Chapter 144: Beowulf, What Kind of Hero Are You?
The vast night remained in a drunken haze. And when Skaði finally fell asleep as well, the Magic Mirror deep within her mind gave off a faint, quiet glow.
In that darkness, Scathach, Queen of the Land of Shadows, let out a low murmur.
"That little girl… did she actually fall asleep?"
In a bleak world of piled hills and layered shadows, Scathach sat within a hall assembled from countless boulders. Excitement flickered across her face. She shifted slightly as she hugged herself, one leg raised, swaying in an idle rhythm.
Skaði and Scathach were not the same person. But because they shared an origin, they were linked far more tightly than most gods could imagine. As long as Skaði fell into sleep, Scathach could, with the power of the Rune she had gained from her, temporarily project her consciousness into Skaði's body and borrow the Snow Mountain Goddess's vessel.
Under normal circumstances, that chance never came.
The Snow Mountain Goddess did not sleep.
Unless winter had passed.
And spring was approaching.
"The wild hunt… Rowe?" Scathach licked her rosy lips, eyes shifting toward the space behind her.
There stood a throne even higher than the one she occupied.
That seat belonged to her friend. A God of the Underworld from another realm, the one who guided her to see through the boundary of life and death, the one who led her to become a transcendent existence that surpassed both.
Pioneer of the Land of Shadows.
Scathach only managed this desolate land in her stead because her friend had fallen into slumber.
"My friend…" Scathach brushed back her long hair, voice soft with certainty. "I can feel it. The day you awaken is not far away."
After that, the night passed without another word.
The next day.
When the first light of dawn spilled across the horizon, Rowe opened his eyes and felt refreshed. A full night of sleep loosened the knot in his thoughts, and he yawned without restraint.
Across from him, on the far side of the extinguished campfire, Skaði was already awake.
She stared at him with dark purple eyes that were far too focused for someone who claimed not to care.
"Morning," Rowe said.
"You slept so soundly," Skaði blurted.
"If you cannot sleep soundly and comfortably," Rowe replied as he stood, "what is the point?"
You slept comfortably, but I did not feel comfortable at all.
That thought stabbed Skaði with fresh distress.
She did not know why she had made that foolish decision last night, sharing the same cloak with Rowe. At first, they had only been back to back, an uneasy truce of warmth.
Then deep in the night, without explanation, she had slipped into his embrace.
Rowe, asleep, had been completely unaware. A harmless contact like that would never wake him.
But Skaði, trapped in his arms, had spent the entire night tense, her heart racing more times than all her previous days combined.
She had waited until morning before carefully extracting herself. Of course, a goddess would never admit she had not wanted to leave.
"Here," Skaði said stiffly, holding out the greatcloak. "I am returning it to you."
Rowe took it and draped it over himself without hesitation.
"Let's eat something," he said. "Then we set off."
Still need to eat?
Skaði's eyes widened slightly.
You are a god. I am also a god. Why would we eat anything?
A moment later, the campfire was rekindled, and the scent of roasted meat drifted into the cold air.
"So delicious," Skaði said, chewing in small bites, expression practically radiant.
It feels… healing.
Rowe stared.
Is my cooking really that good?
He took a bite himself and immediately nearly choked.
Too much salt.
His gaze toward Skaði could not help carrying a faint, pitying softness.
She finds this delicious.
What does this child usually eat?
He knew the Norse were bold in their habits and unpicky about food as long as there was enough meat and wine. But he had not expected the standard to be this simple.
Even the gods?
Do they not understand salt?
Rowe flicked his hand and tossed the meat to Fafnir, the hound who had been glaring for far too long.
Fafnir opened his mouth, swallowed it in one gulp, and looked visibly satisfied.
"When you are finished," Rowe said, "we move."
Toward where people gathered. Toward where sparks burned brightest.
Scandinavia.
Whether in this current mythic era or in later generations, the northern region was synonymous with vast land and sparse population. It stretched far, seas wide, people few.
But few did not mean none.
Human nations existed here. City states. Collective settlements that could be called civilization.
The climate, too, was different from harsher stretches of Midgard. Spring lingered longer. Vegetation grew thicker. It was, relatively speaking, kinder to human life.
Before long, Rowe saw greenery spreading across what had been bare earth. In the fading light of sunset, villages dotted the land, and cooking smoke curled upward like thin prayers.
Rowe pulled the reins and halted on a high vantage.
"Be careful," he said, glancing sideways.
The steed beneath them gave a low roar. Its twelve pairs of wings folded, then vanished as if they had never been. Its eight legs shuddered, merging down into four. At its feet, the hyena shifted as well, shrinking into a more ordinary size.
The back they rode suddenly narrowed.
Skaði had expected it, yet still jolted. Instinct made her wrap her arms around Rowe's back, stabilizing herself against hard, cold armor.
Rowe did not mind. There was armor between them.
Skaði's face, however, flushed instantly.
"How rude…"
"Who is rude?" Rowe narrowed his eyes, genuinely bewildered.
Of course, it was rude of herself.
Skaði drew a slow breath, said nothing more, and also did not loosen her grip.
Rowe only laughed, about to ride toward the human settlement, when he abruptly paused and looked into the distance.
The spirits in the wind drifted across the fields and brought him news.
They said, "Someone is calling your name."
They said, "Someone is praying for your help."
They said, "King of the Wild Hunt. Master of Storms. Commander of the Undead Host. The god who dominates the Storm Giants."
In a dark, deep temple, before an altar with no known name, someone whispered those titles.
An old, emaciated man in a pitch black robe. Thin as firewood. He spoke while standing beside a tall, broad shouldered young man.
"He comes from Jotunheimr below," the old man said, voice hoarse with fervor. "He is the creator of the world, the messenger of Ymir, the giant who created all things. He brings life to all things, and hope to all things."
"Those gods in the sky are merely transgressors. Ymir, the true King of the Giants, will bring them punishment."
"Young man, to believe in Ymir is the most correct and righteous path."
It was proselytizing.
But the young man did not respond. He only stared at the altar.
It was not an altar to Ymir.
It was dedicated to the Lord of Storms, the Wild Hunt, the Undead.
The young man was Beowulf.
He had personally witnessed the terrifying descent of the King of the Wild Hunt. He had seen monsters flee in panic as the storm swept them away like ashes.
The chief of a small village had returned from that scene and told Beowulf the wild hunt was both god and demon. It treated all things equally, bringing death to monsters and to humans alike.
Death was the final destination.
No one was an exception.
The old chief had returned alive. Beowulf, not belonging to that village, had said farewell and left at once.
Beowulf's birth was anything but ordinary. His father was a powerful warrior. His mother was the daughter of the King of the Geats. By blood alone, Beowulf was an heir, a prince.
Yet he carried an ideal that did not fit neatly into a throne room. He wanted to become a warrior and a hero. So he left young.
He sought experience. He tempered his martial skill. He hunted monsters across distant lands, believing fame earned through battle would become his name's foundation.
Until now, it had gone smoothly.
Like the old chief, Beowulf had visited many reclusive heroes. He had met countless people and demigods. He sharpened himself until he finally felt capable of defeating great monsters and becoming known far and wide.
Then Rowe arrived.
And most monsters were scattered into dust by the King of Storms.
Now it was difficult to find even one strong enough to be worth the effort.
To possess the art of slaying dragons, but to have no dragons left to slay.
Beowulf's predicament was exactly that.
The young warrior felt lost.
He had come to Scandinavia alone, on foot. His homeland was no longer far. But to return like this, with empty hands and a stalled dream, felt unbearable.
He wanted to be a great hero, famous far and wide. He could not let that ideal go.
That was why the old man's words had drawn him here.
Because he spoke of giants.
If it is giants, then they are monsters too, are they not?
Beowulf had not expected to find an altar to the King of Storms instead.
The old man's preaching became even more laughable in his eyes.
According to the village chief, the wild hunt was not a giant at all.
It was a demon king with divinity.
A god with demonic nature.
Even so, Beowulf did not leave immediately.
"Worship the messenger of Ymir, the King of the Wild Hunt," the old man said with a smile that looked kind at first glance, but under the weak candlelight turned chilling. "You will obtain everything you desire."
What do I desire?
Beowulf knelt.
He offered a prayer.
"Hail, King of the Wild Hunt…"
The wind spirits carried those words to Rowe, who had already come close enough to listen.
And Rowe answered.
This story was later recorded as well.
"The lost hero prayed to the Storm God of the high heavens, asking the god demon to answer the confusion in his heart."
"In the dark temple, candlelight flickered. A faint light brightened."
Rowe arrived.
His body remained near Scandinavia, but his consciousness fell into this place all the same, descending into Beowulf's Sea of the Mind.
Beowulf's vision shifted. Vast wind and snow, endless and pale, yet without a hint of cold.
Mist dispersed.
A tall throne appeared.
Upon it sat the King of Steel Giants, cold machinery humming beneath stillness, armor like a seal, Storm Spear in hand.
Rowe's voice sounded.
"You sought me?"
Beowulf steadied his breath. He knew the one who answered was not a mere rumor.
"Please tell me," he said. "How do I become a hero?"
"A hero?" The wild hunt seemed to let out a deep, amused laugh. "What do you believe a hero is?"
"Driving away monsters, gaining widespread fame, possessing extraordinary courage and martial prowess," Beowulf answered without hesitation.
Rowe denied him immediately.
"That is your hero. Not the world's hero."
My hero.
The world's hero.
Beowulf froze.
This was not Greece, where heroes were chosen and named by gods. In the north, anyone with courage could be called a hero. Anyone with strength could be called a hero.
That was common sense.
Because the Nordic lands revered the strong. They revered the brave.
Among gods, strength shaped rank.
Among humans, strength shaped respect.
Yet in the eyes of the wild hunt, it seemed to be different.
"Courage comes in many forms," Rowe said. "To lead others is courage. To take responsibility is also courage."
"Strength also comes in many forms. To fight monsters alone is strength. To unite people and make a nation prosper is also strength."
"Even monsters are made of courage and strength. They dare to indulge their desires without fearing defeat. Their power oppresses whole regions while no one resists."
Rowe's gaze sharpened, as if the storm itself leaned closer.
"Do you want to become such a hero? Only to gain fame in one place? Only to be praised in one region?"
Beowulf fell silent.
"The monsters in this world have been swept away by my storm," Rowe continued, pressing forward. "But the demons in human hearts never run out."
"Beowulf. Answer me."
Beowulf inhaled deeply.
"I… still want to be a hero," he said. "A hero whose name spreads far and wide."
He could not be swayed by a handful of phrases.
Beowulf had traveled, stumbled, bled, and endured. His determination was unquestionable.
Yet to seek a name did not automatically mean to seek evil.
"To be famous far and wide is to seek renown," Rowe said, voice calm, almost amused. "And to seek renown can also mean to spread good."
The two were not enemies.
Rowe laughed.
"If that is your answer, then let me see your resolve."
"In the name of the wild hunt, I bestow upon you the spark of the storm."
A spark of light appeared.
It fell into Beowulf's palm.
Beowulf stared, stunned.
"Your courage and your strength will be the fuel," Rowe said. "Let that spark burn. The flame will grant you immense power and wisdom."
"Go forth, hero."
Beowulf snapped back to himself.
He awakened.
The temple returned. The air turned heavy again. The old man stood nearby, eyes wide.
"You…" the old man gasped, staring at the spark in Beowulf's hand. "You received the blessing of the wild hunt? I knew it. The great god Ymir…"
"Ah."
Beowulf swung a punch and knocked the old man out cold.
"Ymir?" Beowulf bared his teeth in a grin. "I did not see any Ymir."
He looked down at the unconscious preacher with cold clarity.
"A cult that leads people astray is better off burned."
The old village chief had been right.
The wild hunt was neither god nor demon.
It was more than god, and more than demon.
God and demon both lived in the human heart.
The wild hunt…
Was simply a human.
"Only humans can help humans. Only humans can bless humans."
"In his dialogue with the gods, the young Beowulf understood this truth."
"The young hero faced his path. Ahead, it might be thorns. It might be ruins."
"But the spark had fallen into the human world."
"Light, by itself, could illuminate the road ahead."
"The nibelungenlied"
Rowe withdrew his gaze from the distance and fell silent.
He had originally intended to deal with the so called giant Ymir impersonating his name. But now he suddenly felt that it might be better to leverage that existence instead.
To use it as a point of contact.
To touch the heroes of this era, one by one.
The sparks had already spread through the giants.
If he spread more, it would never be a problem.
Beowulf was the first.
Rowe had no intention of letting him be the last.
He had done it in Greece. Doing it here was only natural.
The difference was this.
In Greece, he had been a sage and mentor.
Now, he was a god.
"God bestows the spark upon all things, and all things shall offer light to the one God, the one Lord of Hosts."
"World Religions: Introduction"
So, next.
"It is time to enter a place where people gather."
Rowe tugged the reins and stepped forward.
<><><><><>
[Check Out My Patreon For +50 Advance Chapters On All My Fanfics!]
[[email protected]/FanficLord03]
[Every 100 Power Stones = +1 Bonus Chapter]
[Join Our Discord Community For Updates & Events]
[https://discord.gg/MntqcdpRZ9]