I walk in.

Large men, muscled, hairy, tattooed, drinking and ignoring my presence fill the hall. I find an empty place on a bench, and sit outward. The one sitting across from me, also sitting outward on his bench, eyes me with interest. He waits. He drinks, and he sits watching me.

I am lost in my thoughts, trying to find the beginning of what I want to say.

“I need to ask you something,” I say loud enough for most of the hall to hear me, my forehead wrinkled in consternation. I take a deep breath still trying to gather my thoughts.

He nods to indicate he’s listening. The others around us quiet down and turn to look, now acknowledging that I am there.

“I am trying to do something and it isn’t working. I want, I need…I am hoping that you can help me understand why it isn’t working.”

Again, I take a deep breath.

They wait.

They are in no hurry. We are in Valhalla. There is no need to hurry again. They have all the time in the world. The final battle is not for a while yet. They sit interested that I have come to them to ask for their advice.

“I have created something that will help warriors in battle,” I tell them.

“Will it help me kill more men,” a loud voice asks.

I pause. “Well, yes, indirectly. It isn’t a weapon like a sword. It is a program.”

Their looks clearly tell me they don’t understand the word ‘program’.

I search my mind for another approach.

“Ok, here’s the situation. In my time, there are many, many soldiers who are sick because of what they have done or have seen in battle. And I create ways…”

“Sick from battle?“

“Yes.”

“How do they get sick from battle?”

“Their minds get sick. We call it post traumatic stress. Their minds are upset because of the things they have seen and done…”

“Why would they be troubled? We don’t have such sickness. Warriors don’t get sick from battle. What is going on in your time that is causing this?”

“Well, some soldiers are ashamed of what they have done, some have lost their friends in battle and their hearts are sick…”

“We all lose friends in battle. We don’t cry for them. It is an honour to die in battle and we come here. We know we will see them again. There is nothing to cry about. What kind of warriors do you have in your time? Ashamed?” They look at each other then at me.

“They don’t have your beliefs.”

They look hard at me. “What do you mean?”

“They don’t believe in Odin.”

It is very quiet. No one moves.

I continue. “It is very different in my time. They have given up your belief system. There is no War God. There is no real sense of Code. There is no sense of battle being an honourable thing. With some, but not with the many. And the other people in my time, don’t value warriors and understand what warriors do…it is very different where I’m from. There is a crisis going on in our veterans where they are killing themselves by the dozens every day.”

“Killing themselves? Why?”

“Because of how bad they feel.”

This causes deep concern and they look at me very intensely. “Warriors don’t kill themselves. We kill. We kill our enemies. Sometimes our enemies kill us and we come to Valhalla…….We….don’t kill ourselves.” It is said with a quiet, deep, growl.

“This is a very strange time you live in,” says the one who sits across from me. “And you are trying to stop them from behaving this way?”

“Yes.”

“How are you doing that?”

“I tell them stories.”

They really don’t know what to think of me. They look at each other. Some go get more mead. Others are looking at me with such intense stares that I can not look in their direction.

The one across from me waits.

I take another deep breath. “Your bards, that come to the hall and visited your villages when you were on earth, they tell stories.”

There is nodding.

“Well, I am a kind of bard. The stories I tell have very powerful words in them that I have chosen carefully. The sound of my voice lulls soldiers to a peaceful place and together my voice and words heal them. This healing helps them become strong again and restores their minds and bodies so they can go fight again.”

Their eyes get wider. “This is a kind of magic,” the one across from me says.

“It is like that, yes. It is because of how our minds work.” I stop. This could be a difficult thing to explain to them. They now take deep breaths.

The one across from me leans toward me. “Your stories heal your warriors so they can return to battle.”

“Yes, or not get the sickness in the first place.”

“How do you do that?”

“I make them feel certain things that take root in their minds. These become so powerful that their bodies heal and they become powerful again.”

“She should go talk to Freyja,” is heard from a few tables over.

“Why don’t they believe in Odin anymore?” It is asked by a man sitting down from me on the bench. “Our Gods protect us. Why would your warriors let them go?”

“Things were more simple when you were on earth. Many changes have taken place and in some cases soldiers are no longer warriors. They have jobs in the army but they don’t recognize warrior codes of behaviour and don’t pray to your Gods.”

“That doesn’t seem to be working out for them very well,” it is observed from a very large man with an enormous red blonde beard.

The one sitting across from me sits eyeing me with curiousity.  “You are a very powerful bard then. Why aren’t your stories working?”

“They do.”

They are confused.

“The stories work perfectly. Every time. All they have to do is listen.”

“So what is the problem?”

“Getting them to listen. I have had soldiers who are in incredible pain and on very strong medicines, listen to my stories and have no more pain.”

“That is amazing!”

“Then they stop listening and go back to taking their medicines and being in pain again.”

“Why do they do that?”

“I don’t know. They say things like, but the government will pay for my medications so that’s why I take them. I say, but you had no pain when you were listening to my voice. They know that but take the medicines the government gives them anyway.”

The men sit back clearly baffled by this.  One leans in, “So if my king gave me medicine that didn’t work, but your stories did, why would I take the medicine even though it was free? I would still be in pain.”

“Exactly.”

“That makes no sense.”

“I know.”

“So many of them know that you tell these stories?”

“Yes, many.”

“And they still don’t listen?”

“No, very few. Only several hundred.”

“Several hundred warriors listen to your stories?”

“Yes, but that’s not enough.”

“That’s a lot of warriors.”

“But there are millions of them who are in pain.”

“Millions? What is this number?”

“As many warriors are you can imagine…wait you can’t imagine that can you? Right, that’s a really big number. People in my time can’t even really imagine it.” I thought for a moment. “If 50 people live in a longhouse, then you would need 20,000 longhouses for a million people. There are over 23 million soldiers in one country alone who may be in pain, or may be during their time as a soldier.

There is a deep and uneasy quiet.

Many hands rub faces, and pull on beards.

“There are thousands of warriors here in Vahalla. But these numbers you speak of are beyond what we know. And many of them have or will have this sickness you speak of?”

“Yes.

“This is a very serious problem. I see why you bring it to us,” says one of the older warriors a table over from where I sit.

They mull this over.

The one across from me, sits now fascinated and he cocks his head to one side as he watches me. 

“Your magic is clearly needed in your time. I don’t understand why they have let go of the Gods that protect them or why they have this sickness. We kill on the battlefield because it is war. We don’t ever feel bad about this. It is a warrior’s duty to kill his enemy. Why have your kind made this so complicated that it affects them so and causes such pain – I don’t understand. But I see why you want to end this sickness. And your words have been proven to be effective. And yet they know this and still don’t listen?” He looks to the floor and ponders this.

It is quiet in the hall as the others think about this as well.

“Very much of this is unusual to us, little one,” says a very round warrior.

“What would make you listen to something new to you?” I ask.

“Well what part of this is new to us, little witch,” says the round one.

“Easy now,” I say.  “That’s not a compliment in my time.”

“What?! What is going on in your time?”

“Freyja would kill them all,” it is murmured.

“But we understand magic, and the privilege of being a warrior. And that stories have great power. What you do and what you are is not strange to us. But it seems to be strange to your kind. This is very odd. And yet you have the answer they seek.”

I close my eyes as if very tired. “Not all of them are seeking. They have resigned themselves to accepting their sickness and do not fight against it.”

One of the warriors throws up his hands in disbelief. “Send me down there!"

“I want to go as well,” is heard from the back.

The one who sits across from me, wrinkles his forehead in confusion. “How difficult this must be to watch this unfold. You are a healer and to watch such sickness take these warriors lives when it could have been prevented, it must be very hard for you to bear this.”

“That’s why I want your advice. How do I make this work? How do I make them listen?”

Get your Weapons Pkg.