Valhalla

Find the nearest yearbook. Open it. Flip through the pages. Remember the things you or anyone else did that year.

Now close it. The pictures are so innocent - well, maybe not innocent. But happy, and memorable. High and low points. Memories.

You should see them when no one's looking.

They stream out of their borders, racing through hallways of empty photographs. Words ambush moving blurs of color, slippery ink staining the pages. Riots break out, photographs are torn apart.

The moment light touches the pages, they scramble back again. Take up old positions in their picture frames, whole again, grinning to each other about battles won, people killed, their own destruction. Laughing secretly. Feasting on memories, forever and ever, until eternity ends.

They die, sort of. All of them at some point. More like a destruction. You only live once, so it follows that you only die once, and they've already died.

You can laugh. I'm laughing. But remember:

At the end of the world, they will pour out of the pages and fight whomever their master wishes them to. Their master, that's you. You own them. Who you want to destroy is your choice. Whether you live or die is another matter.

They are the Einherjar, the best warriors slain in battle. They have died, been destroyed, over and over. They can kill you without a second thought.

Where do they live?

Valhalla.