Post by Mr. C on Mar 1, 2009 20:26:14 GMT -5
VIII.
“Cross had felled the Jotun of legend, and the prize was his.”
With Odin guiding pure-black sails, Cross and Glaeg managed their way back home. The journey was long, and sadly only two of the legion returned home, but despite how heavy their hearts and bodies felt there was an undeniable happiness to be home. The dragon’s head drove deep in to the sand, and a handful of Vikings met it on the beaches to aid the two warriors in beaching the longboat. Warriors clapped them on the back, and welcomed them home, while women and children stood off to the side, quietly, desperately trying to peer in and find their missing husbands and fathers – they were not there. In fact, the scene was difficult to be a part of, the only sounds were the lapping of waves and the crunch of Cross and Glaeg’s boots as they walked up the snow-covered beaches, it was silent beyond words. The usually raucous and boastful warriors allowed the two survivors to quietly walk up the beach, no one spoke a word.
No one had to.
But, as they watched them, they noticed Cross carried a large item beneath a cloth in front of him, and the hushed chatter began. Brett stopped at the edge of the snowy beach and turned to his people, and one brave man near the back of the crowd yelled out, asking what was beneath the cloth. To them, it would surely be the severed arm of the beast that killed a huge chunk of their tribe. It would be the rib of the horrendous creature that wiped out all the brave husbands and fathers. But Cross just did his best to smile, and told them to follow him to the mead hall. All would be explained then. That’s when the Vikings’ blood pulsed back through their veins, if anything could cheer the somber moment, it was mead.
Hammer led the parade through their Viking village, with small huts and tents on either side of the central path. Cross looked over the buildings, and his smile slowly faded. He knew who lived in each one, their village was small and everyone knew the other and knew them well. They truly were a tribe of Odin’s children. He looked over each building, beneath grey and cloudy skies, and the dull pain tugging at his heart started up once more. Each building suddenly was no longer a home; it wasn’t a house that would still hold a woman and a child full of lifeblood. These structures were tombstones to the brave warriors who fell in Jotunheimr at the hand of the sly-god Loki. The walk to the mead hall was a lot longer than any of these warriors of old remembered, and Cross hung his head, staring at the cloth.
Cross felt respect for Michael de’Archangel. Just as much respect as any of the warriors he fought with in this world. But, what happens always happens for a reason. These men were felled by Loki, just as the champion was felled by Cross. And, for every bad thing that happens, a good one is bound to take its place. The Viking warriors, cowardly slaughtered, now sat in peace in the hall of Valhalla. And, the fallen champion? Had the respect of a god, and a new found ally at his side.
Once inside the mead hall, the tribe all sat in their usual seats, and a roaring fire started at the middle of the bar. Everyone had their mugs filled and sat in anticipation, watching and waiting on Cross’ word. The Norse Hammer stood at the far end of the hall, with the item placed on the table in front of him. He smoothed the hair from his face, and spoke in his deep Norse tongue. He tugged his beard and kept his eyes down as he spoke the words. Death was natural, and the Vikings knew that all too well. But to finally feel the other side of death - that was what felt unnatural and what was hard to swallow.
“We ‘ad been at sea for so long. The lot of ye here would know that best, I’m sure.”
Cross spoke, his voice omnipresent in the mead hall. His words rebounded from wall to wall in the giant arena and every person here was not startled by it. To them, Brett Cross had always been a deity, a figure far closer to the Aesir than any of them. But, as Cross told the story, now was when he realized how thick, how imposing, how heavenly the words rolled from his tongue. He told the story loudly, boasting at all the right moments, it was a true Viking yarn, and the scops of the tribe took note, for the tale would be told for years after Cross passed. He spoke of their first raids, of how the English ran in fear, and of all the glory and prize they gathered. He spoke of the valiant death blows, sparing no gory detail, and even allowed Glaeg to tell his take on how he became The One Eyed Warrior. It was the least Cross could do for a friend.
“And then, with our ship full o’ the goods, we were all ‘eaded home. That’s when I fell asleep on deck, an’ as I slept, there was a vision. I saw myself, gloriously in battle, taking on man and Jotun, and when the glory ended, my vision was struck by lightning and the God of Thunder, Thor ‘imself spoke to me, and commanded that I and the entirety of our Viking horde turn our sails upon Jotunheimr, for I must quest for a weapon of the gods.”
And as Hammer spoke those words, he uncovered the blade, unsheathing it from its’ clothy cover. The entirety of the Viking village feasted their eyes upon its shining blade, etched with runic and magical scripture down the length of its blood-groove. The hilt was fancy, and shone just as bright as the blade; the hand guard and pommel both of a Fenris motif. The wolf’s head was turned towards the blade, his mouth wrapped around the blade as if the cutting edge was indeed the wolf’s sharp tongue. Cross took the time of the crowd soaking in the image of the storied blade to think on how he’d word the next part. He looked to Glaeg for support, and Glaeg nodded, knowing what must be said. Cross didn’t have the heart to tell them how they truly perished, for that was indeed his fault. When Ragnarok came, Thor hoped his foe would be that damned life-thief, the God of Mischief.
“And… And the men fought ‘ard, indeed. But, alas, only Glaeg and I survived the bout. The rest of them, they died bravely, falling to a beast whose size could not even be explained by the brilliant tongue-play of the scops. They were brought to Valhalla, all of them, on the Valkyrie’s golden chariot, and we used the bones of the Jotun to make a funeral pyre fit for a king for the lot o’ ‘em. You all should be proud, for even the mighty ‘Ammer could not have bested the Jotun alone.”
Each man had Cross’ love and respect, and Cross felt this was best. Where does the line between story and truth lie? Stories always are remembered far longer than truth, and so, no matter how those men truly died, and Cross would do his best to run it from his mind, they now had died with honor.
And, just like these men had died with honor, Michael de’Archangel had fallen with honor. He was a man that Brett Cross respected as one of his own, a fighter through and through. Michael de’Archangel gave him the biggest fight of his singles career, and to “The Norse Hammer”, it was the greatest feeling, better than anything mead could bring him. In fact, de’Archangel did his best to train as a Viking, to become greater than a Viking, and win or lose, he did just that. de’Archangel rode that same golden chariot to the mead hall of Asgaard. And you can ask any Viking, there’s nothing better than an end like that.
But, as he told the tale of their deaths, he looked out at the empty seats in the hall, and could see the ghostly shadows of his Odin brothers. Their hollow images sat in their places as normal, sipping away at their mead as if they had never died. Cross had to have a double take, and when he did the image still wasn’t shaken. And as Cross looked in deeper, he could see that the mead they sipped was that same, off-colored poison that felled them the first time. Brett’s jaw dropped a bit, but luckily before he was taken to far aback, another voice came from the crowd, startling him from his visions, and startling the ghosts from their places: they abruptly disappeared.
“Tell us more of the damned beast, Cross! Tell us of the Jotun that killed our brothers!”
Cross ran the blade Brandrwulf in to his belt, and smiled. Just as Cross now wore the Pure Title at his waist, he brandished Brandrwulf. It felt good to have the story believed, as if their deaths were indeed avenged after all. But, it felt even better to carry this godly weapon at his side. With new-found reprieve and pride, Cross lifted his mug and began with the next tale.
“Ach, Skjold! Believe me when I say that the great ‘Ammer barely even came up to the bastard’s ankle!”
Hammer then hopped down from the chair he stood on and sat down at the table of the lad who’d called out to speak further on the Jotun, and the entire hall burst in to its usual loud temperament. Speaking of quests was something Vikings loved far more than the quests themselves. Luckily for Cross, he had plenty more to come.
This week included, as he was set to face on two dogs, two Dogs of War: Xander X and Chance Fusion. Two more than capable opponents who fought in last week’s Downpour Elimination Match-up for World Title contendership. They were no push-overs, for sure. But, they were also no Vikings. The lot of them didn’t win last week, nay, they didn’t come close. And, hell, regardless, Brett Cross had bested Chance Fusion more times than he could count. Chance was a push-over, so surely the company he kept would be no different. Cross had no worries when it came to fighting either of them. And with all the respect of Cross floating around, let it be known that “The Norse Hammer” had none for either competitor. They were both scum beneath his boot. A man he did have respect for, though, and would welcome at his side was his new-found ally of Michael de’Archangel. The fallen champion may be a bit angry over the outcome, Cross was sure of it. But, from his side, there were no hard feelings, and he felt entirely safe with him at his side. de’Archangel was the best fighter in EUW next to Cross, and the one man he respected more than anyone else in the business. So this week, surely, would be a cake walk, especially for the God of Midgaard.
Every fight, now, he’d have respected warriors at his side. He’d have his Viking legion fighting with him from their seats at Valhalla. They were a part of him, and they were the reason he’d continue his quests. They would not accept Cross to sit and mope, and Cross would do them proud by continuing on the Viking way. They would push him to better himself, to keep fighting, and so would the gods, for he was one of them now. And he’d see them all soon enough, as they’ll all fight by his side when Ragnarok strikes - the warriors in Valhalla and Aesir alike.
“An’ then, with my brothers fallen around me, I jumped all the way up on to the Jotun’s massive face an’ with a furious, bloodthirsty cry I yelled out to ‘im, “Demon! Ye’ve slain my last brother, the last Odinson! This battle ends now, and the blade you keep is now mine!’ And then drove the ‘ammer straight through his skull, riding his corpse all the way to the ground. And I said to the dead body of the beast, ‘Brandrwulf is now mine.’”
