This tale is based on our figure review of Sen Megami Aphrodi.
The hour of Ragnarok draws near.
You find yourself charging into war. Sweat drips down the furious faces of your comrades. Their teeth are dulled and yellow, and their breaths are rancorous. But they let loose a war cry that inspires the weakest men to lay their lives down in tribute to Odin and the Aesir. The fire in your soul burns brighter than the sun’s reflection on the tip of your scabbard. The ice and slush and mud beneath your feet cannot slow you. Your enemies across the battlefield will beat you until the pure snow is smattered crimson.
Your last memory is of forged metal scraping against your sternum to pierce your heart.
The days are beautifully short; the nights are abyssal and long. The days are comfortably cold; the nights are frigid and fatal. You cannot recall what life was like before Valhalla. You only know war now. You only care for your armor and whether it will resist the blow of a hammer or ax. You only care for your pelts and whether they will stave off the frostbite. You only care for your sword and whether it will lob off one head or a thousand before rusting with blood.
There are always warriors on the plains of Asgard, their battles illuminated by the moon and stars. Right now, you are not among them: you have shown Odin your fealty through death. You are granted a seat at the great hall to dine with the All-Father. You cheer for the bravery of your compatriots, the fierceness of their brutality, and laugh at your miserable death. You are bested by Thor at arm wrestling—everyone loses to him. You eat until your stomach is shy of bursting. And after this, you return to your quarters. You watch the battles below with the sight of an owl, studying for your next skirmish.
You are not alone.
You, an Einherjar, are in consort with a Valkyrie. This one, Aphrodi, plucked your corpse from a human war too long ago to recall, from a world long since gone. She values your hot-blood. She admires your iron muscle. She appraises your soul as worthy for Valhalla. Your body belongs to Odin and the Aesir; your eros—whatever is left of it—belongs to her. She is the greater of you two. Her esteem is worth ten thousand men, which is why she seeks ten thousand men daily for the forces of Asgard.
Aphrodi pulls you from your seat at the window. She plants a hand on your chest, pushing you onto the bed of straw and wool. Her touch is razor-sharp, calloused because her burdens are heavy and her weapons mighty. Her fingers shear the skin on your torso, small pools of blood bubbling to the surface.
“Weak,” she says. Her voice conveys disgust. The flickering candlelight betrays her grin.
Aphrodi climbs the bed. You rest beneath her thighs while she bends over to lick the blood from your chest. In contrast with her hands, her body is smooth and pristine; no being or weapon has ever touched her milky skin. Her breasts, ample as the fields, droop over your abdomen. Jormungandr cannot encircle her waist, and her thighs rival Ygdrassil.
Your erection grows to meet her belly. She allows you to enter her canal, radiant with heat like Muspell’s fire. You are not the only human to mingle with the valkyries; you have heard the stories, and now you are part of them. This ecstasy is familiar, a pleasure from mortality past, yet much greater than any human intercourse. Goosebumps raise along your skin, like the first time you saw Thor strike lightning or the first mead you drank in Odin’s great hall.
Aphrodi, as if sensing your complete loss of control, grabs your neck as her hips rock over your body. Her grip is tight and painful, distracting you from your pleasures long enough to allow her continued excitement. The fact she has not crushed your larynx is perhaps signal that some of those legends about gods fornicating with men stemmed from her.
“Do you grow weary, Einherjar?” Aphrodi pants.
In response, you reach for her hips, barely able to clasp her buttocks. Her cheeks are warm. They yield to your touch and ripple at your slapping. The almighty valkyrie lets out a laugh: you cannot tell if she enjoys your teasing or mocks you for trying.
“Our time draws to a close,” Aphrodi says. She releases your throat. “Do what you must so you may ride into battle clear-headed. Surely as the sun rises and the moon sets, when you die and live again, I shall be here.”
You need no second prompting. Being deprived of air has brought vigor to you. The rush of blood brings pleasures indescribable by human tongues. Your essence flows out like Audhumla’s milk, which ran as rivers at the beginning of the world.
You find yourself charging into war. Your comrades snarl with curled lips and foaming spit. Their molten breaths become mist against the frost air. The skin on their knuckles splits as they grip knives and shields, spears and bows. Their heroism pleases Odin and the Aesir. Their fury inspires you to die alongside them, as you have done before and will do again before the world ends. Your enemies across the battlefield will cleave your skull until the brain matter meets the soil and feeds the worms.
Your last memory is of a valkyrie, Aphrodi, lifting your broken bones and disemboweled viscera from the plains. She smiles at you. She is proud. Above her is the heavens, and from them falls fresh snow. But this is not snow you have seen before. It is heavy and burns the skin, and tastes of salt. The sky weeps.
“The Fimbulwinter,” you say to Aphrodi.
“Yes,” she replies cooly. “The hour of Ragnarok is here.”