Not one of mine

Strong and bold he strode the world, hammer proud around his neck. Wise and strong his kindred knew him, a leader of their group. Skills he had in saving lives, from training he had sought. To serve his kin, kindred and and folk, if ever harm arose.

Upon the road a youth lay struck; silent in pooling blood. Strange to him, this local child, who lay senseless on the ground. Striding near his mind ran thus in two differing directions; first the sequence he would use, this child's life to ward, second the risks to his own self to strive without his tools.

"Not one of mine" he said, the second path the victor. With one cell phone call he left the childs fate to those professionals paid to care. He gripped his hammer and marched away, his brow and conscience clear.

One armed Tyr, honours lord, looked down from Asgards heights. He looked as this bold hammer wearer scorned to pay honour's price.
"Not one of mine" he spoke

The Battle-glad, his one eye grim looked down from his noble seat. Grim he brooded in his feasting hall, as his wolves and ravens spoke. While all around his hall rang with cheers, he kept his endless watch; for mankind who long forgot his name, he kept his endless vigil. Casting his eyes over the endless bench where heroes all reside, then looked again to Midgard's plain where the hammer wearer strides.
"Not one of mine" he spoke

The Serpent-Bane shook his great red mane in honest disbelief. The defender of man, Mjolnir's master, looked down at his own sign. He who never asked the price, nor held back from any foe, looked down on one who wore his sign, and scorned to aid a child.
"Not one of mine"

It was, in the end, the truth.

Recently I had a discussion with the people I am recertifying my Industrial First Aid with. Now I have been patching up humans for as long as I have been dissasembling them; roughly 30 years.

One person asked if you would really use mouth to mouth on someone found not breathing outside of work or home, if you didn't have your mask, or barrier with you. Without thought I answered "Yes" (as in have done/will do again), as did the one other former soldier in the room. Six others answered "Hell No", and the remainder "I don't think so...."

When I turned to my own community to see if Heathens shared this ethic of fuckit let them die, I'm not risking myself, I was reassured that most of them were closer to me in sentiment.

One group emerged that had sought out the skill and training for the purpose of saving lives, but passionatly defended their ethic that it was for their own only. They wouldn't risk themselves for what they thought was not one of theirs. Theirs being defined in the sacral/familial sense; if you are not of my hearth, you are not worth risking myself over. This is such a radical departure from the beliefs of our ancestors. You defined yourself by your tribe first, but in later year, by community or nation. You risked your life for your fellow citizens, and expected the return. It was the duty of all free men, and no small number of women of warrior lineage.

Where did this contempt for our fellow citizens creep in. Where did us and them start finding them just beyond our doorstep? I think when our gods look down on those who wear their signs, and yet would step over their dying neighbors without regret, they would not claim those they saw as their own anymore.

Opportunistic vectors are not the cause of disease but the result.

We risk life and limb doing much more mundane tasks.

I can guess at where some have developed this "excuse" from not to get involved. Cowardliness, pure and simple.