“Fields of Valhalla”

2006-8-18 – The Pennsic War

In the vast expanse of the Akashic Library, Calliope found Peter Fae seated at an ancient oak table, his golden cloak catching the ethereal light that streamed through towering stained glass windows. Before him lay an open tome, its pages shimmering with images of warriors and mystics intertwined.

“The Fields of Valhalla,” Calliope said softly, her blue cloak rustling as she took her seat across from him. “Tell me about this gathering where the veil between myth and reality grew so thin.”

Peter’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Ah yes, 2006. A fascinating convergence of energies.” He gestured to the book before him, where images of warriors in modern armor shifted and changed. “Carl Bridge had invited me to what they called the Pennsic War – a gathering of the Society for Creative Anachronism. But what I witnessed there was far more than mere reenactment.”

“You’d been there before, hadn’t you?” Calliope asked, leaning forward. “At Estrella?”

“Estrella was in Arizona, yet it was part of the same realm. Estrella was my initiation into these realms. But this…” Peter paused, considering. “This was different. The Fields of Valhalla revealed themselves as a living embodiment of mythic patterns. Warriors would fall in combat only to rise again the next day – a perfect mirror of the Norse halls of the valiant dead.”

Lords and Ladies

Calliope traced her finger along the edge of a shimmering page. “Tell me about the shield you carried at Pennsic.”

“Ah,” Peter smiled, adjusting his golden cloak. “That was a beautiful piece of synchronicity. A Lord and Lady of the realm offered me their shield to use in battle. When I saw it bore the glyph of the Moon, I knew it was no coincidence.”

“Because of your work with lunar cycles at the Academy?” Calliope asked, her dark eyes alight with curiosity.

Peter nodded, leaning forward. “Precisely. At the Academy, so much of our magical work was aligned with the Moon’s phases – tracking how consciousness shifts with her cycles, understanding the ebb and flow of manifestation. To be handed a shield bearing her symbol, in this place of ritual combat…” He paused, remembering. “It felt like confirmation that I was walking the right path. Here I was, studying the subtle arts through lunar alignments in Lake Tahoe, and then finding myself on a battlefield carrying the Moon’s protection.”

“The synchronicity must have been striking,” Calliope observed.

“It was perfect,” Peter agreed. “In a gathering where most champions bore symbols of martial might – lions, dragons, swords – I found myself carrying the Moon. It spoke to everything I was learning about the subtler ways of power, about how force could flow like water rather than strike like steel. Of all the symbols I could have championed in this modern Valhalla, the Moon felt… right.”

Peter’s hands moved expressively as he spoke. “It was fascinating, Calliope. Here were people who spent their everyday lives in ordinary jobs – accountants, teachers, craftspeople – yet when they stepped onto those fields, they were transformed. Not just by their costumes and armor, but by their willingness to face something primal.”

“Tell me more,” Calliope prompted, her dark hair catching the light as she leaned forward.

“What made it profound was the raw honesty of it,” Peter continued. “While some of the people were clearly trained in the military or fighting arts, many weren’t. They were weekend warriors, people living mundane lives with common jobs who embraced the mythos within themselves in a shared ritual which broke the barriers of the worlds they lived in most of the time. They showed immense courage stepping onto that field. Even with rattan swords and protective armor, there’s something deeply real about standing before another person who’s going to strike at you. It grounds you in your body, in the present moment, in a way few other experiences can.”

“And how did this relate to your own journey as a magician?”

Peter’s expression grew thoughtful. “It helped me understand something crucial about the Mythica – about how the subtle realms manifest in our physical reality. In Tahoe at the time I was training in aikido, capoeira and crossfit while simultaneously diving deep into mystical practices. What I witnessed at the Fields of Valhalla was how these energetic patterns – these ancient archetypes of warrior, magician, and mystic – were literally taking form in our modern world.”

“The aka manifesting,” Calliope observed.

“Exactly,” Peter nodded enthusiastically. “Though I hadn’t developed that terminology yet, I was seeing how the ethereal patterns of consciousness – the myth lines as I called them then – were emerging through these people’s actions and choices. Each person who stepped onto that field was unconsciously channeling ancestral memories, ancient warrior traditions, timeless codes of honor and combat.”

Calliope gestured to a shimmering image in the book before them. “And your role as both warrior and magician?”

“It was a perfect crucible for understanding the integration of these energies,” Peter replied. “I wasn’t just fighting – I was witnessing, documenting, understanding how these primal forces were moving through us all. When I put on armor and stepped onto the field, I was simultaneously the warrior engaging in combat and the magician observing the patterns of the Mythica unfolding.”

The vision changed then, and she saw Peter not as he was during that moment in 2006 but in his aspect in the library, his golden robes set atop a shimmering suit of ethereal chainmail observing the field.

“And the sacred aspect of combat?” she asked.

“That’s where it gets really interesting,” Peter leaned forward, his golden cloak catching the light. “In those moments of combat, there’s a dissolution of the everyday self. You can’t be caught up in your normal thoughts and concerns when someone’s swinging a sword at you,” he chuckled. “It becomes a form of moving meditation, of immediate presence. The same presence I sought in magical practice, but achieved through the body, through action.”

“It sounds like this experience helped shape your understanding of how the Mythica manifests,” Calliope observed.

“Profoundly,” Peter agreed. “It showed me how the subtle and physical realms aren’t separate – they’re constantly interweaving. The Fields of Valhalla wasn’t just a recreation of ancient combat; it was a modern portal where people could step into these timeless mythic patterns. Their combat became ritual, their fellowship became ceremony, and their victories and defeats became initiations.”

Visions of the Tower

A vision of a warrior holding a shield with writing upon the inside appeared. Calliope leaned forward intently. “There’s something here.” she said. “Something important. “

Peter nodded, his expression brightening with recognition. “Yes. There was this moment… I was photographing the combat, tracking how the medieval energies were manifesting through these modern warriors, when I noticed something curious. This fighter was adjusting his gear between bouts, and as he shifted his shield, I caught a glimpse of writing on its inner face.”

“What drew you to it?” Calliope asked, her dark eyes reflecting the library’s ethereal light.

“At first, just the fact that someone had written anything there at all. Most shields bore their devices on the outside – heraldry, symbols of strength or lineage. But this…” Peter paused, his golden cloak shimmering as he leaned forward. “This was different. Written in careful letters on the inside, where only the bearer would see it, was the Gunslinger’s creed: “I do not kill with my gun; he who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father. I kill with my heart.'”

“What did this mean to you?” she asked.

“It spoke to the responsibility of violence,” said Peter, his face growing firm beneath the flickering torches of the library around them. “That if one had to use violence as a solution, to kill, that it was in service to a deeper morality, as if they had to put down a member of their family, of someone who had lost their way rather than someone who was inherently evil. It spoke to my idea of justice. Of necessary action done from a noble heart.”

“And this triggered something deeper?” Calliope prompted softly.

“In that instant,” Peter continued, his golden cloak shimmering, “I had a vision of the Dark Tower itself – rising at the center of all realities, the axis point of the multiverse. Just as I’d seen it when the towers fell in New York. But this time, I understood something more. Here was this warrior, on this field of modern Valhalla, carrying words from Roland’s quest inscribed in his shield. It wasn’t coincidence.”

He gestured to the space between them. “You see, the Mythica is about mapping the underlands between realities, the spaces where all these different mythlines intersect. In that moment, watching him prepare for battle with those words as his meditation, I saw how the aka of the Dark Tower – this central point of all worlds – was manifesting right there on the field. This man had no idea he was channeling the same energy as Roland Deschain, walking his own version of that path toward the Tower.”

“The reality beneath the reality,” Calliope observed.

“Exactly,” Peter nodded. “Just as Roland traveled through different worlds on his quest for the Tower, I was witnessing how these mythic patterns emerged in our world. The warrior with his shield, the words from another reality, my vision of the Tower – it was all part of the larger tapestry. The underlands of the Mythica were revealing themselves, showing how all these different stories, different realities, were connected at their core.”

Calliope smiled then. “It sounds like you’re talking about yourself.” and he grinned in response. “Roland exists within us all.” he said. “Somewhere.”

The Fields of Valhalla

“Tell me,” Calliope inquires, her blue robes shifting like twilight as she gestures to the scene before them, “how did you come to see these mortal gatherings as echoes of Valhalla? What revealed this pattern to you?”

Peter contemplates, watching the scenes of battle and feast unfold through the library’s viewing portal. “It was in the rhythm of it,” he explains, “In the fundamental pattern that repeated each day – the rising to face combat, the falling, the rising again. And then, as night fell, the great revelry. During my studies at the Academy, I was learning to track these patterns, to see how they existed as imprints in consciousness itself.”

“We were all playing out these ancient roles,” he continues, “but it wasn’t mere recreation. Through my training in divination and healing, I could see how these fundamental patterns of consciousness existed within each of us, patterns that were being redeemed through our actions. The entire event occurred for me as a vast ritual, a pocket universe that existed at a crossroads of synchronicity.”

“Was it simply the Norse energy for you?” asked the muse.

“Not at all. Part of the beauty of the event was how it drew upon a multitude of traditions and histories, how the warriors of many lives and lifetimes converged in a single point.”

Familia Gladitoria

“Ah yes,” Peter smiled warmly, his golden cloak shifting as he settled into the memory. “Carl – I’d first met him at the Call of Mercury in 2003. Even then, I sensed something different about him – a blend of troll and fey energies. He was a craftsman, a shaper, really more like a forge god in human form. When he invited me to these events, first Estrella and then the Fields of Valhalla, it felt like being guided into a realm of ancient remembrance.”

“And Familia Gladitoria itself?”

“The name suited them perfectly,” Peter said. “They were a fellowship devoted to the Greco-Roman traditions of combat. Their camp wasn’t just a collection of tents – it was a living embodiment of gladiatorial spirit. Ajax the Mighty was among them – a warrior whose very presence commanded respect. The way they carried themselves, trained together, supported each other… it wasn’t just recreation. They were living the deeper aspects of what it meant to be a warrior company.”

Calliope leaned forward. “How did you fit into their dynamic?”

“That’s what was remarkable,” Peter replied, his eyes bright with remembrance. “Here I was, more of a traveling magician and mystic than a dedicated fighter, yet they welcomed me. Though…” he paused, considering his words carefully, “I never truly felt I fit in. I was more like a visitor from another realm, an observer granted honorary citizenship in their warrior culture.”

Calliope tilted her head. “Yet they respected you?”

“They did, and I was deeply grateful for that,” Peter nodded. “Carl had bridged these worlds for me, bringing the fey wanderer from the mountains into this realm of disciplined combat. But my heart was elsewhere. While they lived and breathed the warrior’s path, I was more focused on documenting the underlands, on mapping how these energies manifested in the Mythica.”

“You carried warrior energy though,” Calliope observed.

“Yes, but differently,” Peter’s expression grew thoughtful. “The warrior lineage was there within me – I could feel it, and I was actively training in this lifetime through aikido and other arts. But my true calling wasn’t to be a warrior in their sense. I was more interested in healing the wounds of the masculine – both within myself and the collective. So while I participated in their combat rituals, I felt like a sort of… anthropologist of the subtle realms, if you will. One foot in Valhalla, one foot in Faerie.”

“A liminal position,” Calliope suggested.

“Exactly,” Peter brightened. “I was simultaneously part of their world and apart from it. They were living the warrior’s path with such dedication and authenticity, and I honored that deeply. But for me, it was more about witnessing how these ancient patterns of masculinity and combat were manifesting in our modern world, understanding how we might transform them. I was a guest in their realm, grateful for their hospitality, but always aware that my true home was in the mountains where I studied the magic.”

“Tell me about their camp.”

“The space was thick with Greco-Roman myth lines,” Peter gestured, as if drawing patterns in the air. “You could feel it in how they arranged their camp, in their rituals of preparation for battle, in the way they honored both victory and defeat. Ajax the Mighty embodied the archetypal gladiator – not just in his fighting style, but in his bearing, his presence. And there was this… camaraderie, this deep bond among them that transcended the usual social connections. They were a family, a unit. I could feel a depth between them, one forged through their shared excellence on the field and the lessons it had taught them.”

“It was like being in a movie” he said wistfully, full of characters from all walks of life gathered together in the common cause of the quest. I appreciated it greatly.”

The Swordmakers

Calliope’s eyes sparkled with interest as she turned another page. “And the sword? I sense there’s more to that story.”

“Ah yes,” Peter nodded, his expression growing thoughtful. “At Estrella, I’d encountered a group of craftsmen aligned with the Yoruba pantheon. They forged real blades – I even saw what I later realized was the Iron Throne in their shop. I commissioned a sword from them, dedicated to my lion totem. The six months between Estrella and the Fields of Valhalla became a period of earning that blade, of proving myself worthy through training and inner work.”

“Your second blade,” Calliope noted softly, “after Thorn.”

Peter’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Yes. Thorn came to me when I first arrived at the Academy in Lake Tahoe. It was such a different energy – raw, masculine, almost brutal in its directness. But this new blade…” He paused, searching for the words. “While I was waiting for it to be forged, I dove deep into training. Aikido in the mornings, exploring the spirals and circles of force. Capoeira in the afternoons, dancing with combat in a way that felt ancient and new at once. CrossFit training to forge my body into a vessel worthy of wielding such a blade.”

“All while studying the subtle arts,” Calliope added.

“Exactly,” Peter nodded. “The Academy became my forge – not just for the physical disciplines, but for understanding how they connected to the magical arts. I was learning to read the subtle realms, to track synchronicities, to understand the flow of energies… and all of it felt like preparation for this new blade. Where Thorn embodied the masculine principle – direct, piercing, decisive – this new sword carried a different resonance. Something more fluid, more intuitive. The feminine aspect of the Sword, if you will. It wasn’t just about striking or cutting – it was about dancing with force, about understanding the flow of power in a different way.”

“And did they have the sword for you then?”

“No. That came later, when I traveled down to their home, deep in the realms of the Hunter.”

Rights of Royalty

Calliope looked through the portal, seeing an image of Peter in his yurt before a ritual table casting a spell.

“What’s this?” she asked, her eyes focusing on the subtle energies emerging through the space.

“An invocation.” he said. “The last time i’d come to these realms i’d imbibed a potion to enhance my perceptions along with an ally i’d met within the market I called the Pilgrim. I decided to do it again, enhancing the draft with my magics.”

“The Pilgrim?” she said, “from Estrella?”

Peter’s expression grew wistful. “Yes, the Pilgrim. We’d reunited at the Fields of Valhalla, and once again, our journey took on a ritualistic quality. I donned my reds and golds, embodying the royal aspect of the Fae, while he remained in more humble attire. We wandered the camps and found ourselves at a masquerade.”

“A masquerade?” Calliope echoed, her voice laced with intrigue.

Peter chuckled. “Yes. A grand event filled with people dressed in finery and masks, embodying the mythos of the age. At the entrance, a gatekeeper insisted on proper attire. My outfit—rich with reds and golds—granted me entry, but the Pilgrim and another companion were barred for their simpler clothing. It was a moment of mythic resonance. I declared, ‘They’re with me,’ and brought them inside as part of my entourage. It felt like living the story of a royal Fae ambassador with his companions from the mortal realms.”

Once again the Pilgrim appears in the path, and as he does I sense the lines of myth return, the feeling that came to me when we sat upon the mountain during the ‘Waiting for the Next Camel’ segment of our shared time in the realms of Estrella.

The paths are different for us this time as we wander the realms, eventually finding our way to a masquerade full of people all dressed to the the hilt in costumes and couture. There is a gatekeeper at the door, insistent upon a code of dress & decorum that the blend of reds and golds in my outfit affords me, and am easily ushered into the space.

Again I feel like a prince of the fae realms, finding my way through the revelries with diplomatic privilege. It is a classic mythos, as I turn to see my companion barred at the door for their peasant’s gear and pull them in quickly as members of my entourage. The roles we are playing have their privileges.