God Of Outcasts


A long time ago

Somewhere between worlds

I knew it all. I remembered it all. The beginning, and the stories that followed. I was there for some of it, but what I did not witness, I was told. This began a long time ago. Three gods walked the universe together, or I should say beings, as god implies worship and offerings and idols and none of these things existed yet. But they were creators. They were the original trio, born of giants and giantesses long ago.

Midgard had been formed. There were oceans, trees, mountains, rivers, valleys, and other plant life, yet no people, not yet. Then one day the three arrived. They stood side by side on the shore of the great ocean watching the tide. Above them the moon waxed and waned. The stars twinkled. The universe felt infinite and magical.

Soon the ocean brought them gifts. The sea offered two pieces of driftwood, bone white and pure. From this came the first people.

First, breath had been gifted to mortals. It was divine breath, it filled their shapes, turned driftwood to a person, pumped their hearts, moved their lips and mouths, gave them life. It was because of Odin that this happened. The second god gave them thought, for they needed mind to make decisions, to clarify and live in this world with so many possibilities, so much beauty. The third god reached into their hearts, squeezing with his hand, laughing as he did so and with that he gave them the color of their blood. Red. Passion. Magic. Lust, Desire. For how else does one feel that urge to create, to live with purpose and meaning? It was the fire inside of them that he gave. And then the gods parted, but one was left with questions. What now? What happens to my beloved worlds and people and divine gift?

And so he pondered this for many years. He hung himself on the world tree for nine nights, leaving his body there hanging, starved, wounded, pained and he traveled the worlds in many forms seeking. His body bled out empty, yet it never twitched. On the ninth day he returned, slipping into his now withered skins and he looked down into the primordial void. What he saw were the runes. Twenty-four shapes all whispering their secrets of the worlds to him. They expanded his mind. They spoke about creation, and about love, and life but they also spoke about the end.

He fell screaming from the tree, blinded by his own ecstasy. Fear welled inside of him. Fear of the end and so he vowed himself to knowledge.

He sacrificed his eye for knowledge. Placing it down into Mimir’s well who delivered to Odin his own endless pool of wisdom. The well was infinite. It stretched from worlds to worlds. It governs all water and water is life. Water carries life. It carries messages, and knowledge. This is where Odin’s eye will remain, at the bottom of that well, looking, seeing, knowing. Many seasons had passed. Midgard now had their idols and their offerings. They sacrificed their lives to Odin. They died with honor and so Odin collected their souls and brought them to Valhalla. There they would feast and fight to the end of days. Then, and only then, would they fight for Odin.

One day the one-eyed god sat on his high seat in Asgard. He looked out into the worlds awaiting his ravens, Hugin and Munin which meant thought and memory. The ravens returned. They perched on his seat, appearing just as shadows of ravens, and fed him news of what they had seen and heard. Thought spoke of some wood, a place hidden beneath the third root of the world tree and within that wood sat the oldest seer ever known. Memory described her, and then went on to repeat what she knew. Odin shivered when he listened to the messages.

The seer could see everything, she knew everything, she reached out into the worlds with her fingers, weaving threads with her hands, looking, feeling, sensing.

And so, he journeyed there, to the very bottom of the ash tree, alone. He found her, the old wise witch, the nameless and the timeless, she was neither dead nor alive, nor was she a ghost. She was simply a shape of woman, dressed in black cloak yet there was no face inside her hood but a void.

Odin brought her amber and poetry. He whispered the poems to her, boding her to speak. At first, she said nothing. Then over time she began in a deep, yet shallow voice.

The god looked deep into it searching for what he believed were twin stars for eyes, yet he saw nothing, only heard her voice as she spoke. She told tales of creation. She knew everything from the forming of first life, to the end of it all. She even knew of his birth, and the first murder in the worlds, and the first war. She spoke to him from a dark faceless hood. He listened to her, asked her to continue when she tired, and so she did reluctantly. She continued to describe the end. There would be war, famine, ice, then darkness. She spoke of a witch who would bear evil children and those children would seek revenge against the gods. In the end she described a scene in a wood, a very sad scene of two people, one in mourning, the other bound, punished by the gods. He was a liar, she said, and a thief. She called this figure the captain of the ship of the dead. He would sail through dead waters, with dead people, he would lead the giants against the last war with the gods. This war was called Ragnarok, and his name was Loki.

As I was there for the beginning, I would be there for the end. Sometimes I forget this, yet sometimes I do remember, but I never want it to be. War requires two sides, after all. The end needs both, as does the beginning. Rebirth requires death. The shadow requires light. There can be no dark without light. No order without chaos.

We all have purpose. Mine is clear.

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