Mount Hindarfjall: Part I

[Mr. C]

The Climb

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With Mount Hindarfjall stretching high before them, up through clouded skies and the castle not even visible, not yet, they climbed, climbed to war, climbed to victory, climbed to Brandrwulf. The very same Brandrwulf Cross had quested for years ago, but this time it meant so much more. This was no Pure Title. This was not small bets, this was the EUW Championship, the World Title. And Cross had been climbing for far too long to pass this opportunity up. Head first he dove in to the last battle, and he came up short. This time around, his dominance would ring true again, but he would not fail. Brandrwulf would be his. The EUW World Title would be his, whether it was TiTAN or Sabora he had to take it from. But for as long as he's able, Cross would do all in his power to keep that strap from TiTAN, a man who deserved it not. A kink in Sabora's armor was certainly found at the last edition of SNV, but another piece to the puzzle was discovered as well when Brett Cross found himself an ally, a person to fight for, a reason to push on. And so Cross climbed, and he eventually made it to the top, the peak of the mountain for the first time in his career. Main Eventing a PPV with a shot at the World Title before him - and he would not, could not fail.

A clap of thunder had frightened the dwarves in to joining the march, and so the castle atop Mount Hindarfjall stood our heroes, now five strong: The Mighty Hammer, Glaeg, Oleg, Eitri and Brokk. As the three Vikings gripped the blades at their sides, the dwarves gripped eachother as Asator rumbled around them, above the clouds they fought - the closest they'd ever get to Asgaard without the blade they seek. Brett's nostrils flared as he took in the surroundings, inhaling the sulfur of Helfire at the castle, the salt of the ocean behind him, and he was taken back to his first war as a general. Then, he had a crew of the best men his country could offer, and he had his cousin Glaeg as High General beneath him. Brett remembered their first battle, remembered it all too well. With one more boom of thunder, a crow flew past them, soaring on the winds, riding the current up to the highest tower that sat off the ramparts of the castle, and as the bird flew by, the dead began to rise.

With a yelp, the dwarves immediately dove for cover under the wall of shields at the castle's exterior. The outside perimeter as legend told was surrounded by war-shields, gilded, ornate, the defenses of one hundred thousand fallen, and linked together were they by spears, the points of which sticking out at harsh angles, a treacherous barricade to overcome. Then inside the wall of shields sat the castle itself, and while the stone structure was imposing enough on its own, it was entirely encased in flames, nearly an impossible fortress to penetrate, but Cross and his crew were to do just that. As Eitri and Brokk crawled in to their hiding spot, the others drew their blades and Cross barked out orders.

"Oleg, Glaeg! Fight strong an' give no ground. Oleg, keep an eye on the dwarves, as Glaeg has to keep his only one on the fighting!" Cross smirked at his cousin who laughed heartily at the jest. The two shook hands, with grips grasped about the forearm as Glaeg spat back his retort over the furious storm-platform they stood above, over the drone of the undead forces that began their march toward them.

"Even with one eye Ah can fell a hundred o' these damned monsters o' Nifleheim! Go, free Brynhildr, we can manage 'ere."

"Aye, son. Get to the tower, we can handle 'em down here." Oleg said as he came up to his son, placing a gentle, yet calloused hand on Cross' shoulder. Brett nodded to his father, all he could manage to respond with although his heart was beaming with pride. His father, a man who had forsaken their village, who left home, who denied their Gods and culture - he had returned, he had embraced Cross' lifestyle, excelled at it, and now the two would fight side-by-side. At one time, Brett thought his father had died, and he was never going to see him again, a Christian would never be allowed in to the halls of Valhalla. But now, now his father was not just alive, but able to see what he had become and what's more, was proud, was supportive. Cross merely nodded to his father, instead of expressing how he felt - there was no time for it in war, and with his smirk planted back on, he turned and sprinted fast in to battle.

The bastard to Cross' right was cleaved in half, divided at the navel as Brett sprinted for the gates. Cross grabbed hold of the demon at his left's face with his off hand and dragged him with him as he ran for the mound of shields. The demon, taken aback by the quickness of the assault had no time to respond before Brett drove the mangled flesh of the beast on to the spears that jutted out from the shield wall. With a half dozen more of the monsters crawling after him, Hammer climbed the gilded shield wall. Using the plates of the armaments as footholds and pulling himself up by the spear shafts, it was quick work compared to the rock face they managed to get to this point. At the top, Brett paused, wanting to look back, his heart pleading him to turn one last time, but with the undead forces slowly making their way after him, he had no time. Cross shook the idea from his head and jumped from the top of the shield wall,with his friends, nay, his family now completely out of sight.

As much as Brett wanted to go back and give them aid, as much as he wished to protect them, he had to hold on to the hope they could survive against the hundreds of Niflehelm's minions that kept dragging themselves up through the mud. Brett hit the ground on the other side with his feet already pedaling at the muck and stone they stood on. He couldn't turn back, he had to keep fighting, keep climbing, he had to finish what he started. If Loki was really alive, then Brett's mission had never ended. All of these wars, all of these battles; Cross was not fighting the tide of Ragnarok for sport. Nothing gave Brett more of a thrill than it, but Cross had a reason to fight, a reason to wage war on Loki, a man who had ruined his life countless times over. Loki had been torturing Cross since his time questing for Brandrwulf began.

The gate of the castle stood tall, three men high atleast, with a very burly looking undead warrior standing guard. And the castle, just as prophecized, just as seen from afar, was a towering inferno, the crackling blaze an ominous backdrop for the next obstacle, but Cross paid it no mind. He saw the crow that went to the highest tower, he knew he had to hurry. As he fought, he fought on instinct, the entirety of his mind tied up in thought, in anxiety, in anger - a careless thing to do for some, but not for Hammer, the greatest warrior on Midgaard could win any battle on instinct alone.

When Cross came upon a village in Jotunloke, deep in Jotunheimr on his quest for the fabled blade, Loki was there. Brett had brought the entirety of his crew, they quested the blade with him, but only Cross and Glaeg made it from the village alive, for it was Loki who tricked his crew, the greatest men Midgaard had to offer, in to feasting on poisoned goods, killing them all in their sleep. As the memory boiled in Brett's mind, he came upon the demon before him, but wasted no time in dispatching him. With a growl, Cross thrust his shoulder in to the rotting sternum of the demon and charged the two of them through the burning oak planks of the door. The two crashed through with ease, burning timber crashing around them, and where the demon sprawled out on to the ground, Cross stayed on his feet, still continuing to run, still fighting, still climbing, still working towards the highest tower.

Staying in step, not losing a second on his sprint, he swung his sword before him, slicing the head of the undead bastard before him clean from its shoulders. The head rolled to the side, anguish frozen in the features as the body became covered in the blazing planks of the entrance to this castle. Brett skidded to a halt at the center of the castle to catch his bearings and then looked up, eyeing the tower at the far end of the courtyard and a half dozen demons before him ready to block his path, but as ever - nothing would get between Cross and his final goal. Not demons, not Gods, not TiTANs - no one.

The smirk curled up on Cross' lips, he loved the odds, and he took off one more time. He had to get to that tower before Loki, before the man who tricked him in to thinking his father was dead, in to going in search of him and began sent to the land of the dead, Nifleheim. And now the very same Loki had not learned that even the warrior's of Hel's realm cannot contain him. As he ran forward, the six demons met him in the middle, all of them jumping on him, doing all they could to stop him, and slow him was what they managed. With two at his feet, one for each arm, one clinging to his back and the final at his neck, all of them scrapping and biting, clawing and digging at his flesh, Cross did not stop. With demons clinging to him, Cross ran across the courtyard, all of them tearing at his flesh, ripping at his skin, and he kept going, until he made it to the staircase at the base of the tower. Running as fast as he could, he hit the wall shoulder first, crushing the skeleton of the demon at his right arm and then continued to climb as the demon crumpled and fell to the bottom of the steps.

Loki, whose mere name boiled Cross' blood to the point that he defied orders from Odin. Loki, the God of Mischief, was the culmination of Cross' hate and anger, the reason why Cross set out to end Ragnarok. Now, with him returned, the mission's not over. With his sword hand free, Brett carved at the demons at his feet as he ran, and piece by piece they fell off, severed limbs tumbling down the steps as Cross climbed. By the time he was half-way up the stairwell, covered in scrapes and bite marks, his body ravaged and bloody, Cross was still not done fighting.

Skewering the beast at his left arm, Cross tore the leech from his arm and cast it aside. The zombie hit the wall and crumpled, grabbing out for Cross' feet as it fell to the wayside like all of the others. With both arms free, Cross made quick work of the final two, tearing them from him as he finished the rest of the climb until he had finally made it to the top, to his destination. Cross thrust open the door to the chamber of the highest tower, sweating, bloodied, exhausted, but the task was not yet over.

He had won, finally, he had beaten Loki to the goal, and now as he walked across the room, pain seething through him, his entire body burning and aching, his head pounding, his muscles begging for mercy, he had to keep going, remembering to keep picking up his feet. Because before him lay the beautiful Brynhildr in quiet slumber. On her back, peacefully staring at the ceiling through closed eyelids, her blonde hair braided and undisturbed, her silvered armor shining as if it was straight from the smith. Over her torso she clasped sword and shield, the most perfect image of a shield maiden yet, and Cross almost did not want to disturb it, but he had to, he had to have her aid to defeat Loki, to finish his mission, to have Brandrwulf at his side once again. From a pouch at his waist Cross fumbled about before pulling out the ring, Andvaranaut, the magical savior of Brynhildr and the only thing that could wake her from her slumber. And that cocky smirk, that war-ravaged face full of scars and fresh wounds turned to a smile as he pulled her soft hand out to place the ring upon her finger.

Cross had been fighting for far too long for this day. His last title reign was far too long, and as momentous as it was, it was cut short, it was stolen from him. But Cross did not much more than continue to fight, for he knew the Pure Title, the Hardcore Title, they were all just stepping stones, handholds along the climb. A climb that he had been undertaking since he joined. No one enters this business to be a mid-carder their entire career, no one joins to be remembered as second best - and especially not Vikings. Brett Cross, when he fights, he fights to win and he fights for glory. Second best does not cut it, and every week is another step in the march. His mission from day one is to be remembered, to die in a blaze of glory, to fight for entrance in to Valhalla - to be remembered and have his name live on far past his passing. Come time for Back 2 Roots, he will be doing just that. He will win that EUW Title by defeating whomever he has to. And it will be the culmination of years worth of hard work, of struggle, of fighting, of climbing.

At Back 2 Roots, Brandrwulf returns to The God of Midgaaard's side.