NEW ASGARD OR THE REALM ETERNAL, Vidarr knew better than to deem his people most properly habituated in such certain sense amongst the heaving lull of the lands that they had then called home. No. Asgard is the people, not the place. That despite it, what they had come to lose and what they had chosen to let go, they had yet to lose themselves; still, they remained in the boisterous ardor of their meat and mead… of spirits great and spirits proud -------- and even all the more so with what warranted the fire of their mirth. Thor. Their mighty ALLFATHER. Savior of them all. And they were all gathered to celebrate him as he just as well deserved to be so. How they found a moment’s quiet with each other was surely a work of a crone—that where it came down to a jug shared between them, Vidarr just hummed as his own mull grew to taunt at him as he patted the wooden lid of the hefty chest that had lugged on to place and between them.
Amusing, surely... through all those years not one glimpse he had offered to them—save for his promise. Save for the fate that he took it upon himself to carry alone. Now that which endeavor came in burning failure, it then turned into some new burden that Vidarr clung on to bear. How he had a face to show was the greater work of the crone --------- necessity brought them together, though for all the days that his sorrow rooted itself into the hollowed bones of his chest, Vidarr was overcame. A CROWN now his was nothing more than a debt that he was trying to pay; that he found himself of better use within the same doom that the Norns had augured against him. At the very least, his heart was right; he was no coward --------- but at most, his mind wasn’t… he was nothing but a FOOLISH boy who had thought himself too high. That while he had thought that he had long shed himself of such meager prides—of dreams of grandeur and glory—regret was just as much of a claw that surely furrowed into the droughted earth of his person and clawed on for the falling void. Fenrisbane. No. He was a FAILURE. And blessed was he who still had his brother that had made things right for the sake of them all.
“I'M SORRY… I...” words found themselves rooted in the slight slur of his sputter. “I’m sorry I could not be much…” what pause that came with the lull of his mind’s lament finally faded into the deep rumble of his own weary voice. What use was he? His hands? He could carve the oldest tree and pray into its newborn beauty to keep Thor safe, but it was Thor who’d save him still. Them. Them all. And that for whatever his absence had palled onto them was nothing more than empty hurt. What use was he? No. Thor. Thor has always been the MIGHTIEST of them all—and it would be Vidarr’s penance to learn. So with a grunt, he pried open the chest that held his gift; ore. One of their best—ore meant for a king...THEIR KING--------- all once stolen by a prince who had turn part of it into the scars he now wore around the cords of his forearms to chase the beast that ended up something of his own doing after all. “--------- but maybe... perhaps… if you are to forge a weapon anew, please call for me—I-I’ll help you…” Vidarr finally spoke, his eyes moving up to meet his brother’s in a low shimmer of quavering humility. “… I could not protect you… I—” Vidarr’s chuckle was weary—but still warm. A fighting ember. An unwavering resolute.
“--------- please. If you’d want me, I’d promise to fight by YOUR SIDE instead…”
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