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The silver gates of Asgard glistened above the Bifrost, the sight a million diamonds reflecting the shimmering bridge’s many hues. Within the gates, gorgeously decorated temples of varying shape and stature dotted the lush hillsides, each belonging to the gods and goddesses of the realm. With twelve arching to the left, and twelve to the right, these sanctuaries created the frame of a raven in flight. At its head, a large fortress, donned in smooth silver and spiked onyx, thrust Heavenward- the largest and finest of Asgard’s halls. This citadel boasted four covered, winged entryways- one at each cardinal direction- which met at a central tower. Within each crevice of the ordinal directions, stood a smaller tower, bridging together the walkways held within.
Tucked away under the northernmost wing, a lush garden grew wild, specked with every flower ever grown. Among the rhododendrons and resurrection lilies, snapdragons and Heather flowers, stood the Well of Urd. Belonging to one of the three Fateweavers, the well was covered in the most brilliant silver, curved into ornate swirls and studded with sapphire chips. From this well flowed all of the rivers of the worlds. Weaving through the landscape, these sacred waters poured out from beneath the front gates, over the edge of the realm, and down into the open sky. Towering hundreds of feet into the air, this passageway, along with the great Hrimthurs’ Wall, encased the God’s City in a cocoon that no man or god could breach.
Though, on this day, gods and men were of little concern.
At sunrise that morning, the post of Heimdall, protector of the Bifrost, stood empty as thousands of gods and goddesses trekked over the arch’s rainbow-laden stones and into the waiting courtyards of Asgard. A mighty assembly now sat at the foot of Urd’s Well, their kingdoms and customs as varied as the worlds themselves. Friend and foe alike met shoulder to shoulder, awaiting the commencement of the Great Calling.
As the pantheons eyed their cultural counterparts and whispered among themselves, a heavily-armored silhouette crossed behind the well, unnoticed by all but the most discerning eyes. Laying his jet-black gauntlets at each of its sides, the man brought his face close to the water’s surface. He spoke quickly but gingerly to his motionless reflection. As it nodded back to him, he rose, turning to face the swarm ahead.
Removing his feathered helmet, Odin the Allfather poised himself to speak. “Gods, Goddesses, Elements of Old: hear me well. A new threat has befallen us, one that even we cannot trump.”
The waters of Urd’s well began to stir, ripples forming under the weight of his words. Dark clouds poured over the well’s edges as a black form emerged, splashing up from the waters with furious fervor. The form flashed into focus, revealing a mottled mess of legs and fangs. The creature stood on eight long, spindly legs which were attached to a bulbous, gray body. Atop its abdomen sat the pale and misshapen torso, arms and head of a man. While his eyes and nose retained their human-esque features, thick, curved fangs hung from a split, gaping mouth.
One of the gods stepped forward, joining Odin at the edge of the Well. He was dressed entirely in blue and ochre, his long toga meeting the thick leather straps of his sandals at the calf. With long platinum hair that hung in thick braids, framing his strong jaw and emerald eyes, the god was striking. A lightning bolt adorned his left shoulder, the etched skin pulsing with electricity.
“This creature is known as the Godeater,” said Zeus, waving an arm through the misty figure. “He is the first known threat to our lives— our immortality.”
As a thousand whispers burst forth from the crowd, one goddess shot up from her chair.
“That is total and utter nonsense,” scoffed Ereshkigal, her long, jet black hair falling into matching, pupil-less eyes. Even with all her ferocity, the death goddess preserved her chilling stature.
“What Zeus says is true,” Odin interjected, “I have seen the end myself. This Godeater would not only lead to our destruction, but the destruction of everything we have ever made—everything that has ever taken breath.” The Allfather turned to Zeus, giving the Divinity that spanned before them a moment to process and discuss.
Placing one hand on the Well’s ledge, Zeus grunted frustratedly at the water’s image. “We must tell them. You know there is only one way.”
The Allfather combed back his deep copper hair with wide, armored fingers. His one remaining eye, even when furrowed in anger, sparkled white and auburn; the other, empty socket had been long covered by a nine-sided patch, shaded the color of gunmetal. A young goddess, dusted in earth tones with caramel hair that flowed like a mane, paced forth from the crowd, encroaching upon the Gods and the Well.
“Ah, Goddess Epona,” said Odin, giving a respectful smile and nod. She met both of their gazes with caution.
“Sirs, what are we to do? How do we defeat that which defeats eternity?”
Once again, the God-Kings faced the thousands before them.
“We must be reincarnated. We must change our immortality ourselves—become invisible to the predator. Only then can we surprise it, and gain the upper hand of victory.”
Gasps escaped the throats of Hera and Ameterasu; of Hermes and Anu; of Vesta and Aine. Osiris, one of many Elder Gods, rose slowly; his skin was a deep, murky green, wrapped and concealed with papyrus and graffitied with centuries’ worth of hieroglyphs.
“Absolutely not,” his voice cracked, in sync with the dried flakes that drifted from his body, “we must not bow to speculation. It is madness to defeat oneself in lieu of defeat by an imaginary foe.”
Zeus turned a dark gaze towards Odin, who maintained his strong shoulders and fierce gaze. “We have told you. I have warned you. Those who are with us, stay. Those against us, I hope you’ve kept your courage—you will need it.”
The Allfather watched as innumerous deities, who had turned their backs on the cause, crossed the Bifrost, and entered the blackness of the open universe once again.
* * *
Night had long fallen. The great halls were hardly full, and there were no cheers or boisterous conversations, no echoes, no thunder. Even the Halls of Valhalla were quiet, the great warriors too unsure of tomorrow to celebrate the victories of today. The few Gods and Goddesses that spanned the long, mahogany and silver tables took their drink in quiet contemplation. Each one of them now understood how Fate must unfold.
Atop the central tower, Zeus studied the sparkling stars that surrounded him on all sides. Donned in plated armor of azure and gold, the Greek King awaited his Norse counterpart. A broadsword hung across his back, whose sharp edges curved back and forth down the length of the blade. The metal pulled currents from the scarred bolt on his shoulder, creating an armament of lightning.
Heavy footfall echoed up the stairs leading to the turret. Odin emerged, fully equipped in dark raven armor and Gungnir, a great spear covered with runes that burned when wielded. Each god brought their weapon forward, wielding them with heavy weight in their hearts. They stared one another down, and nodded. Here, they would become Blood Brothers, a vow broken neither in everflowing time nor by space between.
And with that promise, they ran each other through.