The Gardens of Asgard, a dream beyond the fantasias human minds. The flowers never die and the leaves never fall off the trees. The luscious, ripe fruit never rot. The colours never fade and the wilderness never dies, it is never pestered by hunger. It is a timeless heaven, you may spend many years in the gardens, admiring the works of nature and never notice the time flow by.
The gardens were the greatest creation of the God of Mischief and Lies. It was all a lie, one beautiful illusion. All beauty is an illusion no matter the purity of it. Deep inside, in the very core nothing had the true potential of honesty and not one man could truly call himself a saint, only a newborn with no sin written over his skin.
It is all just a beautiful lie. Seas of wild and tamed flowers burned the green horizons with colour. Cutting through the soil ran canals with glass clear warm water, in the canals sprouted lotuses, amongst them swam brightly coloured peaceful water giants. The gardens are surrounded by thick walls of trees. Cedar trees, ash trees, cherry trees, you name them all, every tree you could imagine sprouted its roots deep into the thick soil of the gardens. Their lustful fruits hung down in heavy clusters of juice filled flesh.
Overlooking the paradise of deception stood a stone throne under the shadows of the ivy infected oaks. Bilberry plants cluttered around the throne with asphodel flowers entangled in the branches. Upon the throne lied the God of Mischief and Lies himself, king and ruler of his very own creation. His slender, feminine body sprawled across the stone. The youthfulness of his body only mislead the assumption of his deepened knowledge and the scars that had been embedded into his mind. A lazy expression laced his pale angular face, untroubled by heavy thoughts and responsibilities that were chained to his shoulders. A heavy leather backed weathering tome sprawled across his lap. The gods long bony fingers drummed on the edge of the thick page, beating out the steady beat of his frozen heart.
Powder winged butterflies nestled down onto the exposed flesh of his hands. They had been deceived by the sweet smell. After ferociously dotting their insect legs over lying flower tiredly they nestled and warmed their bright coloured wings from the late afternoon suns heat.
The emerald eyes of the god raced along the words that were in scripted onto the pages. His right hand entangled in his coal black hair that ran past his shoulders in silky rivers. By the throne, engulfed by the flora bodies lied the golden horned helmet, like the discarded crown of the ignoble, unloved and detested king of Asgard.
The trickster became lost in his creation. Either because of the similarity of purpose between the two or the time he had spent indulging words into his mind that he did not notice the roots that he sprouted into the crumbling stone.
To those who turned the blind eye to the god would assume that he is a young, naive trickster with a smile carved onto his timeless marble face. Beneath the polished marble hatred, envy and pride were chained down by the kindness of his consciousness. The gods smile and kind words were effortless lies. No different was his creation. The fruit had rotten away, the flowers had bowed their heads a long time ago and became mere colourless dust. The timber walls had fallen and the water from the canals had dried in the deserted rock hard soil in the attempt to hydrate it. There was no life in the Gardens of Asgard, only lies.