Putting aside the twisted emotional entanglements on the lakeshore of Vanaheimr, in glorious Ásgarðr, the mist from the depths of fate quietly enveloped the heart of Baldr, the god of light.
He began to be haunted by nightmares.
In those dreams, full of ill omens, he saw the sun and moon vanish from the sky, and the world plunged into eternal night.
He saw a boundless battlefield, strewn with the bodies of gods and giants, the wails of pain and death merging into a scream that tore at his eardrums;
He felt himself enveloped by boundless darkness, cold and sticky, as if it were the continuation of his twin sister Hödr's empty eyes.
In his nightmare, former brothers turned against each other, and trust was completely shattered like fragile ice;
Each time, Baldr broke out in a cold sweat and woke up with indescribable pain and fear.
For the first time, lingering anxiety and panic appeared on his flawless face.
The light seemed unable to illuminate the deep despair in his dream.
Exhausted, Baldr finally decided to confide his nightmares to the gods of Ásgarðr.
In the council hall of the Golden Palace, he described these terrifying scenes in a still gentle but trembling voice.
The gods listened to his account, and anxiety and confusion appeared on their faces.
They exchanged worried glances and whispered among themselves, but no one could decipher the hidden meaning of these dreams.
The entire divine realm was shrouded in a faint layer of unease.
Except for one person.
When Loki heard the details of Baldr's nightmare through his all-pervasive ears and eyes, he was alone in a dark side corridor, a cold and clear smile slowly blooming on his face.
In this smile, there was no surprise, no sympathy, only a kind of expectation of 'finally here' and a malicious pleasure.
He knew the time had come.
The hidden thread of fate was beginning to tighten according to the ancient and cruel pattern.
Almost simultaneously, Odin, sitting on the high throne, also passed through a shadow heavy as a mountain in the depths of his one eye.
He could wait no longer, could take no more risks.
Odin knew the time had come.
He had to seek answers, even if they were the ones he least wanted to hear.
Without informing the gods, the God-King Odin quietly left Ásgarðr.
He traveled east, riding his eight-legged divine steed Sleipnir, through inhabited Miðgarðr, through the territory of giants, and to the very end of the world, the legendary border with the realm of the dead.
His journey was long and lonely, as if reflecting the unease that had accumulated within him.
Finally, he stopped on a barren, lifeless land.
Here, the cold wind howled, grass did not grow, and only an ancient grave stood amidst the vastness.
This was the Grave of the Prophet, where a sage who knew the future of the past was buried, though long dead.
Odin dismounted and stood alone before the grave.
He took a deep breath, his eyes shining with resolve.
He began to chant an incantation, not in the ordinary language of Ásgarðr, but in an ancient runic spell.
These incantations contained the primordial power of the universe at its beginning, summoning the souls of the dead, long slumbering.
As his low, majestic chanting echoed across the empty wilderness, the air became sticky and cold.
He took out a prepared sacrifice—perhaps some treasure of powerful magic, perhaps a part of himself—and cast it into the dark blue flames that burst forth from nowhere.
The flames leaped and crackled, but brought not the slightest warmth; on the contrary, they made the surrounding temperature plummet sharply.
He continued to chant and pray, his voice seeming to travel through infinite time and space.
The cold wind that had been whipping his cheeks began to swirl, forming small vortices, as if an invisible force were awakening.
When the incantation reached its climax, the wind suddenly stopped, and deathly silence fell over the land.
At this moment, Hades felt a call?
Beyond the flames, a hazy figure gradually condensed.
It was a female figure, shrouded in shadows, her face not clearly visible, only the breath of death from the underworld seeping from her.
"It is not easy to return from the realm of the dead..." she said, her voice ethereal and hollow, carrying the vicissitudes of time.
"I have been buried here for a long time. The rain has rained upon me, and the snowflakes have covered me. And I do not know you, the one who called me. What is your name?"
Odin hid his true name and replied with his usual guise: "My father is known as the Wayfarer, and I am called the Warrior. Now tell me the news you bring from the underworld."
He longed to know Baldr's fate, though he had seen it vaguely.
The wise dead woman looked at him, as if she could see through all disguises to the essence.
"Baldr is about to join us," her voice was unwavering, as if stating a predetermined fact.
"We are making mead for him. The world above is full of despair and pain, but below there is only happiness."
"Who will be the one to kill Baldr?" Odin's voice was calm.
"His brother," the shade replied.
Brother?
His sons? Or did it refer to...?
"Who will avenge Baldr?" he asked, trying to unravel this chaotic thread of fate.
"His brother." The same answer only further puzzled Odin.
"Who will mourn for Baldr?" Odin asked the last question, perhaps to find out who would remember the light.
The shade stood by her grave, and this time, she seemed to truly 'see' the summoner.
Her lifeless eyes blinked, and a faint expression, almost like mockery, even flickered on her shadowy face.
"His brother."
Then she changed her mind, her voice becoming clear and sharp, tearing through Odin's disguise:
"You are no wayfarer." She looked directly at the one-eyed Odin, her gaze seeming to pierce through time and space.
"You are Odin, who long ago sacrificed himself for himself."
Odin was silent, neither admitting nor denying.
His one eye just as sharply looked back at the shade.
And Odin at this moment, thanks to his extensive knowledge and wisdom, and the insight gained through sacrifice, recognized the true identity of the other.
His deep voice broke the silence with a coldness that knew everything:
"And you are not the so-called wise woman. You were the lover of Angrboða and Loki."
The shadow of the shade, Angrboða, seemed to tremble slightly on the opposite side of the fire.
The truth was openly revealed at this moment.
The identity of the prophet coinciding with the motherhood of the child of calamity who would trigger Ragnarök cast an even more sinister hue over this dialogue spanning life and death.
Odin returned from the Far East, bringing not the dawn of hope, but the ultimate despair.
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