🔵 By Thomas Riffenburg. Photo by lauragrafie.
Exhausted he stood, body aching in soreness,
pain lacing up his spine from the many cuts
and hits he’s endured.
They fought well, all of his brothers of the axe, yet now only he remains. Surrounded by enemies, jeering and taunting him with their decayed teeth and pungent breath, he breathes heavily, allowing the hot breeze to blow across him, cooling in its own way. Any moment now they’ll attack and slay him, he knows this, yet a warriors death is a heartfelt acceptance of all true Heathens, a joy to be welcomed, not feared, for in this way is a man accepted entrance into Valhall. He fills his chest with breath and roars into the sky, “Patron Odin” Grant to me the heads of my enemies before you welcome me into your halls!”
Then the sky darkens, the clouds thunder, and all eyes watch the star hurtle towards the last Heathen’s feet. He gasps at the sight of the Gods fiercest weapon lying before him, even his enemies surrounding him fall silent. His laugh begins low, then echoes with might. The Allfather has granted him his request. He smiles as he grasps Thor’s hammer. “I am the last Heathen, hear me roar!”