the wrath of the norsemen.
for the final time he sighed at the bickering of nidhogg, the smell of corpses on its breath sweeping through his sweat-brittle hair. with a tired gesture he motioned to the world above, his hand stained with oppression. but his exhaustion hid not the wisdom of his eye and did not take from his spear-wound the glimmer of sacrifice.
the raven in the branches above turned its cold watchfulness, glossy and inky, in the direction of his silent behest.
it fluttered as a sound arose on the wind, its gentle purring becoming sharp with the clatter of snapping armor and strengthening swords.
for it was not an empty gesture, his hand had been full of stones which he cast to earth, each marked with a symbol of his lore.
he had waited long under the falsity of those new gods who had come after, quiet and patient, so that the return of his people would be clear and undeniable - their brutality the cleansing liquid steel that would forge all the religions of the world into one stabbing point.
long years had grown under his dangling boots. years full of people just inches from barbarity, a brutality that paralleled an insignificant notion of peace - the thing which kept humanity from its bones.
it was he who had brought those smoldering ruins to an exorcising before - long before - made the hatred and innate intolerance of man to a tool...
a tool which had turned outward into the seas pulled by longships, to plaster bloody his savage reverence on the pale faces of those who lived in ignorance.
it was not that he disrespected that, that notion of neutrality, but only the foolish way in which it was pursued.
the denial of human nature only served to suppress the human instinct - and it was odin who catered to that with the wealth of wisdom - used it to make his own peace.
a peace won from war and effort.
the peace of asgard.
the runes split into the skies surrounded by flame, one taking with it the pilots and passengers of a passing airplane. the plane and the victims it took with it, were drenched in the heat of the stone. it raged around them as their hearts stopped from the staggering velocity and took from them their spirits to be judged.
odin saw and was pleased, he filled their plummeting corpses with the wrath of his bygone warriors. his norsemen.
they did not falter or buckle at the knee as they struck the ground. simply they walked forth changed as they had become from the fire - now in fur and leather - out of craters that pocked the modern streets of man.
the raven in the branches above turned its cold watchfulness, glossy and inky, in the direction of his silent behest.
it fluttered as a sound arose on the wind, its gentle purring becoming sharp with the clatter of snapping armor and strengthening swords.
for it was not an empty gesture, his hand had been full of stones which he cast to earth, each marked with a symbol of his lore.
he had waited long under the falsity of those new gods who had come after, quiet and patient, so that the return of his people would be clear and undeniable - their brutality the cleansing liquid steel that would forge all the religions of the world into one stabbing point.
long years had grown under his dangling boots. years full of people just inches from barbarity, a brutality that paralleled an insignificant notion of peace - the thing which kept humanity from its bones.
it was he who had brought those smoldering ruins to an exorcising before - long before - made the hatred and innate intolerance of man to a tool...
a tool which had turned outward into the seas pulled by longships, to plaster bloody his savage reverence on the pale faces of those who lived in ignorance.
it was not that he disrespected that, that notion of neutrality, but only the foolish way in which it was pursued.
the denial of human nature only served to suppress the human instinct - and it was odin who catered to that with the wealth of wisdom - used it to make his own peace.
a peace won from war and effort.
the peace of asgard.
the runes split into the skies surrounded by flame, one taking with it the pilots and passengers of a passing airplane. the plane and the victims it took with it, were drenched in the heat of the stone. it raged around them as their hearts stopped from the staggering velocity and took from them their spirits to be judged.
odin saw and was pleased, he filled their plummeting corpses with the wrath of his bygone warriors. his norsemen.
they did not falter or buckle at the knee as they struck the ground. simply they walked forth changed as they had become from the fire - now in fur and leather - out of craters that pocked the modern streets of man.