My best friend tells me that she was born in the wrong time. That her viking ancestors would be ashamed of how much she can't handle. How she's no warrior. So I take her to a powwow that my sister's dancing at and let her feel the vibrations of the drums pound through her feet. I tell her maybe our war drums are our heartbeats. She's fighting herself and using razors as her soldiers. I say, if you need sharp things let's use arrows to figure out where east is so we can run towards the rising sun like my ancestors did. We can use words as our shield walls in battle and I can be the dragon head on your ship to scare off the enemy in dark and foggy times. If you want to get a little pagan I'll burn all my sage for you and we can pray to all the gods we've heard stories of. I'll teach you all the tricks my shima’ sani taught me. We are warriors. But is it selfish of me to hope that you never go to Valhalla? I want you to live long after the fighting ends.