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Feb. 4th, 2009 04:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nine_songsIt reminded him of being backstage, in a way.
Wednesday had never been dead, truly dead before. He had fought against it; it was known they would all die, come the day of the great war. It was only in his nature to find a way to live through it all.
And he hadn't, because in the end he knew. Both he and Loki had known. It would have been a hell of a thing, wouldn't it have? Would the skies have broken, would the world have crumbled had they succeeded? The oracles had all fortold their deaths. They knew. Besides, it had been the only game, the last great game, in town.
But wouldn't it have been a kick in the ass.
The pain had been brief. It had pissed him off that they'd been such cowards about it all. A sniper, a gunshot through the eye, brains all over the wall, all over his good suit. Fucking hell, these kids had no style. They didn't deserve what they'd inherited. They didn't understand what they had.
Shadow had died for him, as he'd been bound to do. Three draughts of mead and their bond had been complete. Now, his son, he would do what he had to do. Whatever that was. It wasn't his concern anymore. He was dead.
And yet, he was here.
It was like being backstage, only without the substance. The power was what reminded him of it. It flowed everywhere, through everything he touched. Wild, chaotic stuff--Loki would be unstoppable here, he knew.
But they believed in their protectors. Such as they were. Belief was everything, in the god business. Hermes must be one high roller, to have even such a following here. They believed. He prospered. It was.
Wednesday felt the pull of it all again. It was like being alive, in this place. So many points of power in such a tight radius. It was almost overwhelming, intoxicating. He should have been able to go anywhere he pleased. Yet, Valhalla was out of his reach. He was denied its access. It didn't bother him as much as it should have. Maybe it would, over time.
But these people, they were all so different. It reminded him of America all over again. He'd been told there were gods everywhere, and while he didn't dispute it, he wanted to know if they were like him. Were they dead? Misplaced? Small? Or were they just visiting (and was there a way out)? Because as much as he liked the idea of free alcohol and a bed to sleep in, a world without the fear of death hanging over him, he was restless. This is not me. This is not what I am. I am The Allfather, Geat of the Slain, the Victory Bringer, Mover of Constellations, The Lord of the All-fucking-Earth.
Nevertheless, he was dead, he was still all of these things...
And he was bound to the Nexus.
Wednesday had never been dead, truly dead before. He had fought against it; it was known they would all die, come the day of the great war. It was only in his nature to find a way to live through it all.
And he hadn't, because in the end he knew. Both he and Loki had known. It would have been a hell of a thing, wouldn't it have? Would the skies have broken, would the world have crumbled had they succeeded? The oracles had all fortold their deaths. They knew. Besides, it had been the only game, the last great game, in town.
But wouldn't it have been a kick in the ass.
The pain had been brief. It had pissed him off that they'd been such cowards about it all. A sniper, a gunshot through the eye, brains all over the wall, all over his good suit. Fucking hell, these kids had no style. They didn't deserve what they'd inherited. They didn't understand what they had.
Shadow had died for him, as he'd been bound to do. Three draughts of mead and their bond had been complete. Now, his son, he would do what he had to do. Whatever that was. It wasn't his concern anymore. He was dead.
And yet, he was here.
It was like being backstage, only without the substance. The power was what reminded him of it. It flowed everywhere, through everything he touched. Wild, chaotic stuff--Loki would be unstoppable here, he knew.
But they believed in their protectors. Such as they were. Belief was everything, in the god business. Hermes must be one high roller, to have even such a following here. They believed. He prospered. It was.
Wednesday felt the pull of it all again. It was like being alive, in this place. So many points of power in such a tight radius. It was almost overwhelming, intoxicating. He should have been able to go anywhere he pleased. Yet, Valhalla was out of his reach. He was denied its access. It didn't bother him as much as it should have. Maybe it would, over time.
But these people, they were all so different. It reminded him of America all over again. He'd been told there were gods everywhere, and while he didn't dispute it, he wanted to know if they were like him. Were they dead? Misplaced? Small? Or were they just visiting (and was there a way out)? Because as much as he liked the idea of free alcohol and a bed to sleep in, a world without the fear of death hanging over him, he was restless. This is not me. This is not what I am. I am The Allfather, Geat of the Slain, the Victory Bringer, Mover of Constellations, The Lord of the All-fucking-Earth.
Nevertheless, he was dead, he was still all of these things...
And he was bound to the Nexus.
