I know it's kind of weird but so am I XD I happen to love mythology, Norse mythology particularly, so that's one reason I like RO so much. Anyway, I just needed to write something different.
Disclaimer: This fic may require a little thinking on your part.
Also, the first part that is in italics is not necessary to read for the story. All it is is a quick run through of what happens during Ragnarok. You can skip it if you want.
Gotterdammerung: Prologue...God Among Men
Ragnarok, Gotterdammerung, Doom of the Gods…the end of the cosmos.
Winter after winter, summer is no longer. The sun and moon, at long last, are caught and devoured by the wolves, Skoll and Hatii, plunging the world into darkness. Fjalar will crow to the giants, Gullinkambi will crow to the gods and a third cock crows to raise the dead.
Rumbling earth shatters bonds; the giant wolf, Fenrir, is freed. Waves crash as sky and land are poisoned; the serpent, Jormungand, writhes. Naglfar will sail free from the serpent's waves toward the battlefield. From the realm of the dead, the inhabitants of hell sail with Loki, god of fire and magic, upon a second ship. The giants will leave Muspell with Surt, his sword scorching the earth.
At the final sounding of Heimdall's horn, heroes and sons of Odin will go forth into the battlefield. To the plains of Vigrid, gods, demons, giants, elves and dwarves will ride.
Odin and the great wolf Fenrir will battle and Thor will engage Jormungand. The giant serpent will fall but his venom will gradually kill Thor. Surt will overtake the swordless god Freyr. The one handed god Tyr will fight and kill the hellhound Garm but to no avail, as he will die of his wounds. Odin and Fenrir battle for a long time, but the great god will be swallowed by the giant wolf. Odin's son, Vidar, will come forward and rip Fenrir's jaws apart with his bare hands to avenge his father. Loki and Heimdall meet for a final time but neither lives to victory.
Finally, Surt flings fire in all directions and burns the world. Ally and foe alike expire as the nine worlds burn. With a great sigh, the earth sinks into the sea. A new world, ideal and abundant, will rise and the gods who did not survive will be reborn. Misery and evil no longer exist as Lif and Liftrasir sleep in Hodmimir's indestructible forest until it is their time to give life to earth once again.
Bound until the day of Ragnarok, he lays chained to three boulders, deep within the earth. His wife remains vigilantly by his side, collecting the venom dripping from the snake above his head into bowl. She murmurs a few words, saying that bowl is full. She would hurry back to him to catch the venom. As she leaves, the poison falls slowly from the fangs of the snake. It falls on his face, unimaginable pain surging through him. He writhes so violently that the earth quakes above him. His wife returns to catch the venom so he will have relief from the pain. He cannot wait. Ragnarok must be brought sooner and he would trigger it. Loki was livid with Odin and would bring the end. He would bring Ragnarok.
-----------------
Darkened skies of the heavens watch and wait. They watch the soft, water swelled ground and the gnarled half-dead trees. With each gust of icy wind, the forest sways and the mountain groans. The foreboding peaks of the ice-capped mountain conceal a soul. This nameless soul, as eternal as the very earth he treads upon, does not hold himself to the standards or morals of the human world he labors in.
Armored feet sink into the bloated earth, heavy with the weight of time. Trudging through the sighing forest, the rain patters loudly off his rusted armor. The sword held by his gauntleted hand drags in the mud, carelessly. The hilt is loose and the blade as dull and rusted as his armor. A city is near and he has not walked upon its stone streets nor gazed upon the pristine city wall since the day its first stone was laid. This city proclaims goodness and purity. His immortal soul knows that it is not. No place, no matter how divine or blessed, is pure and free of darkness.
The rain followed him to the city, the dreary clouds spreading far and wide. As he approached the open gates of Prontera, his grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. Yes, the people of Rune-Midgard prized this as a holy city. If only they realized the truth of the illusion. Many, many people don masks to hide what they know to be true within them.
He strode down the main street, his heavy steps echoing off the buildings. He left a trail of large, muddy prints in his wake. In their homes, people felt a strange chill…something they could not explain. He felt the presence of a most prefect soul very near. He followed his senses to a particular building, a pub. As he reached the door, he pushed it open immediately feeling the overbearing presence of that perfect soul. Unfortunately, he wore the mask that the Nameless God detested…
-----------------
He felt uneasy, anxious, and fearful. Actually, he felt every awful emotion he could think of. He began feeling strangely the night before. He could not eat nor sleep. His hands began to shake only a short time ago. He could barely do anything but grasp the rosary around his neck.
Two hours ago, he began to pray as if his life depended on it. When the bishop asked what was bothering him, he lied. If he confessed his sins to the bishop, he would surely be excommunicated. The bishop told him to take a walk to clear his head. It did not help. His sins…he had not committed any sins, but the thoughts he was having were bad enough. No priest should think anything like what he was thinking. Thoughts of murder and greed and lust and so much more were filling his mind. He felt like he was breaking down.
He did not feel like himself. As his hands shook, he gripped the rosary tighter and tighter, praying to God for relief. He had no idea why he was having such thoughts. He could not speak such horrors aloud. Yes, they were indeed too unspeakable. He squeezed his eyes shut, prayed, and asked for forgiveness. God help him…
"Brother Cyril, are you okay?" a fellow, very concerned priest asked. He had been told to find Cyril about half an hour ago. Luckily, he had not gone far. They had noticed him acting odd but were not sure what to make of it. Cyril ignored him and continued to pray.
Something was clawing at his mind and making him think these things. He had thought of these things before, just not all at once. Not like this. He was slowly driving himself to the brink of insanity. He felt an unnatural chill as the door of the pub opened and closed a few moments later. His whole body shook and his fellow priest was beginning to worry. "Cyril?" the priest attempted. When he received no answer, he tried again. "Cyril, answer me," he said in a stern voice. Cyril still refused to answer. Something was building within him. Something terrible was about to be unleashed.
With a sigh, the priest gripped the trembling man's shoulder and shook him lightly. In a flash, Cyril stood, knocking his own chair to the floor with a loud clatter and his right hand found its way to the other priest's throat. He knew what he was doing and a very small part of him was terrified that he could not stop. The rest of him wanted to see the priest die slowly. His vision was blurred and it seemed that he could not control his instinct to squeeze his fingers tighter. All he could see was red. There were alarmed shouts in the room when people realized what was going on. The priest in his grasp was slowly turning blue in the face and losing consciousness.
"Enough." Cyril heard the single murmured word through all the shouting. He dropped the motionless priest and let him hit the floor with a dull thud. He was still alive and Cyril was very unhappy about it. He followed the source of the voice to a man standing by the door. Words could not explain what he saw just then. The man was not spectacular in any way. He was pale and tall with long, matted brown hair and rusted armor. His presence is what made him unreal. As he looked at this man, everything seemed to make sense for some reason.
"Rid yourself of that hideous mask and become the perfect soul that I have seen." His mask…? Ah yes, his mask is his priesthood, is it not? No, his mask was the thought that he was good and without darkness. "Correct. Come."
The priest followed without a second thought into the evening rain. He asked no questions and the thoughts in his mind ceased their torment. He would gladly obey if this...creature, could clear his mind. As they reached the city gate, the nameless one paused and turned slowly to look at the priest with chilly yellowed eyes.
A perfect soul, by the Nameless God's definition, was a soul that was entirely dark. Every soul instilled upon mortals came with a basic design. This design includes both light and dark as is necessary for balance. Those born with only a very small part of light will almost always fall prey to the darkness. This is how the so-called "evil" mortals, came to be. It is innate. Some do not become evil and lead relatively normal lives. Others accept the darkness in their hearts.
This priest, however, was different. He was born into complete darkness. Only by imperfections in the tapestry woven by the gods are they produced. They were effortless to control. They were merely puppets in the hands of a god, a puppet that could throw the whole of the nine worlds off balance. They could trigger Ragnarok.
Cyril stared blankly at the Nameless God whose stony expression turned into a pleased look. The man wore the typical dark robes of priesthood and had short, wild red hair and, at the moment, dull blue eyes. The Nameless God did not care what he looked like. He cared only for the perfect soul he had obtained. He thought he would find none for many hundreds of years more. His master had even said this. In fact, his master would be very pleased. "Tell me, servant, what do you seek?"
Cyril, still in a trancelike state, answered in an even voice, "To teach those blinded by the great God."
"Good. Are there more like you?" he asked eagerly, though surprised the priest had mentioned Odin. The priest was silent for a moment, looking for any other spirits similar to his. It was incredibly simple and his mind could see so very far.
"One."
The hushed words of his master were indeed true then if there was another. He had found his seeker and now he knew that his destroyer existed as well. "Take me to this other perfect soul."
His servant then smiled a dark and knowing smile at his master's words. "He's already looking for you."
Much to the Nameless God's surprise, the second soul had already sensed him and searched him out. He was here in Prontera. His seeker led him to the northeast corner of the city, through the darkened streets. Before long, the tall spires of the church came into view. A house of light…Odin's doing. It is his light, as opposed to his own darkness, that bears faith and hope within the human soul. The Nameless God thought it pointless.
There was stillness around the church that was eerie and out of place. He pushed open the door to find the hall dark and extremely warm. The scent of charred flesh hung heavy in the air as he and the priest walked unhurriedly down the hall to the main chapel. As they reached the chapel, the doors were wide open and large lumps of still burning corpses dimly lit the large room. It was certainly morbid but at the same time, it was a testament to the blackness of the soul before him.
A man sat on the steps of the altar, his arms resting on his knees. His blood spattered clothing gave away that he was a high wizard. Pale blond hair fell over his eyes as he slowly looked up to see his guests. He knew at once who had come for him and he smiled a most dangerous smile. As the duo approached, he spoke in a low, baleful voice, "Loki's incarnation has come for, has he? This body shall bring the Doom of the Gods as he has planned. I, Casimir, am at your beck and call. What you ask, I will do."
A/N: Hope it didn't disappoint. R & R as usual if you please!
