A/N: Will probably remain a One-shot for the foreseeable future.
***
Wôden worked idols, the All-Wielder glory,
And a spacious sky—that is a powerful God,
The Truth-King himself, the Savior of Souls,
Who forgave us all so that we might live onwards,
And again at the very end, he controls us,
All of mankind. That is the Measurer himself.
— Wôden Worhte Weos (Maxims I, ll. 62–67)
***
He once stood at the precipice of what he could only tell as oblivion. Empty chasms 'neath a barren land reminiscent of Ash's war-stricken soils carved patterns by the blades of war. Coming beside them would be the thousand bootfalls of soldiers carried on as the battle's ultimate practitioner.
Still, those sights were now immaterial before his eyes, mere sentimental memories of times long past in what seemed to be a canal. And e'er on those canals stretched, with waters washing away emotions bent on those times, 'til the manifold decades soon hollowed them out into naught but vapor.
Vague, distant clashes of blades had no longer brought unbridled joy to his olden veins, the very same ones which drove his very existence, tantalizing a furor now non-existent. The wages were gone ever since the claim of victory, of a kingdom, and of a continent. Blood needn't be spilled in multitudes anon.
That was until he encountered God.
The very One of whom his late mother spoke amidst circles of the devout. 'Malius.' Athwart holy writ he beheld depictions of His august likeness, those selfsame imaginings now stained with the lifeblood of his kin. But God was much different in appearance. God, fathomed in whole as He was to Barnabas, was incomplete.
So it was his mission to complete his God's figure. He knew to devote himself to this God that would grant him life and duty, one far removed from the human vices plaguing Valisthea since its inception. To ascend his mind's own mortal mettle.
Barnabas was the Dominant of Odin—a veritable deity 'fore the masses—whose blade could split sea, sky, and earth, whose edge could cut anything which persists in existence. Yet these meaningless titles, these vainglorious feats, were paltry beside the True God.
After all,
"Wôden worhte weos, wuldor alwealda rûme roderas" (Wôden wrought idols, the Almighty [wrought] the heavens).
It was God for whom he would dance for, whom he would lay bare his skin for, and whom he would slaughter in misbegotten revelry for. For it was God who fashioned his world each tree, each mountain, each river, and each earthen rust.
Only before the worthy shall the Gates of Paradise open, and Barnabas... Barnabas would hazard all to be deemed worthy.
To prove his worth one last time and see the gates unlatched for himself—to see his most beloved once more—he cast himself unto the Aether of his God. With it, the cosmos laid bare to his eyes in hallowed visions, a vast star-lined expanse where ships traversed between stellar lines of celestial dust. The center core of it all was as bestowed in his sights: God, and naught else save God.
Barnabas, as the Dominant of Odin, a trifling figment of God's puissance, was to be the finishing piece to complete His vessel, 'Mythos.' That belonged to the moniker of the man who he would need to bequeath his powers to, e'en if it were to be at the cost of his own life. A suicide by definition of any mortal wit, but to Barnabas, it was a divine mission of unparalleled prestige.
Fulfilled his charge was at last, when he lay 'neath chill droplets of rain cascading his visage, prostrate below the very statued effigy of his God.
He spoke his final words there.
"I'm coming home, Mother..."
...
...
...
There was consolation in faithing a God, a being of higher purpose from which a dreary soul could devote their life to. But what is there to do when that God no longer exists? Upon an empty altar, a forlorn worshipper has nothing to offer.
Barnabas Tharmr had nothing to offer.
He was but a surveyor of mankind in his own monstrous views and opinions. Yon the world lined and constructed by human sin, he could not rear his head to truly forgive humanity. Not with the bloodshed he had borne witness to, nor the world for taking the most important person in his life.
A controller, that he was—but certainly no savior of souls. There was neither argument required for the title of truth-king either, because he wasn't one. For even his truths were varnished lies sung into his own ears to bear its self-conceitedness.
Because that is the Measurer himself.
***
Then said Gestumblindi:
Who are those twain
that on ten feet run,
three their eyes are
but only one tail?
This riddle ponder,
O prince Heidrek!
'Thus it is,' said the king, 'when Ódin rides upon Sleipnir'
— Gestumblindi's Riddles
***
There was rain no more.
Barnabas Tharmr stared ahead in a battle-ridden land, an all-too-familiar sight. It was a bed for swords alongside other miscellaneous weapons to pincushion the putrescent soil in arrays numbering in the thousands. He remembered wielding a blade of his own, the weapon which won him a kingdom.
...But surely, the current time was not for musings.
He was a living breathing man (Akashic to be precise) standing in a world just barely breathing in contrast. Death permeated the air in both the proverbial sense and in the literal one, with the rancidity of rot penetrating his nose.
His mind drew a blank whilst he remained still-faced.
There were flying ships not too dissimilar to the Fallen's technological wonders. They cruised through the skies with weapons focused upon hordes of enemies pushing through lines emboldened by a stalwart vigor to remain standing.
Chaos, turmoil, mass, the key ingredients to brewing a great war.
Barnabas knew he was in the midst of some war.
War... he caroused in all that war had to offer, the gratification that it brought. Still, it was a sin upon life itself, something he too detested. By hypocrisy his nature was founded, and Barnabas could not sternly nod his head at such judgements cast unto him.
Nevertheless—
The pulverizing roar of cannon fire bombarded the area to his right, eviscerating the remnants of blade and terrain that remained. Dust kicked a bout in front of his face, brushing seldom at his hair, and just as fast as it came, dissipated.
Slathers of boiling blood running confluence ran 'neath his feet. He regarded it solemnly, before turning his gaze back to the battlefield.
All was in full before his eyes.
His God was no longer present.
With astounding vehemence, he would carve glory anew in these soils with no particular goal in mind, only the short-minded of what stood before him.
Aether expunged from his body in ebony and crimson motes slithering 'round and 'round his form. His right arm stretched back, before the Aether formed a bulwark of armor adorning his body in a knight's ensemble. A single, torn navy-blue short-cape drafted down from his right shoulder, before his prized blade, Zantetsuken, formed in his grip.
The Dominant of Odin, the All-Father, measured himself and humanity once more.
***
A/N: I've recently been in love with character study fics. Thought I might as well do one for a character that captivated me whilst playing Final Fantasy 16. Was originally supposed to be a Final Fantasy 15 crossover fic (featuring Noctis), because although I didn't like the game all that much, the story and bromance definitely did keep me intrigued (And Final Fantasy 15 crossover fanfics on FFnet had become a sort of fixation for a bit—before I unfortunately ran out of anymore interesting premises and crossover settings between it, and another world, to read).
Was also toying with a Sephiroth and Cloud One-shot.
Might write One-shots of them some day. Wouldn't hurt to try.