How I Honor The Dead As A Norse Pagan

I am Norse.

When I say that, or otherwise refer to myself as a “Norseman,” I do not mean that I am an ancient Viking, especially as I am only partially Scandinavian. I am using the term the way a follower of Christ would use the term “Christian.”

Though, along with that, I am neither the Instagram fantasy roleplayer kind, nor the “use paganism as an excuse for degeneracy” kind, nor the Neo-Nazi kind, nor the “Ásatrú” kind, but a pragmatic modernist of the old ways (Forn Siðr) while living in accordance with the requirements of desired halls upon my passing (e.g. Valhöll, Fólkvangr, Nóatún, Hel, etc.).

My take on ancestral Norse spirituality is recognized as authentic by the Norwegian government under NGO number 922 586 918. I follow the ancient rituals and traditions to the best of my ability, the major difference merely being that the ancient sword is now the modern gun and the best way to make it to either Valhöll or Fólkvangr is to actually join the military and die on a real battlefield.

I chose this way of living over the other kinds of Norse because I find it to be the most respectable. I respect this manner of Norse Paganism because the Instagrammer roleplayers aren’t actually able to protect the country from potential invaders with their replica axes nor would I be sharp enough to protect my family from real assailants if I were the type to use Norse paganism as a cover for just wanting to get high on shrooms.

No.

…the way I practice Norse Paganism is not performative but a direct, modern translation of what an actual, ancient Norseman would be like if he time-traveled into the future to our time, and merely adapted to modern society with our current laws and technology.

I am expected to be…

• Physically fit and mentally sharp.

• Hard-working, disciplined, and oath-keeping.

• Beard-growing and washed every morning.

• Trained in some form of martial art and wilderness skills, respected for having served in the military, and ready to reunite with my ancestors at a moment’s notice in service to my family or people.

With that put into frame, how would I honor the dead, or ask my family to honor me when I finally do pass on?

In this article, I provide my answer to a reader’s request.

First, Understand The Fundamentals

The Norse approach to death was ritualized, practical, and deeply symbolic.

Honor wasn’t performative; it was about ensuring the dead were remembered, equipped, and placed correctly in the cosmic order.

How they did this depended heavily on where death occurred.

For a seafaring culture, death at sea was common, but dangerous in a spiritual sense.

• Burial at sea was not ideal and usually only done when there was no alternative.

• Bodies might be weighted and committed to the waves, sometimes with weapons.

• In rare cases (especially for elites), a small ship or boat burial could occur near shore.

This was risky because…

• The Norse believed the dead needed proper rites to reach their destination (Valhöll, Fólkvangr, Nóatún, Valaskjálf, Hel, etc.).

• Dying far from land risked becoming restless—a draugr (an undead revenant, the Norse equivalent to a zombie or vengeful spirit).

• Companions would perform spoken remembrances, recounting deeds aloud so the dead would not be forgotten even if their body was lost. This often manifested in the forms of sagas sung in poem or song form on ships or at bonfires, passed down from generation to generation.

The fundamental idea at sea was that to honor meant memory and witness—others carrying your story forward when your body could not return home.

Yet, at home (or at least when stable while on foreign land) Norse funerals were deliberate, structured, and community-centered.

There were three most common methods:

• Inhumation (burial in the ground)

  • Body laid with weapons, tools, jewelry, food, and sacrificial slaves or highly devoted wives.

  • Graves often aligned symbolically (north–south, ship-shaped stones).

• Cremation

  • Body burned on a pyre with possessions.

  • Ashes buried in a mound or scattered at meaningful locations.

• Ship Burials (Elite Only, forget how Hollywood made it seem like everybody got this treatment)

  • Full ships used as tombs, covered with earth.

  • Represented passage to the next world and earthly status.

Sometimes at these gravesites, or at least shrines devoted to the dead, runestones were erected by family members that recorded the name, deeds, and lineage of the noteworthy person.

At these sites, the dead were seasonally honored through sacrificial rituals called “Blóts” as it was believed that the ancestors still watch over us and wish us well in our own respective, individual journeys.

Exactly what was sacrificed and how would vary per tribe, as there was no one, universal, official way to perform certain ceremonies.

Some may have sacrificed animals. Some might have sacrificed slaves or criminals. And others may have sacrificed herbs.

…or, perhaps a combination thereof on a case-by-case scenario, as such blóts were thought to influence crops, fertility, and general fortune.

A general idea to keep in mind is this: To be forgotten was the worst fate. To be spoken of was to endure, as a man lives only as long as his name is spoken.

This was the most pragmatic way that it meant to become immortal.

However, this concept can become perverted as it does not mean seeking viral fame for shallow reasons, nor does it mean being remembered by everyone.

The primary focus of remembrance was lineage-based: the most important thing was to be remembered by one’s descendants as a top priority over random people from outside the culture.

Or, perhaps also by one’s enemies as a truly fearsome foe (think of the way Hannibal was remembered by the Romans).

The utility to this fame was not simply the egoistic reward of glory for its own sake, but to be an honored influencer of his descendants’ collective evolution of character.

As their story would be told throughout the ages after their passing, such as over bonfires as a family, or while hiking through the mountains with their brothers-in-arms, the power of storytelling would influence their behavior in honor of that respective ancestor.

Because, according to the old ways, our ancestors are us.

So, one’s saga is not merely about the Viking’s ego, but one of the greatest cultural gifts they could bequeath to their family.

How My Family Intends To Honor Our Dead

Times have changed.

It is illegal in most places to release a flaming arrow onto a drifting boat or to burn bodies at a funeral pyre (unless we’re talking about places like Homer, Alaska.)

So, the way I honor my dead begins first with the acquisition of private property, which I have in Alaska (hint, hint…).

On this private property, we plan to hold the tombs of our family members—those that we have not burned by boat or pyre.

You might have seen similar in Japanese culture, like what is depicted of the clan Sekei graveyard in Ghost of Tsushima.

My saga is written in my memoir and social media posts (Facebook, YouTube, etc.), and the spirit of my matured, actualized character after my memoir (as Fighting for Redemption ends merely when I’m in my early twenties with lots of life left to live) in books like Yield.

Depending on how I die and when, I will either be buried in our family tomb in Alaska. Burned on a ship, the ancient elite way (ideally in Homer, Alaska, or somewhere like it, where it is legal to).

Or, I will be cremated here in Europe while tasking one of my family members to bring my ashes to either our family tomb in Alaska or to scatter them somewhere in Scandinavia in a way similar to how Faye tasked Kratos and Atreus to carry and scatter her ashes in God of War.

What will happen to me depends on a combination of what my family is willing to do without too much risk or inconvenience.

It would make sense for me to be treated in an elite way by my family members not for (again) egoistic reasons, but because I am the founding progenitor of an entirely new and healed direction for the evolution of our bloodline, breaking generations of dysfunction in a self-sacrificial way that has earned me that respect in both life and death by those closest to me—those who would generationally benefit from everything they inherit from me, not merely limited to my saga.

Regardless of what they do with my ashes, a stone will eventually be erected in my honor at our family tomb with a collective summary of my saga etched into the stone.

This is symbolic, so that even if my ashes aren’t present at the tomb itself (such as if they were spread over a Norwegian or Alaskan mountain or irrecoverable by the sea after a ship burning), our descendants have a striking, beautiful, visual reminder of where they come from whenever they’d visit the site, bringing them back to their roots, calling them to the adventure of such a legacy.

And other family members would be granted a similar honor with their respective gravestones in the family graveyard, right alongside mine, generation after generation—making our family graveyard a library of sagas etched in stone.

(And, yes, this may include gravestones for the sagas of certain animals as they are family members, too.)

Our Rituals

Currently, my family does not have daily rituals that we collectively perform, but seasonal ones, for honoring the dead.

However, there are no rules against daily rituals should individuals desire to have them.

A seasonal ritual taught to all family members would involve visiting the shrine of the ancestors that mean the most to them while perhaps burning some herb(s), offering some kind of libation (the pouring of alcohol) or, in rare cases, even the swearing of a blood oath (such as to cut one’s finger or hand and to touch the stone) to that respective ancestor…

…or even a combination thereof.

This means that how one honors the dead in our family is very personal and individualistic. For instance, I have a daily ritual, but I do not pressure my family members to follow precisely what I do every day.

What I do, almost every day, is light dried pine (on the left) and melt pine resin (on the right) that I will either harvest myself from a nearby forest, or have imported (from a place like Norway) from an artisan I have a connection with.

Actual photo of my daily ritual shrine.

While I do have family that have passed away, but we were estranged. I do not honor them in my daily, meditative ritual.

The pine, however, brings me back to when I was living in the Chinese wilderness for four years.

The smell of the herbs brings me back to the transitional moments I became Norse.

I think of my father, who died when I was four, and what I have done with his legacy—regardless of whether he’d be proud of me or not.

I think of Óðinn and Týr.

I think of my half-wolf, named Yun, that I had in China.

I wonder what European ancestors of mine would find me to be an amusing joke, versus what others would be truly moved by the long-term consequences of their actions.

I wonder what African or Asian ancestors would find me to be a pathetic traitor, versus which others would be counter-intuitively impressed, understanding, and humbled by looking upon the long-term consequences of their actions.

I think of the future and what I may influence after my death, beyond what I can foresee.

And someday, one or even all of my children will be doing the same as I.