Post by Mr. C on Aug 3, 2009 22:06:17 GMT -5
XVIII.
"The God of Midgaard, the proper wielder of Brandrwulf."
Coughing and sputtering, Cross’ eyes tore open and he looked straight in to the face of his war-companion Glaeg. The mighty savior, one eye scarred and ravaged in a horrible spiral, scars and age-lines creasing the rest of his grizzled appearance where the knotted, sea-ravaged blonde locks did not cover. To anyone else, this was the face of a disgusting beast, but to Cross – it’s the face of a hero. It was the face of a man who pulled him from the edge, the one who saved his life. Together, they made the ultimate pair; they are brothers in arms.
“’Ammer! I’m so glad ye’r back, lad. I was damned sure I had lost ye to the Valkyries!”
Brett sat up slowly, coughing still and then dragged himself up to his feet. Glaeg patted him on the back and stood up too, looking about the scene as Cross stretched his legs; making sure that his life being returned was no illusion. But there Jormungandr lay, next to them with his massive head on the ground at their side. Blood dribbled from the serpent’s poisonous jaw, pooling up beneath the demon’s cold, dead body. The sight sent a shiver up Cross’ spine, but not one from the closeness of his demise. He’s been upon that doorstep before. Nay, this time it was for the impact of what he had done. He did what even the mighty Thor was prophesized to fail at. In the Norn’s tale, Thor was to battle Jormungandr and slay it, but then fall dead nine steps later from the poison the beast spewed. But Cross? No such fate. For all the doubt in his mind, for all the doubt in anyone else’s mind, he survived. For that, he proved his place as the rightful wielder of Brandrwulf. The right to call himself “The God of Midgaard.”
“Alright, ‘Ammer. I know ye’r still recoverin’ from that battle, but we need to get back ‘ome. Judgin’ by the moon we’re barely a days walk out from our village. …Ye can still walk, aye?”
Glaeg smirked at his war-friend Cross and the two immediately burst in to laughter. Sliding Brandrwulf in to the sheath at his side, he walked up behind his war-partner and socked him in the arm. The two were indeed like brothers, they always had each other’s back and could always usher a laugh from one another no matter the occasion. Heading towards the sun, the two of them continued on in to the storms of Ragnarok, albeit a bit worse for wear. As Viking warriors, as brothers, they crossed the dunes of sand back to their village to continue on their eternal, God-sent quest to save Midgaard. Raised from the dead, Cross realized he was far stronger then the Aesir, and he was indeed immortal. No matter the set-back, this Viking can not die.
-*-
“God, Cross! What’s your deal, man?!”
Tom Roberts was pacing back and forth in front of Cross, who just sat still, doing nothing but twirling the pendant between his fingers and staring forward. Running a hand over his bald head, “The Eh” turned once more before stopping before his friend, one hand on his hip and the other massaging his brow; completely unsure on what to do. But Cross just sat still.
“Shoot, man. Just shoot. What are we going to do?”
After the episode last week, Tom had been doing just this, walking back and forth, repeating those same words. “Shoot, man. Just shoot.” For, despite how short of a time span Tom had, he realized just how much he had missed the EUW. How much he missed the business, the people, and he didn’t want to be removed from it so soon. He couldn’t dare to return to wrestling full time, not after the last injury he sustained. But this position, it was perfect for him. He was in the business, making the money, being around the people, being a part of the sport. But it wasn’t just about him.
Cross is not just some crazy person, he’s Roberts’ friend. The two had known each other for years, from far before Tom’s time in this company. And even when they weren’t wrestling together, they stayed in touch. Tom was there when Cross’ parents died, he was there when Cross finally broke down, and he was there when Cross left to “rediscover his roots.” He didn’t like seeing this change in Cross, for he was not always like this, his schizophrenia was onset later in life. It was heartbreaking to see his friend lose it, and when the doctor’s called on him to help out, he was enthralled that he was finally “back.” He had missed Cross, and was hoping for nothing more than to rebuild that friendship, that brotherhood. But everything flipped once more and like many situations in The Eh’s life prior, he had to roll with the punches.
“Okay! So. Here’s the plan, big guy. You listening?”
“The Norse Hammer” continued to just stare forward, past and through Roberts at the same time, twirling the hammer between his thumb and forefinger. Even after a “Yoohoo!” and Tom waving his hands infront of the Viking’s face there was no response.
“…Alright. I’ll take that as a yes. So here it goes, the big master plan. We aren’t going to tell anyone anything! Okay? We are going to just keep our lips sealed! See, we’re going to just let me do the talking. You never had much of a way with words to begin with. So that should be easy enough.”
Out of habit or reflex, Tom then paused and looked at his friend. But, of course, there was still no response. He stared ahead, playing with the pendant at his neck – as if he was off in his own little world.
“…Right, I forgot I was getting the silent treatment… Next order of business! This week you have your first match back.”
At the sound of the word match Cross’ head snapped up, like he was suddenly awoken from a trance. It was as if “match” was the codeword in some strange session of hypnosis, and Cross’s eyes moved to “The Eh”, watching him with an air of intrigue as he clenched the hammer Mjollnir in his fist. Tom smiled in return, Cross made no other motion than moving his head up and changing his view, but it was a big victory nonetheless.
“Yes, that’s right. You get to fight once again. And it’s a tag-match, too. The matches you used to do every day of the week, an environment you strive in. For as long as your Pure Title reign went for, let’s face it – that’s not you. You may have held the title for months and months, second longest reign in this federation’s long history, might I add. But, that’s not you. You’re not somebody who likes to stay in the rules, you’re not a “pure fighter.” You’re a pure fighter, but you are hardcore, you’re an animal, you’re a demon, you’re a beast. By Odin’s grayed beard, you’re a god-damned Viking!”
Cross’s head tilted to the side, and Roberts knew that he was slowly unlocking the door. Schizophrenia or not, there was still that connection to the outside world. There was still the ability to pump him up, to inspire him and possibly even (and Tom hated himself for thinking this) control him.
“Tuesday Night Suicide, right there in the Suicide Zone, you are taking on two members of the so-called Brotherhood. Some corporation, some political faction bullshit that always seems to pop up in EUW. We’ve seen it a dozen times, and they always implode, so if anything, that will work to our favor. Our opponents? Diabolik and Hi Octane. Diabolik, in case you haven’t been keeping track, was the former Hardkore champ, before Hi Octane won the belt from him last week. See? The implosion’s seeds have already been planted. We know we can count on them squabbling a bit. And to top it off? 415 is on our team! Now, I know, that doesn’t sound like much. The mighty underdog 415, but trust me, it’s good. He was in that match from last week, and lost. So he’s out for revenge, now! So really, all we have to do is sit back and watch them all beat each other up. But that’s not really our style, is it?”
“No, no. It sure as Hell isn’t. We’re going to make sure we get in there and show them who’s boss. They’re all in the running for that Hardkore title, and that’s all perfectly fine. You know why it’s fine? Because that gives us someone to beat up on. WE are the ones who should be going after that title, and not any of them. No hard feelings to any of them, they’re all great wrestlers in their own right. But, The Hardkore title scene shouldn’t be filled by a teacher’s pet, a loon and a little kid. They all have my respect, but that’s not what Hardkore is about. WE are hardcore. We are the ones who are going to win that belt and we are going to take our first step to it by winning this week. And we’ll win not by sitting around, but by going out there and proving that you’re back, baby. …Just not so much back that they think you’re back back. As in, reverted to a Viking back… that would be bad. Because then we might get fired. But normal ol’ Brett Cross? He’s back! And he is NOT to be taken lightly!”
With that, Tom let out a loud “Wooo!” and left the room, beaming to himself. He was proud of the speech he gave; he hadn’t been able to speak on opponents like that in months, if not years. He was happy that he was back, just as happy as he was there were signs he could get through to Cross – to maybe even fix him. But for now, they had an entirely different task at hand. They were going in to this tag match to win and to prove that they were the ones who should be wielding that Hardkore title. But even after Tom left the room, Cross stayed seated in his chair, his eyes staring ahead, in to nothingness, his expression blank, but perhaps somewhere deep in his mind he was mulling over the words. He lifted the hammer at his neck slowly, and kissed the pendant before letting it fall back down.
““The God of Midgaard” is back.”