In Norse mythology, Valhalla is not a metaphor. It is a literal hall in Asgard, ruled by Odin, where the bravest warriors — the Einherjar — feast and fight until the end of the world. Entry is not granted for bluster, political combat, or rhetorical skirmishes. It is reserved for those who die in actual battle, chosen by Valkyries for their courage and skill. The criteria are clear: fall with honor, sword in hand, and you may join Odin’s ranks. I grew up reading Thor comic books, which sparked an interest in Norse Mythology, including several books that weren’t comics. I learned much about Valhalla, though I never bragged that I would see my friends there.
In modern American politics, “warrior” language has been appropriated by figures who have never seen a battlefield, never faced mortal combat, and whose “fights” are waged in studios, on stages, and behind podiums. Among them are Kash Patel, Charlie Kirk, Eric Trump, Donald Trump Jr., and Stephen Miller — men who have embraced the imagery of warriors, sometimes even the afterlife of Valhalla, without meeting the ancient standard. I’ll leave Donald Trump out of this conversation, who avoided military service by claiming bone spurs.
Kash Patel: The Valhalla Sign‑Off
Kash Patel, a former Trump administration official and current FBI Director under Donald Trump, brought Valhalla into the political conversation in September 2025. At a press briefing announcing the arrest of Charlie Kirk’s alleged killer, Patel closed with: “Rest now, brother. We have the watch, and I’ll see you in Valhalla.”
The phrase is steeped in military culture — a nod to fallen comrades in arms. But neither Patel nor Kirk served in the armed forces. In Norse terms, neither died nor lived as a warrior in the literal sense. Patel’s use of “Valhalla” was symbolic, meant to elevate Kirk to the status of a fallen hero. Yet to those who know the mythology, it rang hollow — a borrowed valor from a tradition that demands actual combat and sacrifice.
Patel’s career has been in law, intelligence, and politics. His battles have been bureaucratic and ideological, not fought with shield and spear. In the Viking age, such a résumé would not earn a place in Odin’s hall.
Charlie Kirk: The Culture War Combatant
Charlie Kirk built his brand on the language of combat — “fighting the culture war,” “taking the battle to the campus quad,” “standing on the front lines of freedom.” To his followers, he was a warrior for conservative values. To his critics, he was a provocateur whose “battles” were waged in tweets, speeches, and fundraising emails.
Kirk’s death in 2025 became a rallying point for political allies, who framed him as a martyr. But in the Norse sense, Kirk’s life and death bore no resemblance to the Einherjar’s path. He did not die in battle against an enemy army. His “front lines” were metaphorical — debates, media appearances, and organizational leadership.
In the sagas, warriors earn a place in Valhalla through physical courage in the face of mortal threat. One could say Kirk exhibited courage by going out into spaces where there were potential threats, but it does not meet the Valkyries’ criteria. By that criterion, Kirk could enter Valhalla and meet Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, and every Black, Hispanic, Native American, or Asian man or woman in history.
Eric Trump: The Heir in Armor‑Free Battles
Eric Trump, the middle son of Donald Trump, has often adopted the language of “fighting” for his father’s movement. His speeches are peppered with calls to “stand and fight” and “never back down.” Yet his battles are fought in the safe arenas of political rallies, television interviews, and corporate boardrooms.
Eric has never served in the military, never faced the literal clash of arms. His warrior persona is inherited — a product of the Trump brand’s emphasis on dominance, winning, and loyalty. In Norse myth, lineage alone does not grant entry to Valhalla. Even the sons of kings must prove themselves in battle. Without that trial, Eric’s claim to warriorhood is purely symbolic.
Donald Trump Jr.: The Social Media Berserker
Donald Trump Jr. is perhaps the most aggressive in adopting the tone of a modern berserker — the legendary Norse warriors who fought in a trance‑like fury. His battleground is social media, where he unleashes rapid‑fire attacks on political opponents, journalists, and cultural figures.
Trump Jr. frames himself as a fighter for “real America,” often using hunting, weaponry, and military metaphors. Yet his combat is digital and verbal. The berserkers of old risked life and limb in close‑quarters combat; Trump Jr.’s risks are reputational and political.
In the mythology, berserkers earned their place in Valhalla through ferocity in actual war. Online ferocity, however potent in shaping narratives, does not draw the Valkyries’ gaze.
Stephen Miller: The Strategist as Warrior
Stephen Miller, the policy architect behind some of the Trump administration’s most hardline immigration measures, rarely uses the word “warrior” for himself. Yet his allies have described him as one — a “warrior for American sovereignty” or “warrior for the rule of law.”
Miller’s battles are fought in the realm of legislation, executive orders, and courtroom defenses. He is a tactician, not a front‑line fighter. In Norse terms, he might be compared to a skald (poet) or lawspeaker who shapes the culture of the warriors — but such figures, while respected, were not destined for Valhalla unless they also took up arms and fell in battle.
Why do these men — none of whom meet the literal criteria for Valhalla — embrace warrior imagery? Part of the answer lies in the power of myth. Warrior language conveys strength, honor, and sacrifice. It creates an in‑group identity: “we” are the fighters, “they” are the enemy.
In politics, this framing is potent. It rallies supporters, justifies aggressive tactics, and casts opponents as existential threats. By invoking Valhalla, even metaphorically, they tap into a deep cultural reservoir of heroism and destiny.
In the Viking Age, Valhalla was not a metaphor for ideological struggle. It was the reward for those who faced death with courage on the battlefield. The Einherjar’s daily routine — fighting to the death each morning, feasting each night — was preparation for the ultimate, literal war at Ragnarök.
For Patel, Kirk, Eric Trump, Donald Trump Jr., and Miller, the “battles” are waged in politics, media, and culture. Their weapons are microphones, cameras, and social platforms. Their risks are political defeat, public criticism, or loss of influence — not the spear thrust or sword stroke.
This gap matters because the appropriation of warrior language without the corresponding sacrifice can cheapen the concept. It turns Valhalla from a sacred reward for the bravest into a rhetorical flourish for the loudest.
The military community often speaks of “stolen valor” — falsely claiming military service or honors. While none of these figures have claimed to be combat veterans, the use of Valhalla and warrior imagery flirts with a softer version of that phenomenon: borrowed valor.
Patel’s Valhalla sign‑off for Kirk, Trump Jr.’s combat metaphors, Eric Trump’s rally cries, Miller’s “warrior” branding, and Kirk’s own culture‑war framing all draw on the prestige of martial courage. Yet in the sagas, courage is proven in the shield wall, not the green room.
If the Valkyries were real, their criteria would be unchanged: only those who die in battle, chosen for their valor, may enter Valhalla. By that measure, these men would not pass through its 540 doors. Their wars are metaphorical, their wounds political, their victories electoral.
And yet, the myth endures — because in modern politics, the appearance of warriorhood can be as valuable as the reality once was. The invocation of Valhalla is not about literal belief in Odin’s hall; it is about claiming the mantle of the hero, the fighter, the one who stands between “us” and “them.” Patel won’t be excluded because of his Indian background; one didn’t have to be white or even male to enter Valhalla.
In the end, these wannabe warriors will not dine with Odin. But in the theater of American politics, they have already found their own hall — not of the slain, but of the seen, the heard, and the endlessly broadcast.