Jan 30, 2022 3:07 am
It was done. Tyrfing split through Garm's chest piercing the Hell Hound through the heart.
Tyr fell to a knee, unable to stand, succumbing to the burning poison in his wounds. It was so dark, here at the end of everything. Gotterdamergung was over, all mortals, all giants, all of the other gods and goddesses were dead. And Tyr? Tyr was dead as well, as was written by the Norns.
No more did the struggle persist. Finally peace ruled the universe. And in that Peace, the God of War perished, the last thing before the Cold Death of the Universe.
But Tyr persisted, even in death he agitated the abysmal cold. As all things grew closer together in the center of what was, a condensation formed upon them. Predictably the cold was so intense that the condensate froze. But as it froze it began to glow. And from the Glow, the Odinforce. A force that ignited everything, exploding it into a construct far greater, with more complexity and mass than the previous universe.
Struggle began, and Tyr was renewed. His divine senses told him exactly where he was. Niflheim, deep within the mists. The Evenhanded Asgardian found himself in The Never, once more. The Realm where even Gods could die. For here they were, in the very Taproot of the World Tree. "All-Father can you hear me?" He asked, met with the sounds of the Jungle, Tyr for the first time in millennia felt alone. He reached for Tyrfing, it was not there, naturally it had been destroyed in Garm's heart. But in its stead he saw his left hand, the sight of which made him fall to his knees in awe and weep.
"The Fate of Norns, will I have to suffer it all again?"
He wondered, the bitterness of time and certainty of his Doom Tyr wandered the jungle aimlessly until finding the Wreck of a Ship unlike any he had ever seen before.
The young Aesir made short work examining its keel. Marveling as well at the weight of the vessel as he lifted it. Even with his titanic strength, he wasn't sure he could move it by himself. But he was grateful that the keel remained intact. Whatever had brought it this deep in the jungle hadn't destroyed it. Tyr, had always been foremost the God of Luck - and counted that as good Luck.
It was ironic to him, to end up here. Niflheim was the one place in the Nine Worlds his invincibility didn't carry. But, it was also the place no other divine power functioned either. At least, that is what Odin and Bestla had taught him. He carved his rune in the ship and wandered the jungle. Not that it would matter, he considered as he saw his reflection. The face of a teenager, not a good fit for an Asgardian, judging by his five o'clock shadow he knew he would not grow his beard for some time. And his hair was short as well. Without either of those, he surmised he was actually more fragile than the average mortal.
He could sense Hvergelmir, The Well of Many Rivers, but he could not sense his Sister Hel. Wondering, who then was the shepherd of the dead in her place. Her magic was still visible to him, and Tyr made a point of not going anywhere near the mist. But the chill was gone, the winds no longer howled. He could not see Yggdrassil.
He wondered if such a thing were possible why Mimir had not told him of it. And then, a chill went down his spine. Perhaps this realm was beyond even Mimir's Knowledge. That chill quickly turned to excited warmth. Endless possibilities for the personification of struggle. A sound in the jungle indicated someone was there, a footstep, then another. Tyr ducked behind a tree and pricked his ears.
Tyr fell to a knee, unable to stand, succumbing to the burning poison in his wounds. It was so dark, here at the end of everything. Gotterdamergung was over, all mortals, all giants, all of the other gods and goddesses were dead. And Tyr? Tyr was dead as well, as was written by the Norns.
No more did the struggle persist. Finally peace ruled the universe. And in that Peace, the God of War perished, the last thing before the Cold Death of the Universe.
But Tyr persisted, even in death he agitated the abysmal cold. As all things grew closer together in the center of what was, a condensation formed upon them. Predictably the cold was so intense that the condensate froze. But as it froze it began to glow. And from the Glow, the Odinforce. A force that ignited everything, exploding it into a construct far greater, with more complexity and mass than the previous universe.
Struggle began, and Tyr was renewed. His divine senses told him exactly where he was. Niflheim, deep within the mists. The Evenhanded Asgardian found himself in The Never, once more. The Realm where even Gods could die. For here they were, in the very Taproot of the World Tree. "All-Father can you hear me?" He asked, met with the sounds of the Jungle, Tyr for the first time in millennia felt alone. He reached for Tyrfing, it was not there, naturally it had been destroyed in Garm's heart. But in its stead he saw his left hand, the sight of which made him fall to his knees in awe and weep.
"The Fate of Norns, will I have to suffer it all again?"
He wondered, the bitterness of time and certainty of his Doom Tyr wandered the jungle aimlessly until finding the Wreck of a Ship unlike any he had ever seen before.
The young Aesir made short work examining its keel. Marveling as well at the weight of the vessel as he lifted it. Even with his titanic strength, he wasn't sure he could move it by himself. But he was grateful that the keel remained intact. Whatever had brought it this deep in the jungle hadn't destroyed it. Tyr, had always been foremost the God of Luck - and counted that as good Luck.
It was ironic to him, to end up here. Niflheim was the one place in the Nine Worlds his invincibility didn't carry. But, it was also the place no other divine power functioned either. At least, that is what Odin and Bestla had taught him. He carved his rune in the ship and wandered the jungle. Not that it would matter, he considered as he saw his reflection. The face of a teenager, not a good fit for an Asgardian, judging by his five o'clock shadow he knew he would not grow his beard for some time. And his hair was short as well. Without either of those, he surmised he was actually more fragile than the average mortal.
He could sense Hvergelmir, The Well of Many Rivers, but he could not sense his Sister Hel. Wondering, who then was the shepherd of the dead in her place. Her magic was still visible to him, and Tyr made a point of not going anywhere near the mist. But the chill was gone, the winds no longer howled. He could not see Yggdrassil.
He wondered if such a thing were possible why Mimir had not told him of it. And then, a chill went down his spine. Perhaps this realm was beyond even Mimir's Knowledge. That chill quickly turned to excited warmth. Endless possibilities for the personification of struggle. A sound in the jungle indicated someone was there, a footstep, then another. Tyr ducked behind a tree and pricked his ears.