Word: Bifrost

 

Bifrost

[ biv-rost ]

---

noun Scandinavian Mythology.

the rainbow bridge of the gods from Asgard to earth.

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               There was no way around it. Jason was dead. His body was lying on the ground with a large amount of blood coming from it. He knew he should be upset about that. But what dominated his mind was the fact that he was still aware of things. In fact, his awareness was no longer attached to his body. The world looked slightly fuzzy and the colors were muted, but he could still see. Sounds seemed like they were coming from behind a thin door, but he could still hear.

               That should not have been possible. Everything he knew told him that he should not be experiencing anything. He should just be, well, dead. Science told him that souls were not real. That there was no afterlife. It seemed that science still had a lot to learn, but he was having trouble reconciling what he had learned with what he was experiencing.

               He supposed he should put it out of his mind—or whatever it was he had now. The guys who killed him were all running. That was too bad. They were going to get away. At least Cindy was okay. She was there, crying over his body. At least he had managed to keep her safe. That was something.

               Suddenly, he heard a sound much clearer than others. He turned whatever form he now had around and saw something odd. A young woman riding a white horse. She was pretty and looked like she knew her way around a gym. She was also dressed in weird armor and carried a spear. She saw him and pulled the reins of her horse.

               “Oh wow.” She said. She spoke in a Nordic accent and seemed surprised to see someone. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing anyone. I mean, this was supposed to be a small fight, yeah? Really didn’t think I’d be doing much other than checking it out.”

               “Uh…what?” Jason said. He was actually surprised to find that he could, in fact, talk.

               “Oh yeah. We don’t get many people these days. Even when someone dies, it’s usually not a super good death. You modern people like to kill with those fancy guns. Makes it hard for people to die with honor.”

               That did not answer his question. “What?” He tried again.

               “Oh, I guess you wouldn’t get it, would you? So, My name’s Sigi. I’m a Valkyrie. Not like those storybook ones you all hear about. I’m a real one. You know, sent by Odin Allfather to collect the honored dead and bring them to the Halls of Valhalla.”

               “Okay? I think I get it. So, why are you here?”

               “Well, this was a battle, wasn’t it? A small one, but still a battle. I’m a pretty new Valkyrie, so I only clear up these little scuffles. But I haven’t actually collected a real warrior in decades, so it’s nice to actually do my job.”

               “Wait, me? But I’m not a warrior. I’m just an IT guy.”

               “The fact that you can see me tells a different story. But I can find out. Hold on.”

               She held up her spear and a small glowing window appeared, hovering in midair. It showed Jason and Cindy walking down the street, arm in arm. It showed the muggers surrounding them. It showed one of them getting far too friendly with Cindy. It showed Jason doing his best to fend them off, swinging his fists with everything he had. He even managed to hit a few times. Then it showed him getting stabbed by one of the muggers. Then the window faded.

               “Fighting to protect your lady love against several enemies. Fighting them with nothing but your fists and spirit, while they had iron and steel. A good death. In another time, this is the kind of thing that gets a song sung about you. And a death worthy of Valhalla. Well, at least I think so. The Allfather will have to judge for sure, but I don’t think there’ll be a problem.”

               “Huh. I, uh, I don’t know what to say. I mean, I am…was an atheist. I never thought this stuff was real. And now I’m going to be hanging out with Vikings and gods? This is so weird.”

               “I know, I know. It’s hard to really understand it all. Just take it easy and relax into it. Now come on. We’ve got a rainbow to catch.”

               “A rainbow?”

               He somehow moved to the horse and got on behind Sigi. She raised her spear, and the head glowed a bright rainbow light. And then a massive rainbow, larger than any building, descended. It spanned Jason’s vision and vanished into the sky, rising higher than he could hope to see. None of the living people noticed. Sigi clicked her heels and the horse started forward. Its hooves touched the light. The light acted like it was completely solid.

               “Is this safe?” Jason asked.

               “Oh aye. There’s nothing more reliable than the Bifrost in all the realms. It’ll take us right to the gates, where you’ll be judged good and proper.”

               “What happens if I’m not let in?”

               “Hm, then I guess you’ll either be given to Hela, or another afterlife’ll claim you instead. Not sure exactly. I wouldn’t worry about it. We haven’t gotten a new entry in so long that I’m sure you’ll get in. We can always use some new stories to tell around the feasting table. Now hold on. Running on this bridge, we’ll be there in no time.”

               The horse started to run, faster than anything Jason had ever known to exist. Somehow he stayed on. And all the while, his mind raced. He thought of the life he left behind. He thought of the afterlife ahead of him. And he wondered what surprises the universe had in store for him now. 

*****************

Norse mythology is cool. I just hope it's not real. Because if it is, I'm screwed. I'll be going right to Helheim.  You know, the sucky afterlife where all the boring people go. That would suck for all kinds of reasons.

Word: Draconian

 

Draconian

[ drey-koh-nee-uhn, druh- ]

---

adjective

1. of, relating to, or characteristic of the Athenian statesman Draco, or his severe code of laws.

2. (often lowercase) rigorous; unusually severe or cruel: Draconian forms of punishment.

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               King Callus was in his study, reading a play from a popular playwright. It was, of course, about him, singing his praises. Most plays did, but he hardly minded. He looked up when he heard the gentle click of the door opening. His loyal steward, Jerrik, stood, waiting for Callus to acknowledge his presence.

               “Yes, Jerrik? What is it?”

               “I have the latest reports of the populace, sire.”

               Good. It was always important for a rule to know what his people thought of him. Even though he knew he was a perfect ruler that nobody would complain about.”

               “Very good. How goes the common man?”

               Jerrik looked nervous. He shifted his weight from foot to foot for a moment before answering.

               “They view you very poorly, sire.”

               “Poorly? What? Surely you must have misheard.”

               “I wish I had, sire. They have voiced many complaints about you.”

               “Such as?”

               “Well, taxes, for one. They are displeased with you taxing them for half of their income.”

               “Well that’s just rude. Taxation is a necessity for a kingdom. And why shouldn’t a king enjoy the fruits of his people’s labor? I work quite hard on their behalf, after all.”

               “Naturally, sire. But they say it leads to them living in poverty and being unable to live. Especially with a minimum wage that they think is unfairly low.”

               “Bah. Two copper a week is more than enough to live off if they’re smart about it. Besides, that’s just the minimum. Everyone knows hard work is rewarded with higher wages. I set very clear guidelines on what gets raises.”

               “They think those goals are impossible to achieve, sire.”

               “They think working a hundred hours a week is impossible? I’m clearly ruling a bunch of lazy and ungrateful people. Who do they think protects them from bandits and enemies?”

               “You do, sire. But speaking of your impeccable protection, they seem to think the armed guards and soldiers on every corner is a bad thing. Especially given that they’re authorized to take lethal action against crime.”

               “Well how else are they supposed to enforce the law? A dead criminal is one less lawbreaker. Soon crime will be nonexistent.”

               “I understand perfectly, sire. The people, however, do not.”

               The king sighed. “What will you tell me next, that they don’t like my state mandated appreciation days?”

               He was quite proud of that. Days where the people had off from work, which they would spend singing his praises.

               “Sort of. They do like the day off. But not why they get it off. They would rather get it to themselves to rest from what they consider a grueling work schedule.”

               “Ungrateful indeed. They clearly don’t know how hard I work. How difficult it is to be king.”

               “There’s more, sire. There’s talk of revolt. Some of the peasants are gathering to talk about overthrowing you.”

               “Revolt? How could they even consider such a thing? They really are horrid, aren’t they. Fine. Have the guards round up the ring leaders and execute them in a nice public place. Let them know that, although I am a benevolent and tolerant man, I will not shy away from doing what I need to in order to preserve peace.”

               “Of course, sire. It shall be done immediately.”

               Jerrik bowed and left the room. King Callus sat back in his well stuffed chair and looked out towards the window in the far wall. It was hard being a good king. Especially when the people he governed were so difficult to please. 

*********************

I wonder how many villains out there think they're the hero. Or do they go around thinking "yeah, I'm the bad guy, so what?"

Word: Vanguard

 

vanguard

[ van-gahrd ]

noun

1. the foremost division or the front part of an army; advance guard; van.

2. the forefront in any movement, field, activity, or the like.

3. the leaders of any intellectual or political movement.

4. (initial capital letter)Rocketry. a U.S. three-stage, satellite-launching rocket, the first two stages powered by liquid-propellant engines and the third by a solid-propellant engine.

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               “So you want my squad to be bait?” Commander Trevolt asked with a frown. He cast his gaze over the map as he spoke.

               “No, of course not.” General Walters said. “You and your men aren’t bait. You’re the proud vanguard. The spearhead which all others follow. The rallying point that paves the way to victory.”

The general sure knew how to speak. Had he been less competent man, Trevolt might have gone along with the older officer’s words without question. As it was, he knew what was going on.

“Got it. Not bait. Meat shields.”

“Vanguard.” The general insisted. “It’s a very important position, and one with a lot of prestige.”

“Sir, don’t BS me. You want my guys to run in front of everyone else to soak up as much enemy ammo as we can to keep the more experienced soldiers safer longer. That’s what we call a meat shield.”

The general seemed to deflate. He was probably used to people going along with what he said.

“Okay, yes. You and your boys are the meat shields. The sacrificial lambs that make sure the battle goes as well as possible. It’s not a good place to be, I know. But that’s where you’re going. So suck it up, soldier, call it the vanguard and make it sound like something other than a death sentence to your men.”

Trevolt sighed. “And how am I supposed to do that?”

“Glory. Honor. Respect. All that good stuff. I know it’s a load of bull, and so do you. But that’s the life of a solider, right? Now, any more questions?”

“A lot, sir. A whole lot. But I’ll boil it down to two: Why my squad, and will we at least be kitted out properly?”

General Walters sat on the nearest chair. It was nothing special, just a folding chair that creaked slightly when used.

“I’m supposed to give you a big speech here. About how your boys are the best. An inspiration to everyone else. But given our previous conversation, I’m inclined to believe you won’t buy it.”

“I know my men too well anyway, sir.”

“Well then I bet you can guess. But if you want me to say it, it’s because you’re men are problems. Troublemakers. People with disciplinary problems that the army feels we can do better without. They were given to you because of your reputation in dealing with delinquents. But most of the higher ups feel such a…difficult element is better removed.”

The commander noticed the general’s use of “most.” He guessed Walters was implying he was a member of the dissenting minority on that decision. Not that it made a difference.

“As for gear, yes and no. You’ll be given good gear, yes. Enough to take a good amount of shots and keep going. But it won’t be our best. Not by a long shot. You understand, right?”

“Yeah, I get it. Give us enough to do our jobs, but still go down in a blaze of glory to give everyone else a martyr to rally behind. At least, that’s what it’s supposed to be, right?”

“Exactly.”

“Never mind that it’ll just be us getting shot at and killed so others don’t.”

“That’s how it is for every soldier, commander. You’re just going to be first in line. Now go out there and get our army’s vanguard ready to move. We leave tomorrow, bright and early.”

************************

There are so, so many reasons why I never wanted to enlist. Getting shot at was pretty high up there.