din sat silently, mulling over what he’d just been told. His one good eye, the lid twitching beneath his shaggy brow, roamed slowly over the table. On the other side, Michael sat patiently.

“I won’t lie,” said Odin, raising his head to look at the archangel. “It’s not going to be easy. Some of ‘em are going to want to stay. We might lose a few. Hell, we might lose ‘em all.”

Still Michael said nothing. Odin added, “It’s not easy for me, either.”

The archangel’s feathered wings shifted slightly as he leaned forward onto his elbows. “You’ve done well, Odin. All of you have. You’ve done what you were asked, but it’s over now. He’s been born, and soon He’ll take His rightful place. You can all come home.”

A thousand years of war, pain, and knowledge were stamped on the Norse god’s face. “I wonder. What if it’s not home anymore?”

In one sense, there is no distance at all between the Kingdom of God and Asgard. Any of the multitudes of angels could travel between the two instantly, as could Odin and his kind. In another sense, though, the two were at opposite ends of the universe, separated by infinite stretches of possibility and regret.

Walking the trunk of Yggdrasil, though, it took nine days, and that was the path Odin chose. It guaranteed him solitude; few other beings would travel its rugged trunk, and fewer still would disturb the father of the gods there.

Three days out from the Gate Called Beautiful, he passed the branch from which he’d hung himself. He hadn’t wanted to, but there had been no other way to gain the knowledge he’d sought. None open to him, at any rate.

Nine days he walked; nine days he’d hung. Nine days he’d been dead, a rotting corpse dangling, bitter fruit grown from a tree of pain. Types and shadows, Michael had told him…his people needed types and shadows. They needed to recognize another who would hang, a thousand years hence, and so Odin had died.

The future had always been Ragnarok.

That was what he had gleaned from nine days of death. It was a future of wars, and of betrayal; his blood-brother Loki, son of giants, was to sell them all into perdition, Jormungand and Thor would slay each other, and the mighty, feral Fenrir would finally have his revenge on One-eye. The Nimbulwinter would herald the coming of a ship made of dead men’s nails. All would end.

And all would begin again. Baldur, beautiful, precious Baldur would be reborn, and humanity would begin anew from a single man and a single woman, just as it had before. Sheltered among the branches of Yggdrasil, man would wait for the world to end.

Odin All-father would not see it. He would perish in the jaws of Fenrir, to whom he had sacrificed the hand of Tyr. The courage of Odin was immense, but even he had shrunk from placing his hand in the mouth of Loki’s lupine son. Only brave Tyr had accepted the challenge, and paid the price for binding the Wolf.

Odin rubbed the patch over his missing eye and walked on. Nothing was certain now, not even Ragnarok. The only thing he could count on was that the way of the gods was pain and sacrifice.

With Michael’s pronouncement, the time of the gods was at an end. Odin knew that the others had received the same news. Zeus-Jupiter would not care; he and his pantheon had long since lost interest in a world that no longer needed them. Quetzlcoatl would fight, as would Shiva and I’ov, but it would do them no good. Only one result ever came of defying the Almighty.

Odin was the head of a practical group of gods, giants, dwarves, and spirits. They knew that their fates had been set before time began, and knew enough not to argue with that fact. One-eye had accepted that fate was unchanging, but desired knowledge of it anyway. It had killed him, but his courage had ensured he’d come back to life.

It had also given him power, and taught him songs and runes. Unlike some other gods, the Norse had not taken upon themselves great superhuman attributes when they accepted their roles. Thor, Sif, Baldur, Freyja…they had all been little more than men at first. Their great power had come hard, through battle and sacrifice. There was little feasting in Asgard, compared to Olympus, and much pain. Odin One-eye had paid the dearest price, except for Baldur. Baldur had not yet risen.

With his resurrection, though, Odin had gained great knowledge and power. He’d known about Ragnarok, and knowing gave him more strength. When anyone, man or god, knows the exact moment of his death, he is able to face all else fearlessly. He wondered if the child born in Judea knew that.

Ratatosk ran past him, heading up the trunk at top speed. The squirrel carried insults from the top of the tree to the bottom and back, allowing the eagle and the wyrm to taunt one another without leaving their homes. Nidhogg feared to leave her home among the roots of Yggdrasil, and the eagle would not descend from his perch atop the World Ash, so Ratatosk was employed to correspond for them. Odin knew how he felt.

Heimdall was leaning against the trunk where Yggdrasil grew closest to Bifrost. The bridge between Midgard and Asgard was Heimdall’s special responsibility, and he took it seriously. Even now, resting and eating a loaf of bread, he remained within sight of the rainbow bridge.

“Hail, brother Heimdall.” Odin’s was almost a mile up the trunk when he spoke, but his quiet tones carried easily to the guardian’s ears. Of all the gods, only One-eye himself had sharper senses than Heimdall. The guardian of Bifrost turned to greet Odin, his face coming as close as it ever did to smiling.

“Hail, brother Odin. Well met.”

“Not so well, my friend. Retrieve your horn and summon the others to Valhalla.” Odin One-eye passed his brother god and continued on his way, toward the hall of dead heroes.

“Odin? Has the time come? The signs --“

Odin did not turn around, or stop walking. “It’s not Ragnarok. It’s something else. Something … more important.”

The assembled gods, giants, and other beings all but filled Odin’s miles-long hall. Even those whose hatred of the one-eyed god was well-known had come, afraid to not answer the summons of Heimdall’s horn. One-eye himself had told them that the sounding of the horn would signal Ragnarok, but none of them had seen the signs, and all were uneasy.

All had come, save Loki and his wife, still imprisoned unthinkably deep, beneath Midgard. All had come, save they and fair Baldur, whom Loki’s treachery had slain.

Odin stood tall and sober and alone at the head of his mighty table. His deep blue cloak hung straight, accentuated his height, and his wide hat lay on the table, its brim no longer hiding the scarred socket of his missing eye. He was a fearsome and terrible sight.

He bore a raven on each shoulder. Their names were Hugin and Muninn, Thought and Memory. He listened to them now as they told him the names of all present. Then he dismissed them, and the gaze of his eye weighed heavily on each face. His voice was a clap of thunder.

“My friends, my foes. Gods, and giants, and me, rulers of the nine worlds, I’ve called you for one reason. It’s over. We’ve done the job we were sent to do, and now it’s time to go home. He’s finally done it. The Christ is on Midgard.”