No Nazis in Valhalla By DJinn Thompson

A Prayer for the Chosen Queer

Odin One-Eye,
You who drank from the well of suffering
To see the truths no man could endure—
Do you see us now,
Bent not in shame, but in mourning?

We have buried our dead beneath rainbow flags,
Their names recited like prayer at our Day of Remembrance.
We have held vigil beneath stars
That once guided our ancestors’ ships,
And now watch over trans teens sleeping under bridges,
Because their families forgot how to love them.

Freyja,
Lady of the fallen,
Goddess of war and love alike—
How many of us have died
With hearts full of yearning
And bodies full of holes,
Made not with swords unsheathed in battle,
But with the knives and guns and fists of cowards who would fuck us,
And hate themselves so much for it
That our breath is the only sacrifice
That will make them right with the God of their own Shame?

Frigg,
Mother of all sorrow,
Teach us how to weep and still keep weaving.
We stitch our banners from the tatters they leave us—
Queer community, fierce kin,
Ka-Tet of fibrous fury.

And to Tyr,
Who gave his hand for peace,
We offer our scars—
Not for your pity,
But for your promise
That sacrifice must mean something.

Oh Protectors of the Nine Realms,
Hatred has taken root in our cities,
In our homes,
In our very hearts,
We see the same darkness rising
That our grandparents fought in Europe—
The same blind fury, now wrapped in the Gadsden Flag,
The stench of Supremacy soaking into the fibers between Stars and Stripes.
We watch as it spreads like endemic  in courthouses and legislatures and boardrooms,
And we are afraid,
Afraid that the fire our ancestors snuffed out at Buchenwald
Has been rekindled here,
Afraid that the world they bled to save
Is slipping from our grasp.

These cowards, Oh Æsir, they  take your names—
Yours, Thor; yours, Baldur, yours, Allfather—
And twist them into iron symbols of hate.
They wear Mjölnir as if it were theirs to wield,
As if courage meant cruelty,
As if blood meant purity,
As if the gods ever bowed to fascists.

But we remember.

We remember that Loki was fluid as flame,
That shape and self are not sin.
We remember that warriors were chosen
By heart and deed, not by body nor banner.
We remember that Valhalla is not a fortress of fear,
But a hall of the brave—
And bravery does not kneel to kiss a jackboot.

So hear us now,
You gods of storm and story—
Hallow our rage.
Sanctify our Love.
Bless the queer, the trans, the nonbinary, the gay, the lesbian, the aero-ace.

Bless us who stand at the precipice of our own privilege and say:
There is nothing to do but jump.
There is nothing to do but jump because how will I know if my wings can hold me
Unless I attempt to fly.
There is nothing to do but jump because while I may die from the fall,
if I stay here, I will never have even lived.
There is nothing to do but jump because though the rocks of rejection and hate are sharp,
they cannot begin to compare to the thousand blades of an inauthentic life.
We say “Death before detransition” because they are one  and the same.

Let our runes be resistance.
Let our mead be memory.
Let our shield wall rise with rainbow light
Let our banners wave boldly with reclaimed slurs.
Queer Coven, Faggot Family, Tranny Tribe, Dike Dynasty.
May our axe handles be carved with the true names they tried to take from us.

No bigots in Valhalla.
No TERFs in Fólkvangr.
No hate in the halls of the worthy.

By all your names,
We are not alone.
By all your names,
We claim the fire that made the world.