Ragnar Quotes

A leader leads,” Ragnar said, “and you can’t ask men to risk death if you’re not willing to risk it yourself.

Power is dangerous. It corrupts the best and attracts the worst. Power is only given to those who are prepared to lower themselves to pick it up.

Laughter in battle. That was what Ragnar had taught me, to take joy from the fight.

My chair rolls to a stop. his voice cut short, followed by a thump and sliding sound. My wheelchair rolls forward again. I look back and see Ragnar pushing it innocently along. Sevro isn't in the hallway behind us. I frown, wondering where he went, till he bursts out of a side passage. "You! Troll!" Sevro shouts. "I'm a terrorist warlord! Stop throwing me. You made me drop my candy!" Sevro looks at the floor of the hallway. "Wait. Where is it? Dammit, Ragnar. Where is my peanut bar? You know how many people I had to kill to get that? Six! Six!" Ragnar chews quietly above me, and though I'm probably mistaken, I think I see him smile.

If a man can’t remember the laws,” Ragnar said, “then he’s got too many of them.

Death and destruction are necessary to the health of the world, and therefore as natural, and lovable, as birth and life. Only priests and born cowards moan and weep over dying. Brave men face it with approving nonchalance.

Equality can only exist between equals. Civilization implies division of labor, division of labor implies subordination and subordination implies injustice and inequality.

HATE FOR HATE — AND RUTH FOR RUTH, EYE FOR EYE — AND TOOTH FOR TOOTH, SCORN FOR SCORN — AND SMILE FOR SMILE, LOVE FOR LOVE — AND GUILE FOR GUILE, WAR FOR WAR, — AND WOE FOR WOE, BLOOD FOR BLOOD — AND BLOW FOR BLOW.

I can be a builder, not just a destroyer. Eo and Fitchner saw that when I could not. They believed in me. So whether they wait for me in the Vale or not, I feel them in my heart, I hear their echo beating across the worlds. I see them in my son, and, when he is old enough, I will take him on my knee and his mother and I will tell him of the rage of Ares, the strength of Ragnar, the honor of Cassius, the love of Sevro, the loyalty of Victra, and the dream of Eo, the girl who inspired me to live for more.

He who turns the other cheek is a cowardly dog -- a Christian dog.

(Ragnar just came back from the war.) Then Keita the Viper spun around and ran into his arms, hugging him tight. "This is all your fault!" she accused. "What is?" "How much I missed you! And I was shockingly worried about you. I actually cared if you were hurt or had been damaged in some way. She leaned back, squinted up at him. "You weren't, were you? Damaged?" "Not so that I won't heal." "Good." She rested her head on his chest. "Believe it or not, I don't know what I'd have done if something happened to you." Keita abruptly pulled back from him and punched him in the chest. "What have you done to me, foreigner? Well, let me make it plain that you'll not trap me in your evil web of amazing sex and unconditional love! I'm stronger than that!" And Ragnar sighed...loudly.

Govenment is founded on property Property is founded on conquest Conquest is founded on power All power is founded on brain and brawn.

Don't waste your time looking back. You're not going that way.

I howl for my wife, for my father. For Ragnar and Quinn and Pax and Narol. For all the people I've lost. For all they would take. I howl because I am a Helldiver of Lykos. I am the Reaper of Mars. And I have paid for access to this bunker with my flesh, all so that I might either die with my friends or see our enemies brought to justice.

Laws” and “rules” imposed on you From days of old renown, Are not intended for your “good” But for your crushing down. Then dare to rend the chains that bind And to yourself be true. Dare to liberate your mind, From all things, old and new.

The natural world is a world of war; the natural man is a warrior; the natural law is tooth and claw. All else is error. A condition of combat everywhere exists. We are born into perpetual conflict. It is our inheritance, even as it was the heritage of previous generations.

It is no great thing to die. Not when one has lived." -Ragnar Volarus

I am no Christian. These days it does no good to confess that, for the bishops and abbots have too much influence and it is easier to pretend to a faith than to fight angry ideas. I was raised a Christian, but at ten years old, when I was taken into Ragnar’s family, I discovered the old Saxon gods who were also the gods of the Danes and of the Norsemen, and their worship has always made more sense to me than bowing down to a god who belongs to a country so far away that I have met no one who has ever been there. Thor and Odin walked our hills, slept in our valleys, loved our women and drank from our streams, and that makes them seem like neighbours. The other thing I like about our gods is that they are not obsessed with us. They have their own squabbles and love affairs and seem to ignore us much of the time, but the Christian god has nothing better to do than to make rules for us. He makes rules, more rules, prohibitions and commandments, and he needs hundreds of black-robed priests and monks to make sure we obey those laws. He strikes me as a very grumpy god, that one, even though his priests are forever claiming that he loves us. I have never been so stupid as to think that Thor or Odin or Hoder loved me, though I hope at times they have thought me worthy of them.

I remember Ragnar laughing one day. "It is so kind of the Christians! They put their wealth in one building and mark it with a great cross! It makes life so easy.

Annwyl?” Ragnar repeated, suddenly remembering that Keita had said the same name before they’d burst out of the woods. “This is Annwyl?” Ragnar looked the woman over, from her absurdly large feet to the top of her unkempt head. “This?” This human who had more muscles than seemed necessary for any royal and watched him and his kin with what he could only term as the mad eyes of a diseased animal.

The lie that is known to be a lie is half eradicated, but the lie that even intelligent persons regard as a sacred fact – the lie that has been inculcated around a mother’s knee – is more dangerous to contend against than a creeping pestilence.

If a man smite you on one cheek, smash him down; smite him hip and thigh, for self-preservation is the highest law.

There are only two things worse then an empty canvas: death and taxes.

Odin gave his eye to acquire knowledge...but I would give far more.

Power is only given to those who are prepared to lower themselves to pick it up.

Dear Pliny,” Sevro sings over the com. If your heart beats like a drum, and your leg’s a little wet, it’s ’cause the Reaper’s come to collect a little debt. He sings this three times until Ragnar throws a table into the console. Sparks shower out. Sevro looks up slowly at the table hanging over his head. It missed by inches. He wheels around. “What the gorypissandshit is your damage, you overreacting mountain troll!” “Rhyming … nnnngh.” Ragnar makes an uncomfortable groaning sound. “You found him,” Mustang mutters as we share a look. “Which one?” I ask as Sevro curses the Stained out in every compound manner he knows. Adding the crux for good measure. “You squawk like a … like a chicken,” Ragnar says

The rules of life are not to be found in Korans, Bibles, Decalogues and Constitutions, but rather the rules of decadence and death. The “law of laws” is not written in Hebrew consonants or upon tables of brass and stone, but in every man’s own heart. He who obeys any standard of right and wrong, but the one set up by his own conscience, betrays himself into the hands of his enemies, who are ever laying in wait to bind him to their millstones. And generally a man’s most dangerous enemies are his neighbors.

There is a thing called the blood feud. All societies have them, even the West Saxons have them, despite their vaunted piety. Kill a member of my family and I shall kill one of yours, and so it goes on, generation after generation or until one family is all dead, and Kjartan had just wished a blood feud on himself. I did not know how, I did not know where, I could not know when, but I would revenge Ragnar. I swore it that night.

Human rights and wrongs are not determined by Justice, but by Might. Disguise it as you may, the naked sword is still king-maker and king-breaker, as of yore. All other theories are lies and — lures

I was screaming and hitting at him, but he thought it all so very funny, and he draped me belly down on the saddle in front of him and then he spurred into the chaos to continue the killing. And that was how I met Ragnar, Ragnar the Fearless, my brother’s killer, and the man whose head was supposed to grace a pole on Bebbanburg’s ramparts, Earl Ragnar.

Popular lies have ever been the most potent enemies of personal liberty.

Laws" and "Rules" imposed on you From days of old renown. Are not intended for your "good" But for your crushing down. Then dare to rend the chains that bind And to yourself be true. Dare to liberate your mind, From all things, old and new. Always think your own thought. All other thoughts reject; Learn to use your own brain And boldly stand erect.

Slaves do not have the bravery of free men. That is why Golds lie to lowReds and make them think they are brave. That is why they lie to Obsidians and make them think it is an honor to serve gods. Easier than the truth. Yet it takes only one truth to bring a kingdom of lies crashing down. Ragnar

How the little piggies will grunt when they hear how the old boar suffered.

Statute books and golden rules were made to fetter slaves and fools.

We fight. That is how we win, and that is how we die.

I would worry less about the gods and more about the fury of a patient man.

Behind all Kings and Presidents all Government and Law, Are army-corps and cannoneers to hold the world in awe And sword-strong races own the earth and ride the Conqueror's Car And Liberty has ne'er been won, Except by deeds of war.

Friendship is necessary and ennobling; but impersonal despotism is destructive of all dignity and manly virtue.

In my world, I am constantly torn between killing myself or everyone around me.

You're just being cryptic again. It's like soap opera sex. Lots of boring dialogue and when they finally do go to bed, everything's dark and covered by blankets.

It was as if her life had been brought to a full stop: she couldn't look forward, couldn't picture what tomorrow night bring.

I don’t believe in the gods’ existence. Man is the master of his own fate, not the gods. The gods are man’s creation to give answers that they are too afraid to give themselves.

What's the quickest way to a Peerless Scarred's heart?" Pebble asks. "Ragnar's fist

The Gold spits. “You send a dog to do your fighting?” “I am a man!” Ragnar roars louder than the screaming engines of a passing ship.

Hyrg la, Ragnar!

Princess Keita,” the dragon began, “this is Elina Shestakova of the Black Bear Riders of the Midnight Mountains of Despair in the Far Reaches of the Steppes of the Outerplains.” He faced Elina and, smiling, said, “And Elina Shestakova of the Black Bear Riders of the Midnight Mountains of Despair in the Far Reaches of the Steppes of the Outerplains, this is Keita the Viper: Princess of the Royal House of Gwalchmai fab Gwyar, Second-Born Daughter and Fifth-Born Offspring to the White Dragon Queen of the Southlands, Protector of The Throne, and Bound Mate to Ragnar, Dragonlord Chief of the Olgeirsson Horde.” Keita narrowed blue eyes at the dragon. “Was that really necessary, Curled Horns?” His grin did not falter. “It felt necessary and good. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to working with Elina Shestakova of the—” “Do not bore me with that ridiculously long name yet again!” the royal roared.

A spy novel?” Dagmar asked. “You two are talking about a spy novel?” Annwyl threw her hands up in the air. “Not just a spy novel!” “It’s much more than that,” Ragnar argued, and when Dagmar gawked at him in disgust, he added, “I can’t read deep, meaningful, thought-provoking philosophy all the time.” “Exactly. Sometimes you have to read about a completely amoral hero whoring and killing his way across an unnamed land in the name of the queen that he’ll always love—” “—but never have.” Then both Ragnar and Annwyl sighed a little.

That damned volcano

The nerve cells of splendid feminines and resolute warriors vibrate in rhythmic unison.

A good book could transport her far, far away, to a different world, another country, another culture, where the climate was warmer and life was easier.

Gods fight, Ragnar went on earnestly, and some win, some lose. The Christian god is losing. Otherwise why would we be here? Why would we be winning? The gods reward us if we give them respect, but the Christian god doesn't help his people, does he? They weep rivers of tears for him, they pray to him, they give him their silver, & we come along & slaughter them! Their god is pathetic. If he had any real power then we wouldn't be here, would we?

Godchild Andromedus, I am Ragnar Volarus, the Stained firstborn of my mother, Alia Snowsparrow of the Valkyrie Spires north of the Dragon’s Spine, south of the Fallen City, where the Winged Horror flies, brother of Sefi the Quiet, breaker of Tanos, which once stood by the water, and I make you an offering of stains.

In actual operation Nature is cruel and merciless to men, as to all other beings. Let a tribe of human animals live a rational life, Nature will smile upon them and their posterity; but let them attempt to organize an unnatural mode of existence an equality elysium, and they will be punished even to the point of extermination.

You might not believe in our rebellion. But I saw Tactus change before his future was robbed from him. I’ve seen Ragnar forget his bonds and reach for what he wants in this world. I’ve seen Sevro become a man. I’ve seen myself change. I truly do believe we choose who we want to be in this life. It isn’t preordained. You taught me loyalty, more than Mustang, more than Roque. And because of that, I believe in you, Victra. As much as I’ve ever believed in anyone.” I hold out my hand. “Be my family and I will never forsake you. I will never lie to you. I will be your brother as long as you live.” Startled by the emotion in my voice, the cold woman stares up at me. Those defenses she erected forgotten now. In another life we might have been a pair. Might have had that fire I feel for Mustang, for Eo. But not in this life. Victra does not soften. Does not crumble to tears. There’s still rage inside her. Still raw hate and so much betrayal and frustration and loss coiled around her icy heart. But in this moment, she is free of it all. In this moment, she reaches solemnly up to grasp my hand. And I feel the hope flicker in me. “Welcome to the Sons of Ares.

Is it not better to perish than to serve? “Liberty or death” is not a meaningless phrase. No! it is of tremendous import to those who — comprehend.

The silence is deeper than the tunnel. It meanders through the heart of Mars, stretching forever, echoing to places only the lost have ever been. Ragnar

She would have to watch herself. What was it that Bishop Vídalín once wrote? Rage kindles an inferno in the eyes; a feeling she knew only too well.

Volnero as the new ruler of Ondalina or Miromara obliterates our entire realm. I will advise Ragnar to accept her terms.

The bubbleGarden,” I say to Dan, voice filling the metal common room. “Take me there.” I’ve already turned on a heel. Ragnar pats his thigh. “Come, dog.” It

«Uno de esos raros libros en los que nada es lo que parece. Como de costumbre, Alex Michaelides no decepciona». Ragnar Jónasson

Ragnar est communiste et ne s'en cache pas: «soit on est communiste, soit on est con.»

This isn't the Iliad. Ragnar, kill this fool. We need his gravBoots.

And Eoferwic, I thought, was where my story had all begun. Where my father had died. Where I had become the Lord of Bebbanburg. Where I had met Ragnar and learned of the ancient gods.

In 869 we have an event which rapidly achieved almost mythic status in English Christian folklore: the horrible martyrdom of King Edmund of East Anglia by the appalling Ivar the Boneless, who according to some traditions brought a great Viking army to England in pursuit of revenge for the killing of his father, the semi-legendary Ragnar Lothbrok, executed by the king of Northumbria.

It is not difficult to be a lord, a jarl, or even a king, but it is difficult to be a leader. Most men want to follow, and what they demand of their leader is prosperity. We are the ring-givers, the gold-givers. We give land, we give silver, we give slaves, but that alone is not enough. They must be led. Leave men standing or sitting for days at a time and they get bored, and bored men make trouble. They must be surprised and challenged, given tasks they think beyond their abilities. And they must fear. A leader who is not feared will cease to rule, but fear is not enough. They must love too. When a man has been led into the shield wall, when an enemy is roaring defiance, when the blades are clashing on shields, when the soil is about to be soaked in blood, when the ravens circle in wait for the offal of men, then a man who loves his leader will fight better than a man who merely fears him. At that moment we are brothers, we fight for each other, and a man must know that his leader will sacrifice his own life to save any one of his men. I learned all that from Ragnar, a man who led with joy in his soul, though he was feared too. His great enemy, Kjartan, knew only how to lead by fear, and Ragnall was the same. Men who lead by fear might become great kings and might rule lands so great that no man knows their boundaries, but they can be beaten too, beaten by men who fight as brothers.

I’ve been in contact with her. She approached me months ago. I know the terms of her deal. She’s going to tell Ragnar that Ondalina’s attack on Miromara was an act of war and that he must surrender. Either he accepts Lucia

And you enjoy what you do?” “Quite a lot.” “So then…you’re happy?” She pursed her lips, hands wrapped around her cup of tea, her gaze on the ceiling. Finally, Ragnar added, “Happy for a Northlander.” “Oh! Oh, then yes. Quite happy.

Where Ragnar’s Bauta-stein she found, And writ in ancient, northern rune, A curse upon’t before his tomb. The stone was raised in forest bower, Where died the Dame in that same hour, And Seasnake’s lads, all sore dismayed, Beside her son the witch-wife laid…

A woman is two-thirds womb. The other third is a network of nerves and sentimentality. To ‘emancipate’ her, is to hand her over to the tender mercies of clerics, who have learned to ‘play’ upon her emotionalism. Then Credos become illegitimately powerful and even try to dictate ‘the whole duty of Man.’ After a time diabolical pastor-theories inspire politics and rule nations. Then the State becomes the individual’s Dictator. Man are demonetized while degeneracy and socialistic hybridism sets in, like a slimy flood.

Ugh! You’re impossible.” I paced back and forth, the rising fury burning my cheeks. “Honestly, Ragnar Whatever-Your-Surname-Is, you’re the most infuriating man I’ve met in a very long time, and that’s saying something. I’ve met some real arseholes.” He sketched a bow. “I aim to please.

The monks had murdered Danes and Ragnar had punished them, though these days the story is always told that the monks were innocently at prayer and died as spotless martyrs. In truth they were malevolent killers of women and children, but what chance does truth have when priests tell tales?

Alia glares down at us. She is as colossal as Ragnar, but ancient and wicked, like the oldest tree of some primeval forest. The kind that drinks the soil and blocks the sun for lesser trees and watches them wither and yellow and die and does nothing but reach her branches higher and dig her roots deeper.

19th century,

Bernódusson, Guðmund L. Hafsteinsson og Kristján Sveinsson.

The hour-long drive to Akureyri didn’t take him long.

What are men but hungry wolves, a prowling on the heath? If in a pack of wolves you hunt, you'd better sharp your teeth.

For strife and struggle Man is born; But sheep and lambs Are always shorn.

Life is strife for every man, for every son of thunder; Then be a lion not a lamb, and don’t be trampled under.

Vous croyez qu’un virus s’attaquerait à un homme de Dieu

Luck runs out, Blackmane. Aye. But not today, singer.

The Icelandic tradition of reading a new book on Christmas Eve, and into the early hours of the morning, had been important in his family’s home.

She was deaf to the sighing of the waves and blind to the stars and Northern Lights shimmering across the sky.

Don’t waste your time looking back, you are not going that way.

You see, señorita, mystery is important. To know everything, to know the whole truth, is dull. There is no magic in that. Magic is not knowing, magic is wondering about the what and how and where.

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun Nor the furious winter’s rages, Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages; Golden lads and girls all must As chimney sweepers come to dust “Per aspera, ad astra,” my Golden friends whisper, even Sevro. And with a press of a button, Roque disappears from our lives to begin his last journey to join Ragnar and generations of fallen warriors in the sun.

The Law of Spiritual Detachment: Detachment and Non-resistance means to not resist moving ahead in harmony with the currents of life while maintaining and growing a sense of peace. Not allowing simple external things to hold you back.

Christianity gradually made its way, first in France, about five hundred years after the birth of Christ, then in England, one or two hundred years later; still later in Germany, where the Saxons, Christianized by Charlemagne about the year 800 after Christ, were the last heathen people.

It had rained without a break since the middle of the afternoon, when the skies had finally started to clear. Ari Thór didn’t make a habit of going to the theatre, but still understood the excitement behind a good production. Tension in the air could sometimes be palpable, but never as overwhelming as it was that Friday evening in the Siglufjördur theatre. But this time there was no production taking place and the auditorium was empty. What he and Tómas – both of them on duty that night – could not avoid was the body. There was no doubt they were looking at a corpse; but Tómas still checked for a pulse

With her hand on another She-dragon’s shoulder, Keita said, “Lord Vigholf, this is my cousin Aedammair.” “My lady.” “It’s ‘captain,’” the brown dragoness gruffly corrected. “You wanna dance then?” “Well, actually—” “Good.” The dragoness grabbed Vigholf’s surcoat and yanked the poor bastard out onto the dance floor. Keita leaned her backside against the table, her palms pressed against the wood. “And what exactly was that about?” Ragnar asked. “He looked depressed. Aedammair will help him with that.” “Tell me, princess, do you whore out all your relations to appease outsiders?” “Only the cousins who tell me, ‘I’ll fuck that purple stallion over there. What’s his name?

The pagan religion flourished in the north of Europe until about the middle of the 11th century; or, to speak more accurately, Christianity was not completely introduced into Iceland before the year 1000; in Denmark and Norway some twenty or thirty years later, while in Sweden, pacrnnism was not completely rooted out before the year 1150. In

Ari Thór had come to realise that the only way to survive in the northernmost town in Iceland was to embrace all the seasons and resign yourself to your fate. You had to learn to love the bitterly cold winter nights as much as the never-ending summer days, when darkness is nothing but a distant memory and the sun floods the land with warmth and light. And understand how nourishing the cold can be for the body and the soul.

The joy of it. The sword joy. I was dancing with joy, joy seething in me, the battle joy that Ragnar had so often spoken of, the warrior joy. If a man has not known it, then he is no man. It was no battle, that, no proper slaughter, just a thief-killing, but it was my first fight and the gods had moved in me, had given my arm speed and my shield strength, and when it was done, and when I danced in the blood of the dead, I knew I was good. Knew I was more than good. I could have conquered the world at that moment and my only regret was that Ragnar had not seen me, but then I thought he might be watching from Valhalla and I raised Serpent-Breath to the clouds and shouted his name. I have seen other young men come from their first fights with that same joy, and I have buried them after their next battle. The young are fools and I was young. But I was good.

Ragnar stared at his kin, his mouth slightly open. “What’s that look for?” Vigholf asked. “You said to do it.” “Even gave a suggestion,” Meinhard tossed in. “I thought you two were joking. Have you both lost your bloody minds?” “We were trying to be nice,” his brother argued. “And when that crazed human monarch cuts off the rest of your hair, I don’t want to hear any more—” “Who did it?” Annwyl demanded from behind him. Ragnar faced her, “My lady—” “Who? I want to know whose idea this was”—she held up the training mace, battle ax, warhammer, and shield, perfectly sized for a two-year-old girl with both human and dragon blood—“and I want to know now!” Vigholf and Meinhard raised their hands, and the queen’s eyes filled with tears. “This is so sweet! Thank you. Thank you both!” She hugged them, arms going wide to reach around their chests. That’s when Ragnar let Annwyl know, “It was I who suggested the shield.

He was succeeded on the throne by RAGNAR. At this time Fro (Frey?), the King of Sweden, after slaying Siward, the King of the Norwegians, put the wives of Siward's kinsfolk in bonds in a brothel, and delivered them to public outrage. When Ragnar heard of this, he went to Norway to avenge his grandfather. As he came, many of the matrons, who had either suffered insult to their persons or feared imminent peril to their chastity, hastened eagerly to his camp in male attire, declaring that they would prefer death to outrage. Nor did Ragnar, who was to punish this reproach upon the women, scorn to use against the author of the infamy the help of those whose shame he had come to avenge. Among them was Ladgerda, a skilled amazon, who, though a maiden, had the courage of a man, and fought in front among the bravest with her hair loose over her shoulders. All-marvelled at her matchless deeds, for her locks flying down her back betrayed that she was a woman.

Let lions cease to prowl and fight, Let eagles clip their wings, Let men of might give up their right, The foolish poet sings. Let lords of gold and Caesars bold Forever pass away, Enrich the slaves; enthrone the knaves, The base-born prophets say. Yet I maintain with hand and pen The other side of things. The bold man’s right to rule and reign, The way of gods and kings. So capture crowns of wealth and power (If you’ve the strength and can) For strife is life’s eternal dower, And nothing’s under ban. Ye lions, wake and hunt and fight, Ye eagles, spread your wings, Ye men of might, believe you’re right For you indeed are kings.

The introduction of Christianity in Iceland was attended by no violence. While in the other countries mentioned above the monarchical form of government prevailed, and the people were compelled by their rulers to accept the gospel of Christ, the Icelanders enjoyed civil liberty, had a democratic form of government, and accepted the new religion by the vote of their representatives in the Althing, or Parliament, which convened at Thingvolls in the summer of 1000; and in this way we are able to account for all the heathen and vernacular literature that was put into writing and preserved for us by that remarkable people, who inhabited the island of the icy sea.

KRÁKUMÁL [...] 25. We struck with our swords! My soul is glad, for I know that Balder’s father’s benches for a banquet are made ready. We’ll toss back toasts of ale from bent trees of the skulls; no warrior bewails his death in the wondrous house of Fjolnir. Not one word of weakness will I speak in Vidrir’s hall. 26. We struck with our swords! The sons of Aslaug all would rouse the wrath of Hild here with their ruthless sword-blades, if they fathomed fully how far I have traveled, how so many serpents stab me with their poison. My son’s hearts will help them: they have their mother’s lineage. 27. We struck with our swords! Soon my life is ended; Goinn scathes me sorely, settles in my heart’s hall; I wish the wand of Vidrir would wound Æelle, one day. My sons must feel great fury that their father is put to death; my daring swains won’t suffer in silence when they hear this. 28. We struck with our swords! I have stood in the ranks at fifty-one folk-battles, foremost in the lance-meet. Never did I dream that a different king should ever be found braver than me— I bloodied spears when young. Æsir will ask us to feast; no anguish for my death. 29. I desire my death now. The disir call me home, whom Herjan hastens onward from his hall, to take me. On the high bench, boldly, beer I’ll drink with the Gods; hope of life is lost now— laughing shall I die!

If we focus on the meat, this contrast is, financial death and warrior death, a split which Oswald Spengler calls 'hunger death' and 'hero death'. The hungry human, in a 9 to 5 existence is threatened, dishonored, and debased by financial worry and the fear of mental starving, which stunts possibilities, chokes consciousness, produces darkness and pressure not less than starvation in the literal sense. You can lose your whole life-will through the gaping wretchedness of living in the modern world of debt and work. The tragedy is that in the modern world, you die of something (starvation, disease, boredom) and not for something (death by action). In waring and fighting, you sacrifice for higher policies, you can die for something higher, you full for a metaphysics, a mode of consciousness higher than your meat body. On the other hand, economic life merely waste you away. Spengler writes, 'War is the creature, hunger the destroyer, of all things'. In war life is elevated by death, often to the point of irresistible force whose mere existence guarantees victory. But in the economic life hunger awakens the ugly, the vulgar, and wholly un-metaphysical form of fearfulness for one's life under which the higher form of being a human miserably collapses and the naked struggle for survival of the human beast begins. By the warrior, Evola isn't writing about what Henry Kissinger called 'dumb, stupid animals to be used as pawns in foreign policy'. Evola's metaphysical fighter need no longer be a Viking or a Helene, like king Ragnar or Achilles. That world has vanished. The modern soldier has no metaphysics. Evola writes about the struggle within. It is within where the struggle for essence takes place.

I am a child of the universe, I am safe.