Damnatio Memoriae

I knew I was in trouble the moment I approached Asgard.

I didn't get there the normal way. Death makes a few things very clear, and one is this: if you choose to strip off all that armor that you died in, you become light as a feather. You don't need the sword, the shield, the spear, the hauberk, the spells to travel. You can take them off, and suddenly you can fly.

That's why the Valkyries come for the warriors. Their horses can fly with two armored people. If you want entry into the feast hall as soldiers-in-training for the coming apocalypse, it's BYO. They supply the mead, not the extras. You're supposed to be “creative” in bringing it with you. Don't even get me started on the elaborate burial rituals, and “killing” your weapons to bring them along.

At least I didn't have to worry about that nonsense. You can control your shape as well if you wish. I saw others, like me, shooting away from the battlefield into the air. Some, getting their bearings, aimed for home and kin. Others hovered, uncertain, staring down at their own broken bodies. Some followed the retreating Valkyries, some rubbed nonexistent hands gleefully and drifted off to wreak what mayhem they could near where they had fallen.

I grabbed a horse tail. I didn't know where I wanted to go, but I knew two things for certain: I didn't want to return to listen to my family wail about what a disappointment I was, even in death. And I didn't want to stick around here. I imagined I could still smell the stench of death in nonexistent nostrils.

The ride through the air soon blurred into an afterlife, I assume. Things seemed brighter than eyes are accustomed to, and colors were much more... colorful. Intense. Saturated with color and light and just too much of everything. Small wonder mortal flesh can't handle it.

The gods were there.

All of them.

With the full force of deitic power in the – room? space? galactic unit? - even I could tell where the names blurred together. Freja and Aphrodite were the same. A little thing like three million ells and some vocal fricatives are nothing to the beings we call gods.

Some souls were quite easy to sort. All the Valkyries aimed for Wodan, and he just waved them through to something. Freja was there, also choosing her half, which sometimes irritated Wodan, but he had no choice in the matter. I stifled a chuckle, which is easy when lungs are no longer a concern. That Freja gets to pick half the warriors for her own hall is known, but until now, it was a Great Mystery. Now, seeing clearly, Freja chose the warriors who were good at it, but would rather stay at home and tend to their families and children. Wodan got the bloodthirsty and beserkers. Freya got the ones whose minds were sharper than their swords.

There are other halls, of course. We're taught not to think much about them, but now, I perked up at the other gods coming to the fore. The ones I knew as Thor, Hel, Baldur, Heimdall, and others known and unknown came forward to claim those like myself who moved beyond, not knowing what would come.

There was a problem.

The gods I knew were angry, and it was centered on one particular soul.

Our leader in this disastrous battle.

He stood there calmly, giving off an air of slight puzzlement, as if wondering where his virgins were.

“Harald Hardrada. Called Land-Waster. Indeed, you and your men lie in waste far from your homelands. You were slaughtered by a name-sharer, who will now advance. You are accountable for the destruction of many who should not be here, are here long before their appointed time. Many children that should have been born in the fullness of time, are not, and never will be. Many women will suffer with no one to help keep their lands and children out of thrall. Those who have not the wit or acumen to rule shall take your rightful place, now vacant. With one battle, you have changed the course of history, and now the Norselands will diminish. And we, as caretakes of the peoples of those lands, will also diminish. The accounting for your actions is now called due, and you alone must atone for your awful harvest. What have you to say for your actions?”

Harald was a low-lying pile of steaming steer stercum when he was alive, and it appeared that some things didn't change just because he died. He grinned, and shrugged in that infuriating way he had whenever anyone called him out on his actions. “Hey, the priests spoke, off we went! It was an amazing battle! It was glorious!-”

The dark things hovering near where Woden's shoulders would be, if he had them, made stereo noises like a cat being strangled. There was a twitch of intent, and another being shot a bolt of soul-searing light towards Space-Waster. His soul flared and crumbled in the afterimage. And re-formed, to be hit again and again by the being. I realized this must be Thor, and I was witnessing the fearsome power of Mjolnir in action. I did not wish what was left of me to feel that force in this lifetime. Er. Well, you know what I mean.

No thunder crashed, but I heard it all the same. When Thor stopped, Gas Bag seemed quite subdued. Wodan leaned in, and in a soft, deadly voice, said, “I don't recall you reading my runes. At all. Not one of my Volvas was consulted by you, neither any of your underlings. Not even the priests of the new religion recall you darkening their doors or adding to their coffers. If you remember correctly, which I know you do, seeing as you're standing on the portico to Paradise.”

The glowing dark shapes that I was certain were Huginn and Muninn snickered.

“You were called Hard Headed for a reason. Petty Tyrant, more like. You caused the end of my ascendancy, and we will suffer all the more at Ragnarok because of your greed. Valhalla is now closed, and I am allowed to take no more within. Better for the other halls, of course, a better selection of people to choose from, but I am denied the best warriors from this time forward. Hopefully the other gods will deal with the boisterousness that comes from the weakened warriors to come, with no conveyance for their weapons or bounds on their drinking. Even Freya's hall will suffer. We are all the poorer because of your petty little power grab. And treachery.”

The little soul seemed to wither under the penetrating gaze of so many deities. A wisp of something like smoke drifted upwards.

Or a fart made visible in this afterlife. Such a thought to have in front of them! I've never been terribly reverent.

A green-colored god came forward, as other Norse deities drifted away. There was nothing left to hold their attention. “If I may?” said a smooth voice. “Such a long-term consequence should be tied to his insistence on word-fame. He wants to be Christian? Let him be!”

When deities smile widely like that – how can they do that, without a discernible face? - shrink and hide. If you can. I wasn't the recipient, and I tried to find a soul-boulder or something to crawl under. Harald Two-Faced didn't have that luxury. Wodan stretched his soul-self taller. “Josh? Want to claim this piece of svartr-skitr?”

“Him? Hardly!” Another bright-white deity with a blood-red streak drifted over. “He may have claimed me, but I certainly didn't claim him as mine. I don't even think my adversary wants the likes of him.”

There was a horrible hisssssssssssss, and a dark black streak of something took off.

“Nope. Anyone else want this sorry sack?”

Silence. Which is quite profound here.

The green god spoke again. “May I, further?”

Wodan made a sweeping gesture. “Knock yourself out, Loki.”

Loki leaned over Harald No-Nads. “You're not even clever enough for me to take you. You're just a stupid, greedy, useless specimen of bullying. So, since your body will be recovered and buried, a worse crime: you will be used forever as an example for millions of what not to become. You will not be buried with honors, and your grave will be opened and moved. Ostensibly to holier ground, but in reality, so more people can spit on you in comfort.”

Uff da, that's harsh.

But Loki wasn't done.

“Now, my own future is secure, something about a resurgence and movable images. The future is blurry, but the runes foretell. But the Norsemen? You made them a laughingstock, which though funny, does not bode well for your kin's future. You were the terror, and now you shall be the butt end of the joke.”

Loki gestured, and a thing formed in a halo of haze between himself and Harold DuckAss. It looked like a crown at first, but then it looked like a helmet, then almost like Cernunnos' horns. That worthy was there, with gold brightness wreathing his brow like branched antlers, watching this parody unfold.

The image solidified into a proper Norse helmet – but with bull horns attached.

Cernunnos guffawed, and Wodan and his ravens let out simultaneous hoots of laughter.

“See? Funny! Almost impressive, almost dramatic, almost regal. But no, it's the exact opposite. And that's how the Norse warriors will be remembered for millennia, a caricature of parody. Ridiculous. A thing to be mocked in singing competitions, worn by women, and each note shall be like a dagger to your nonexistent heart. Hey, Apollo, thanks for the idea. But we don't have many asses up north, so ass ears wouldn't work for this man-child.”

The helmet sailed over to Harold, and landed on his head. The soul tried to get rid of it, but it seemed rather attached to him. In a permanent fashion.

Loki snickered. “It becomes you, really.”

Oh, how ominous! A compliment turned all around.

The entertainment over, the deities faded away, going wherever they go when not collecting souls. Harold Literal Hard Head Now rolled around, trying to get the horny helmet off his head, wailing in a thin voice. There were other souls around, like myself, that had observed the punishment, but deities reached out and picked their own as they left. It was rather quick, and soon I was alone with the living kubbar block.

Now what?

Cernunnos seemed to be watching, because suddenly he winked back into bright existence. “Are you still here? Why have you not been claimed?”

Good question, one I had been asking myself. “I don't know, Great One. I think I have been forgotten.”

“Hmph. And those AEsir are what was supposed to supplant me? Eh, arrogance, it is not limited to the mortal realms. Do you have a name?”

“Does it matter, here?”

“Not really. Word fame is overrated, trust me. Ask anyone who's tried to spell mine correctly. Jehovah's right on that score, just make it hidden and unknowable right out the gate and chuckle at the invocations. Well, I am a god of the wilds, so Wolf and Bear are common names to both of us. Will something like that do?”

“I like bears – when they're jolly and fat from a good autumn harvest.”

Cernunnos laughed, a deep rich sound that I liked a lot. “Hah, feasting without the killing! We do have a lot of that in my lands. Bjorn it is, then. Come, lad, I also have a feast hall, and Herne comes by regularly to talk. I think you may like it there. Sound good?”

“It does, thank you!” I bowed, and he chuckled, and led me from light into light.