The Return
A/N: This is a highly fictionalized and dramatized version of what I went through before, during, and shortly after, my conversion from Christianity to Asatru. No disrespect is meant toward Christians, the Christian god, or Jesus (whom I believe was a great man, but not a god). Obviously I am not really dead. All flames will be used to cauterize the cuts from my rune- carving. Anyone who wishes to debate civilly, please either sign your review or E-mail me.
A boy of fifteen was dying.
He knew that, in his heart of hearts. A lifetime of mental abuse from kids at school and his sister at home had reduced him to little more than an empty shell of a body, devoid of mind or soul. His sister, the girl who scorned his advances, that fucking holy roller who preached love and practiced hate. He was alone in the world, and as he held the knife to his wrist, he silently cursed them, cursed them all.
The motion. The pain. The blood. Blackness.
* * *
When the boy regained consciousness, he was lying upon a floor of gold before a gigantic throne. [So, this is a coma,] he thought. [Someone must have found me in time, and now I'm lying on a hospital bed while a few dozen monitors beep away, monitoring my vital signs.]
He looked up at the person who sat in the throne, but there seemed to be a brilliant white light surrounding them. He squinted, irritated. He could tell that the occupant was male from the dim outline of facial hair that he saw, but that was all he could tell. "Hey, ever heard of low beams?" he asked sarcastically. He was only mildly surprised when the illumination dimmed. What truly surprised him was the figure sitting on the throne.
The figure was a man of little more than thirty. He was rather plain, maybe even a little on the ugly side, not much taller than the boy, with swarthy skin, a hooked nose, a scraggly beard, and long ragged hair. His clothes consisted of a simple Roman toga and sandals, and his brow had many half-healed scars on it. His wrists and feet each had a hole that went neatly through them, and his left side was stained with blood. But his eyes immediately drew attention away from the rest of his features. They were dark brown, unremarkable, yet seemed able to pierce through a person's flesh and bone to their very soul. The boy knew this man, this treacherous man.
"YOU!" the boy screamed, and bounded up to the throne. He seized the man about the neck and shook him a few times, then threw him to the gold floor, where he landed face-first. The boy wasn't in great physical shape, but his rage and hatred lent him strength. He watched with mounting fury as the man turned his head and spat out a few teeth. "I followed you my whole life, served you loyally, and you cast me out!" He jumped down from the throne and landed beside the man. He kicked the man in the ribs, just above the spear wound in his side, and was savagely pleased when he felt several of them give way. "You abandoned me when I needed you the most! Why!? WHY!?" He kicked the man in the face this time, flipping him over onto his back.
The man had his eyes closed, and he was gasping. Slowly, he got to his feet, spitting out more blood. "Because…because your world needs you. As you are, you are ill-prepared for the trials that are to come."
The boy shook his head and stomped on the man's wounded left foot. "I don't believe you! Whatever happened to neither leaving nor forsaking those who follow you!?"
The man grimaced as the boy ground down on the wound that the nail had left. "The human race is more important than any promise that I made." He pointed over the boy's shoulder. "Don't ask me. Ask them."
The boy whirled about and faced the newcomers. There were three, two men and a woman. One of the men, a giant of a man, wore full Viking armor and had what looked like a small sledgehammer hanging from a hook on his belt. His hair and beard were red, and there was a terrible scar on his forehead. His blue eyes had lines of both laughter and sorrow around them. He extended his iron-gloved hand. "Return to us, brother-in-arms," he said, his voice deep and booming. "We swear that we will never abandon you." He flicked an angry look at the wounded man behind the boy, who was apparently already healed from the beating the boy had given him. However, after a moment the angry look passed and his full attention returned to the boy.
The boy was distrustful. "Who are you?" he snarled. "What assurance do I have that you won't turn out to be just like this fuck?" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the man he had attacked.
"We are Odin, Frigga, and Thor," said the second man. He was tall, with a long white beard and a muscular build. He wore the simple clothing of a beggar, and his large floppy hat was pulled down to conceal his left eye. "We have come to welcome you back into the ranks of the Asatru."
The boy frowned. "Asatru?" The word was unfamiliar to him, completely alien. Yet it seemed to strike a chord with something deep inside his soul. Then, suddenly… "Aesir? Vanir?" He only dimly recalled the words, but they seemed to him as if they were something vital, something that he had to remember. His eyes began to tear as pain began welling up in his heart…half- remembered flashes of events…striking a pregnant woman across the face…roaring at her in a language the boy didn't understand…then a sword in his hand…driving into his gut…his hands covered in his own blood…holding out one of his hands in a pleading gesture for forgiveness…drifting in and out of consciousness for two or three days…abominable pain in his belly…blackness. Then a sudden, searing pain, all over his body…screaming himself hoarse…blackness…and waking up two thousand years after he died.
The woman stepped forward. She had flaming red hair and blue eyes, and she was easily the most beautiful woman the boy had ever seen. She wore a long, simple blue dress tied with a cord around the waist, and a ring of keys dangled on a string from the cord. She embraced the boy gently and put a soothing hand to his brow as his knees gave way. He sobbed into her breast, all of his rage and hatred that had built up through his short life spilling out through his eyes. She shushed him softly and looked into his eyes. "You have to be strong," she said. "In about forty years, everything is going to come to a head. There will be a Reckoning, and while it will not be the end of the world, many lives will be lost. Your part will be small, but vital, like a tiny peg that holds up a whole building. You have to be strong, and you have to be brave."
The boy looked at her uncomprehendingly, then nodded and slowly regained his feet. He looked over at Odin. "Why did you let me go?" he asked. "I was an honorless nithun. I should have stayed in Nidhogg until Ragnarok."
Odin nodded. "That's what you said when you were judged, and that very statement is what saved you. Every man commits unforgivable crimes in his life, but not every man owns up to them as you did. Now," he touched the boy's right hand, and a symbol of three interlinking triangles appeared on his palm, "go back to the world of the living, and prepare."
The boy looked down at the symbol, then looked over at the man he had attacked, his face twisted in hate. "That still doesn't explain why you left me." He took a few menacing steps toward the man, who remained standing with his hands folded in front of him, impassive. "Why not simply tell me this and avoid all the roundabout crap?"
The man with the wounded wrists and feet shook his head. "Because it was the right thing to do. Without this trauma, you would have been unprepared for the worse traumas to come. It was the only way."
The boy was still angry, but he couldn't bring himself to hate the man, not now that he remembered the things he had once done. Something told him that hate was dishonorable, a violation of the Noble Virtues, one of the many routes back to Nidhogg. He shook his head, then pointed at the wounded man. "You leave me alone and I'll leave you alone. That seems to be the best arrangement for the moment." And with that, he turned and departed Heaven with three Aesir, and returned to Midgard. There was much to be done in preparation.
A/N: As I said, this was an event that took place mostly within my own soul over the course of several months. Being done a wrong is no excuse for hatred, merely an opportunity to grow stronger both mentally and spiritually. Anger is justifiable, but carrying a grudge is not.
A/N: This is a highly fictionalized and dramatized version of what I went through before, during, and shortly after, my conversion from Christianity to Asatru. No disrespect is meant toward Christians, the Christian god, or Jesus (whom I believe was a great man, but not a god). Obviously I am not really dead. All flames will be used to cauterize the cuts from my rune- carving. Anyone who wishes to debate civilly, please either sign your review or E-mail me.
A boy of fifteen was dying.
He knew that, in his heart of hearts. A lifetime of mental abuse from kids at school and his sister at home had reduced him to little more than an empty shell of a body, devoid of mind or soul. His sister, the girl who scorned his advances, that fucking holy roller who preached love and practiced hate. He was alone in the world, and as he held the knife to his wrist, he silently cursed them, cursed them all.
The motion. The pain. The blood. Blackness.
* * *
When the boy regained consciousness, he was lying upon a floor of gold before a gigantic throne. [So, this is a coma,] he thought. [Someone must have found me in time, and now I'm lying on a hospital bed while a few dozen monitors beep away, monitoring my vital signs.]
He looked up at the person who sat in the throne, but there seemed to be a brilliant white light surrounding them. He squinted, irritated. He could tell that the occupant was male from the dim outline of facial hair that he saw, but that was all he could tell. "Hey, ever heard of low beams?" he asked sarcastically. He was only mildly surprised when the illumination dimmed. What truly surprised him was the figure sitting on the throne.
The figure was a man of little more than thirty. He was rather plain, maybe even a little on the ugly side, not much taller than the boy, with swarthy skin, a hooked nose, a scraggly beard, and long ragged hair. His clothes consisted of a simple Roman toga and sandals, and his brow had many half-healed scars on it. His wrists and feet each had a hole that went neatly through them, and his left side was stained with blood. But his eyes immediately drew attention away from the rest of his features. They were dark brown, unremarkable, yet seemed able to pierce through a person's flesh and bone to their very soul. The boy knew this man, this treacherous man.
"YOU!" the boy screamed, and bounded up to the throne. He seized the man about the neck and shook him a few times, then threw him to the gold floor, where he landed face-first. The boy wasn't in great physical shape, but his rage and hatred lent him strength. He watched with mounting fury as the man turned his head and spat out a few teeth. "I followed you my whole life, served you loyally, and you cast me out!" He jumped down from the throne and landed beside the man. He kicked the man in the ribs, just above the spear wound in his side, and was savagely pleased when he felt several of them give way. "You abandoned me when I needed you the most! Why!? WHY!?" He kicked the man in the face this time, flipping him over onto his back.
The man had his eyes closed, and he was gasping. Slowly, he got to his feet, spitting out more blood. "Because…because your world needs you. As you are, you are ill-prepared for the trials that are to come."
The boy shook his head and stomped on the man's wounded left foot. "I don't believe you! Whatever happened to neither leaving nor forsaking those who follow you!?"
The man grimaced as the boy ground down on the wound that the nail had left. "The human race is more important than any promise that I made." He pointed over the boy's shoulder. "Don't ask me. Ask them."
The boy whirled about and faced the newcomers. There were three, two men and a woman. One of the men, a giant of a man, wore full Viking armor and had what looked like a small sledgehammer hanging from a hook on his belt. His hair and beard were red, and there was a terrible scar on his forehead. His blue eyes had lines of both laughter and sorrow around them. He extended his iron-gloved hand. "Return to us, brother-in-arms," he said, his voice deep and booming. "We swear that we will never abandon you." He flicked an angry look at the wounded man behind the boy, who was apparently already healed from the beating the boy had given him. However, after a moment the angry look passed and his full attention returned to the boy.
The boy was distrustful. "Who are you?" he snarled. "What assurance do I have that you won't turn out to be just like this fuck?" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the man he had attacked.
"We are Odin, Frigga, and Thor," said the second man. He was tall, with a long white beard and a muscular build. He wore the simple clothing of a beggar, and his large floppy hat was pulled down to conceal his left eye. "We have come to welcome you back into the ranks of the Asatru."
The boy frowned. "Asatru?" The word was unfamiliar to him, completely alien. Yet it seemed to strike a chord with something deep inside his soul. Then, suddenly… "Aesir? Vanir?" He only dimly recalled the words, but they seemed to him as if they were something vital, something that he had to remember. His eyes began to tear as pain began welling up in his heart…half- remembered flashes of events…striking a pregnant woman across the face…roaring at her in a language the boy didn't understand…then a sword in his hand…driving into his gut…his hands covered in his own blood…holding out one of his hands in a pleading gesture for forgiveness…drifting in and out of consciousness for two or three days…abominable pain in his belly…blackness. Then a sudden, searing pain, all over his body…screaming himself hoarse…blackness…and waking up two thousand years after he died.
The woman stepped forward. She had flaming red hair and blue eyes, and she was easily the most beautiful woman the boy had ever seen. She wore a long, simple blue dress tied with a cord around the waist, and a ring of keys dangled on a string from the cord. She embraced the boy gently and put a soothing hand to his brow as his knees gave way. He sobbed into her breast, all of his rage and hatred that had built up through his short life spilling out through his eyes. She shushed him softly and looked into his eyes. "You have to be strong," she said. "In about forty years, everything is going to come to a head. There will be a Reckoning, and while it will not be the end of the world, many lives will be lost. Your part will be small, but vital, like a tiny peg that holds up a whole building. You have to be strong, and you have to be brave."
The boy looked at her uncomprehendingly, then nodded and slowly regained his feet. He looked over at Odin. "Why did you let me go?" he asked. "I was an honorless nithun. I should have stayed in Nidhogg until Ragnarok."
Odin nodded. "That's what you said when you were judged, and that very statement is what saved you. Every man commits unforgivable crimes in his life, but not every man owns up to them as you did. Now," he touched the boy's right hand, and a symbol of three interlinking triangles appeared on his palm, "go back to the world of the living, and prepare."
The boy looked down at the symbol, then looked over at the man he had attacked, his face twisted in hate. "That still doesn't explain why you left me." He took a few menacing steps toward the man, who remained standing with his hands folded in front of him, impassive. "Why not simply tell me this and avoid all the roundabout crap?"
The man with the wounded wrists and feet shook his head. "Because it was the right thing to do. Without this trauma, you would have been unprepared for the worse traumas to come. It was the only way."
The boy was still angry, but he couldn't bring himself to hate the man, not now that he remembered the things he had once done. Something told him that hate was dishonorable, a violation of the Noble Virtues, one of the many routes back to Nidhogg. He shook his head, then pointed at the wounded man. "You leave me alone and I'll leave you alone. That seems to be the best arrangement for the moment." And with that, he turned and departed Heaven with three Aesir, and returned to Midgard. There was much to be done in preparation.
A/N: As I said, this was an event that took place mostly within my own soul over the course of several months. Being done a wrong is no excuse for hatred, merely an opportunity to grow stronger both mentally and spiritually. Anger is justifiable, but carrying a grudge is not.