt. ... "Am I my brother's keeper?" Classic Carter answer. I looked to Hugh, who was, in a manner of speaking, our boss's keeper. Or at least a sort of administrative assistant. "He had to take off for a meeting," said the imp, stacking twenties. "Some kind of team building thing in L.A." I tried to imagine Jerome participating in a ropes course. "What kind of team building do demons do exactly?

And then now a very strange argument indeed ensues, me v. the Lebanese porter, because it turns out I am putting this guy, who barely speaks English, in a terrible kind of sedulous-service double-bind, a paradox of pampering: viz. the The-Passenger’s-Always-Right-versus-Never-Let-A-Passenger-Carry-His-Own-Bag paradox. Clueless at the time about what this poor little Lebanese man is going through, I wave off both his high-pitched protests and his agonized expression as mere servile courtesy, and I extract the duffel and lug it up the hall to 1009 and slather the old beak with ZnO and go outside to watch the coast of Florida recede cinematically à la F. Conroy. Only later did I understand what I’d done. Only later did I learn that that little Lebanese Deck 10 porter had his head just about chewed off by the (also Lebanese) Deck 10 Head Porter, who’d had his own head chewed off by the Austrian Chief Steward, who’d received confirmed reports that a Deck 10 passenger had been seen carrying his own luggage up the Port hallway of Deck 10 and now demanded rolling Lebanese heads for this clear indication of porterly dereliction, and had reported (the Austrian Chief Steward did) the incident (as is apparently SOP) to an officer in the Guest Relations Dept., a Greek officer with Revo shades and a walkie-talkie and officerial epaulets so complex I never did figure out what his rank was; and this high-ranking Greek guy actually came around to 1009 after Saturday’s supper to apologize on behalf of practically the entire Chandris shipping line and to assure me that ragged-necked Lebanese heads were even at that moment rolling down various corridors in piacular recompense for my having had to carry my own bag. And even though this Greek officer’s English was in lots of ways better than mine, it took me no less than ten minutes to express my own horror and to claim responsibility and to detail the double-bind I’d put the porter in—brandishing at relevant moments the actual tube of ZnO that had caused the whole snafu—ten or more minutes before I could get enough of a promise from the Greek officer that various chewed-off heads would be reattached and employee records unbesmirched to feel comfortable enough to allow the officer to leave; 42 and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-fraught and filled almost a whole Mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psychoskeletal outline.

They went back into the great hall. The mood among the giants was more relaxed now, more jovial. 'Ah,' said Utgardaloki. 'Well, the failure of these two is perhaps understandable. But now, now we shall see something to impress us. Now is the turn of Thor, god of thunder, mightiest of heroes. Thor, whose deeds are sung across the worlds. Gods and mortals tell stories of your feats. Will you show us what you can do?' Thor stared at him. 'For a start, I can drink,' said Thor. 'There is no drink I cannot drain.' Utgardaloki considered this. 'Of course,' he said. 'Where is my cup-bearer?' The cup-bearer stepped forward. 'Bring me my special drinking horn.' The cup-bearer nodded and walked away, returning in moments with a long horn. It was longer than any drinking horn that Thor had ever seen, but he was not concerned. He was Thor, after all, and there was not drinking horn he could not drain. Runes and patterns were engraved on the side of the horn, and there was silver about the mouthpiece. 'It is the drinking horn of this castle,' said Utgardaloki. 'We have all emptied it here, in our time. The strongest and mightiest of us drain it all in one go; some of us, I admit it, take two attempts to drain it. I am proud to tell you that there is nobody here so weak, so disappointing, that it has taken them three drafts to finish it.' It was a long horn, but Thor was Thor, and he raised the brimming horn to his lips and began to drink. The mead of the giants was cold and salty, but he draink it down, draining the horn, drinking until his breath gave out and he could drink no longer. He expected to see the horn emptied, but it was as full as when he had begun to drink, or nearly as full. 'I had been led to believe that you were a better drinker than that,' said Utgardaloki drily. 'Still, I know you can finish it at a second draft, as we all do.' Thor took a deep breath, and he put his lips to the horn, and he drank deeply and drank well. He knew that he had to have emptied the horn this time, and yet when he lowered the horn from his lips, it had gone down by only the length of his thumb. The giants looked at Thor and they began to jeer, but he glared at them, and they were silent. 'Ah,' said Utgardaloki. 'So the tales of the mighty Thor are only tales. Well, even so, we will allow you to drink the horn dry on your third attempt. There cannot be much left in there, after all.' Thor raised the horn to his lips and he drank, and he drank like a good drinks, drank so long and so deeply that Loki and Thialfi simply stared at him in astonishment. But when he lowered the horn, the mead had gone down by only another knuckle's worth. 'I am done with this,' said Thor. 'And I am not convinced that it is only a little mead.

In those days there were two dark elves who lived in a fortress by the sea. They did magic there, and feats of alchemy. Like all dwarfs, they built things, wonderful, remarkable things, in their workshop and their forge. But there were things they had not yet made, and making those things obsessed them. They were brothers, and were called Fjalar and Galar. When they heard that Kvasir was visiting a town nearby, they set out to meet him. Fjalar and Galar found Kvasir in the great hall, answering questions for the townsfolk, amazing all who listened. He told the people how to purify water and how to make cloth from nettles. He told one woman exactly who had stolen her knife, and why. Once he was done talking and the townsfolk had fed him, the dwarfs approached. “We have a question to ask you that you have never been asked before,” they said. “But it must be asked in private. Will you come with us?” “I will come,” said Kvasir. They walked to the fortress. The seagulls screamed, and the brooding gray clouds were the same shade as the gray of the waves. The dwarfs led Kvasir to their workshop, deep within the walls of their fortress. “What are those?” asked Kvasir. “They are vats. They are called Son and Bodn.” “I see. And what is that over there?” “How can you be so wise when you do not know these things? It is a kettle. We call it Odrerir—ecstasy-giver.” “And I see over here you have buckets of honey you have gathered. It is uncapped, and liquid.” “Indeed we do,” said Fjalar. Galar looked scornful. “If you were as wise as they say you are, you would know what our question to you would be before we asked it. And you would know what these things are for.” Kvasir nodded in a resigned way. “It seems to me,” he said, “that if you were both intelligent and evil, you might have decided to kill your visitor and let his blood flow into the vats Son and Bodn. And then you would heat his blood gently in your kettle, Odrerir. And after that you would blend uncapped honey into the mixture and let it ferment until it became mead—the finest mead, a drink that will intoxicate anyone who drinks it but also give anyone who tastes it the gift of poetry and the gift of scholarship.” “We are intelligent,” admitted Galar. “And perhaps there are those who might think us evil.” And with that he slashed Kvasir’s throat, and they hung Kvasir by his feet above the vats until the last drop of his blood was drained. They warmed the blood and the honey in the kettle called Odrerir, and did other things to it of their own devising. They put berries into it, and stirred it with a stick. It bubbled, and then it ceased bubbling, and both of them sipped it and laughed, and each of the brothers found the verse and the poetry inside himself that he had never let out.

There was a noise out back and Megan stalked to the end of the hall to look out the window. The door to the shed was just closing. Finn. He was just as bad as his brother. Finn had stranded her that morning too and he hadn’t said a word to her about Spanish class, even though he never would have passed that pop quiz they had taken without her help. Megan turned and stormed down the hallway. Maybe she was too scared to say anything to Evan, but Finn…she was going to give that boy a piece of her mind. “You guys all suck, you know that?” Megan shouted, flinging open the door to the shed. Finn dropped his paintbrush on the leg of his jeans, where it left a streak of orange before hitting the dirty floor. “Sorry?” he said. “You! You suck!” Megan fumed. “We’ve been over this. I know I suck.” “Not your art. You! You…guys!” Megan shouted. Finn blinked. “Actually, I think I’m kind of an okay guy.” “Oh, please!” Megan said, squaring off in front of him. “I mean, what’s wrong with you people? Were you all born like this? Because it’s gotta be in your genes. Either that or you’ve all gotten each other in one too many choke holds over the years and you’ve deprived your brains of too much oxygen. Which is it?” “Megan, I think you need to sit down,” Finn said, carefully reaching for her shoulders. Keeping her at arm’s length, he steered her over to the old bench and pushed her down until she had to let her knees go and fall into the seat. “Now, is this about Hailey and Evan?” “No! It’s about you! You deserted me this morning,” Megan said. “And then I went to get my bike and the tires were flat. You guys popped my freaking tires! What is this? The McGowan Home for the Criminally Insane?

When we are young, we yearn for battle. In the firelit halls we listen to the songs of heroes; how they broke the foemen, splintered the shield wall, and soaked their swords in the blood of enemies. As youngsters we listen to the boast of warriors, hear their laughter as they recall battle, and their bellows of pride when their lord reminds them of some hard-won victory. And those youngsters who have not fought, who have yet to hold their shield against a neighbour's shield in the wall, are despised and disparaged. So we practise. Day after day we practise, with spear, sword, and shield. We begin as children, learning blade-craft with wooden weapons, and hour after hour we hit and are hit. We fight against men who hurt us in order to teach us, we learn not to cry when the blood from a split skull sheets across the eyes, and slowly the skill of the sword-craft builds. Then the day comes when we are ordered to march with the men, not as children to hold the horses and to scavenge weapons after the battle, but as men. If we are lucky we have a battered old helmet and a leather jerkin, maybe even a coat of mail that hangs like a sack. We have a sword with a dented edge and a shield that is scored by enemy blades. We are almost men, not quite warriors, and on some fateful day we meet an enemy for the first time and we hear the chants of battle, the threatening clash of blades on shields, and we begin to learn that the poets are wrong and that the proud songs lie. Even before the shield walls meet, some men shit themselves. They shiver with fear. They drink mead and ale. Some boast, but most are quiet unless they join a chant of hate. Some men tell jokes, and the laughter is nervous. Others vomit. Our battle leaders harangue us, tell us of the deeds of our ancestors, of the filth that is the enemy, of the fate our women and children face unless we win, and between the shield walls the heroes strut, challenging us to single combat, and you look at the enemy's champions and they seem invincible. They are big men; grim-faced, gold hung, shining in mail, confident, scornful, savage. The shield wall reeks of shit, and all a man wants is to be home, to be anywhere but on this field that prepares for battle, but none of us will turn and run or else we will be despised for ever. We pretend we want to be there, and then the wall at last advances, step by step, and the heart is thumping fast as a bird's wing beating, the world seems unreal. Thought flies, fear rules, and then the order to quicken the charge is shouted, and you run, or stumble, but stay in your rank because this is the moment you have spent a lifetime preparing for, and then, for the first time, you hear the thunder of shield walls meeting, the clangour of battle swords, and the screaming begins. It will never end. Till the world ends in the chaos of Ragnarok, we will fight for our women, for our land, and for our homes. Some Christians speak of peace, of the evil of war, and who does not want peace? But then some crazed warrior comes screaming his god's filthy name into your face and his only ambitions are to kill you, to rape your wife, to enslave your daughters, and take your home, and so you must fight.

resumed walking. The visitors unloaded fresh meat, beer, and mead; and cooking fires were started inside and outside the fort. The banquet hall proved ideal for the jarls, except that the throne-like chair used by Olaf was set aside. The banquet ran its course, first the toasts, then the eating and more drinking intermingled with conversation and more toasts until all were satiated and relaxed, for this was a business banquet. Gunnar, with the most longships, stood to speak of their proposal. “We came here first to congratulate you for getting rid of Olaf. He was a threat to all of us. And to know more about Alfonso, the Christian warrior we have heard so much about. We heard that your God gives you great strength and protection, as you killed seven berserkers single-handed.” Alfonso was about to say, “Only one,” but Harald jabbed him on the ribs with his elbow. “We heard that you bent the steel bars in the freezing water of the creek to get inside the fort.” Alfonso’s eyes shifted for a moment from Gunnar to Harald and saw him with a serious look and nodding at the statement. “We heard that you killed the guards by the gates, opened them, then fought off Olaf’s men until Harald and his warriors arrived. “We heard that you can do all this because your God seeks a vestal virgin that was kidnapped from His temple. Is all this true?” Alfonso was about to stand up, when Harald stood up and looked all around. “Yes, it is all true. We saw him kill the berserker.” The visitors looked around and saw Harald’s men nodding. “And he had to get through the bars underwater. Soon after, he killed the gate guards and opened the gates, defending them until we arrived.” He looked around, “Ask my men.” Words of “Yes, true, I saw it,” were heard. Harald sat down and looked at Alfonso. “Your turn.” They had become quiet as he stood and looked all around. He realized that the jarls were there because of him. They had some purpose in mind. They wanted his help but how? “Yes, I killed the berserker sent by Olaf. I was in the freezing water and got through the bars. I killed everyone guarding the gate, I opened it and

* At supper in Owain’s hall there was good food and plenteous mead and ale, and harp music of the best. Hywel ab Owain sang, improvising upon the beauty of Gwynedd and the splendour of her history, and Cadfael’s recalcitrant heart shed its habit for a half-hour, and followed the verses far into the mountains inland of Aber, and across the pale mirror of Lavan Sands to the royal burial-place of Llanfaes on Anglesey. In youth his adventurings had all looked eastward, now in his elder years eyes and heart turned westward. All heavens, all sanctuaries of the blessed lie to westward, in every legend and every imagination, at least for men of Celtic stock; a suitable meditation for old men. Yet here in the royal llys of Gwynedd Cadfael did not feel old.

Squaring her shoulders, Megan stepped out into the hall and her bare foot was almost flattened by a remote-control car. She jumped out of the way just in time and watched the thing zip down the hall and hop a makeshift ramp. Megan’s eyes widened in horror as she saw what was at the other end of the jump. Oh…my…God! The car slammed into a mountain of wrapped tampons, which exploded all over the hallway at impact. Ian raced past her, laughing maniacally, wielding the controls. Doug came out of his room to check out the commotion, picked up one of the tampons, and smirked. “Super-absorbency?” he said, just as Evan and Finn emerged from their rooms on opposite sides of the hall. “What’s super-absorbency?” Ian asked, his forehead wrinkling. “I don’t even want to know,” Doug replied, chucking the tampon in Megan’s direction. She caught it, feeling like her body temperature could singe a hole in the rug. Doug laughed and took off down the stairs with Ian barreling after him. “Ignore him. We all do,” Evan said with a groggy smile. “Uh…dude,” Finn said, glancing down at Evan’s boxers, which were covered in cartoon frogs and gaping open. Then Finn glanced over at Megan. Then Evan went back into his room and closed the door. No shame whatsoever. “Here, I’ll…help you clean this up,” Finn said, dropping to the floor and picking up a few tampons. “No!” Megan lurched forward and Finn fell back from his knees to his butt. She grabbed the tampons from his hands. “I’d really rather you didn’t.” “But I can--” “No. Just…I’m fine,” Megan said, awkwardly gathering up the slippery wrappers in her arms. “Thanks.” “Okay,” Finn said. He stood and hovered for a second, prolonging Megan’s mortification. Finally Finn walked into the bathroom and shut the door. Left alone, it was all Megan could do to keep from bursting into tears. They had been in her room. They had gone through her stuff. And Evan had seen her tampons. This was definitely the worst morning of her life. Megan stood up, clamped her things to her chest, walked into her room, and dropped everything on her bed. Okay, get a grip, she told herself. It could have been worse. Somehow.

She headed out into the hall and knocked quietly on his door. “Come in!” Megan took a deep breath and stepped inside. “Hey.” Finn looked up from his desk as if startled. “Hi,” he replied, pushing his hands against the thighs of his jeans. He glanced past her at the hallway, but when Megan turned around, she found they were alone. “What’s up?” Megan asked. “You really shouldn’t be in here,” Finn said. Megan’s heart dropped like a stone. “I know your parents are mad, but do you think they really expect us not to talk?” “Yeah…no…I don’t know,” Finn said, turning in his chair. “I just…Don’t you think we should let things calm down a little first?” “Yeah, like that’s ever going to happen in this house,” Megan joked lamely. Finn didn’t laugh. She swallowed against a lump in her throat and looked around uncertainly. She had come in here so that Finn could reassure her and make her feel better like he always did, but the evasive way he was acting was just making her feel worse. “Look, it’s just…being around you is…it’s not easy,” Finn said, looking everywhere but at her. He might as well have thrown cold water in her face. “Oh, well, I’m sorry,” Megan replied, backing out. “I guess that’s easily solved.” “No, Megan, wait,” Finn said. But she was dangerously close to tears and there was no way she was going to break down in front of him. “No, seriously, I’ll go,” Megan said. Finn swallowed and looked like he wanted to say something. For a split second, Megan’s heart dared to hope, but then he turned away and looked down at his notes again. “Yeah…okay,” he said. Finn focused pointedly on his work. This was really happening. Finn really didn’t want to have anything to do with her. Finally, feeling like the biggest idiot on earth, Megan made herself move.

The African villager with a solar powered smartphone has more access to more information than Louis XIV in the halls of Versailles.

he (King Alfred) described feasting in the mead hall and the warm fellowship between the ring-giver and his thegns, the deep bond of comitatus, as the closest approximation he could make to life in heaven.

Long had Jonas yearned to feel something, but the fresh knife in his back was too painful to bear. It hurt to breathe. Hurt to think. He couldn’t feel this. Needed to forget. Jonas drew his fist back.  Smashed it into the red-bearded warrior’s face. The mead hall erupted. And as the battle thrill coursed through him, at last, Jonas felt something tolerable.

Wren found himself in a mead-hall worthy of Beowulf and full to bursting with fae.

Tormund rose to his feet. “Hold. You gave Styr his style, give me mine.” Mance Rayder laughed. “As you wish. Jon Snow, before you stands Tormund Giantsbane, Tall-talker, Horn-blower, and Breaker of Ice. And here also Tormund Thunderfist, Husband to Bears, the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods and Father of Hosts.

Even now, after all this time, I remember the heavy scent of smoke and mead in the air. I remember the glints from the hundreds of golden shields on the walls and the ceiling. I remember the look of pride in my father’s eyes looking across the einherjar. I remember the rush of voices when Thor came once in a while and walked through the hall, Mjolnir hanging from his belt and his wealth of red hair lighting up the gloom like another coal burner. And this is my story. I, who have lived across time and space. I, who have jumped worlds and turned back on my choices. I, who gave up one identity for another. I understand now why I chose as I did. It wasn’t a random act or even an unknowing one. I had it all figured out all along. I knew where I was going and I chose every step of the way. The most common mistake is asking: “Why? Why did this happen to me? Why is it this way? Why can’t it be otherwise?” The problem isn’t the why. The problem is that it is turned outwards. Instead, ask: Why did I choose this? The answer will always be: Because this is how I get my thrills. Always. It all comes down to how you want your story to be.

The battle raged, the blood, gore and the stench of death of hundreds of the fallen, of both Saxons and Vikings permeated the air around her. With Every move Her chest guard dug painfully into her side from a gouge from a broad sword. Her helm obscured her peripheral vision as it had been her brothers, and sat awkwardly on her head due to its size. No time to catch her breath as the huge Saxon assaulted her, her shield fending off the vicious blows of his claymore. Being nearly half his size, she needed to be nimble and smart, a swift upper cut to his jaw with her shield caught him off balance, followed by a slice from her modified broad sword. The Saxon fell to his knees, allowing just enough decrease in stature for Brynhild to finish him off with a jab to the neck, arterial spray covered her face and chest. No time to rest, the next Saxon was upon her, hacking forcefully at her shield she was sure it would splinter. It took all her strength to maintain her footing. His attack was merciless, forcing her to careen backwards, steel crashed against steel in a maddened melee. She feinted left, then put all her velocity in shouldering him in his midsection, momentum taking him swiftly to the blood sodden ground. In the distance a call to retreat was heard from the Saxon Lord, the battle broke, the Viking horde was victorious, Brynhild slumped down a nearby tree, too exhausted and weak to move her last conscious thought was to wonder who the strong Shield-maiden was that gently picked her up and carried her forward. The next thing she knew, she was in a magnificent Hall, filled with raucous laughter and the scent of roasted boar. The sound of sword play was also heard from a nearby doorway. Warriors sat with horns filled with mead, in earnest discourse of the battles they had fought. A clearing of a throat brought her eyes to the great table at the head of the hall, there stood a heavily muscled bearded, one-eyed Man, the hall was moved to silence as the great man strode toward her. “Welcome to Valhalla Brynhild,” he clapped a hand on her shoulder “You have fought bravely, Please take your place among the warriors and enjoy the feast.” Shouts of Skal! filled the hall. Happiness assailed her, resurrected, to one day fight again for Odin in the twilight of the Gods, The Battle of Ragnarök.

The women’s hall, if anything, was even bawdier than the men’s. Veils were askew and sleeves were tucked in belts. Arddun and Gwladus could barely keep up with filling the cups and Hunric’s wife, inarticulate with mead, was shaking a broken-stringed lyre as though it were a choking baby.

The haunting bellow of the sentry horns sounded across the Greenland Fjords as the night mists settled between the jagged, rocky, half-frozen shores. Ifar the Shepherd hurried from his flock. Beyond the coast skirted by his grazing land he could see the shadowy shape of the incoming knarr as it pushed through the deepening fog. Slowly the masts emerged above it. Ifar turned toward the hilltop. There stood the magnificent earthen Mead Hall of King Lief, son of Eirik the Red. Though the karls who worked the lands already came running from the fishing houses and the farms and the lumber sites, Ifar could not pass up the opportunity. He gathered his horn from hip and blew with all his might.

Imagine that,” said Professor McGonagall dryly. “I doubt,” said Dumbledore, in a cheerful but slightly raised voice, which put an end to Professor McGonagall and Professor Trelawney’s conversation, “that Professor Lupin is in any immediate danger. Severus, you’ve made the potion for him again?” “Yes, Headmaster,” said Snape. “Good,” said Dumbledore. “Then he should be up and about in no time. . . . Derek, have you had any of these chipolatas? They’re excellent.” The first-year boy went furiously red on being addressed directly by Dumbledore, and took the platter of sausages with trembling hands. Professor Trelawney behaved almost normally until the very end of Christmas dinner, two hours later. Full to bursting with Christmas dinner and still wearing their party hats, Harry and Ron got up first from the table and she shrieked loudly. “My dears! Which of you left his seat first? Which?” “Dunno,” said Ron, looking uneasily at Harry. “I doubt it will make much difference,” said Professor McGonagall coldly, “unless a mad axe-man is waiting outside the doors to slaughter the first into the entrance hall.” Even Ron laughed. Professor Trelawney looked highly affronted. “Coming?” Harry said to Hermione. “No,” Hermione muttered, “I want a quick word with Professor McGonagall.” “Probably trying to see if she can take any more classes,” yawned Ron as they made their way into the entrance hall, which was completely devoid of mad axe-men. When they reached the portrait hole, they found Sir Cadogan enjoying a Christmas party with a couple of monks, several previous headmasters of Hogwarts, and his fat pony. He pushed up his visor and toasted them with a flagon of mead.

Ah! like gold fall the leaves in the wind, long years numberless as the wings of trees! The years have passed like swift draughts of the sweet mead in lofty halls beyond the West, beneath the blue vaults of Varda wherein the stars tremble in the song of her voice, holy and queenly. Who now shall refill the cup for me? For now the Kindler, Varda, the Queen of the Stars, from Mount Everwhite has uplifted her hands like clouds, and all paths are drowned deep in shadow; and out of a grey country darkness lies on the foaming waves between us, and mist covers the jewels of Calacirya for ever. Now lost, lost to those from the East is Valimar! Farewell! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar. Maybe even thou shalt find it. Farewell!

Coppers? Not the dice again. You can’t be gambling with that lot. Those dice of his are fixed. You’ll never win against him. I know, but the mead I was drinking convinced me otherwise.

Warriors sought battle and glory, but when the moment for bloodshed comes, Yngvar learned that most glory-seekers would rather melt back to their fields than truly face a bloody death. It only takes one time seeing men writhing on the ground, holding in their guts and screaming like children to never want to experience it again. Perhaps these men were remembering such a time. They climbed the rise toward the mead hall.

HROTHGAR: Well, I am off to bed! You can sleep in this Mead Hall. I assure you it is safe and definitely, nothing bad will happen.