The Northern Lights

         The northern lights shone bright, the potpourri of colours dancing across the barren winter sky. He’d seen these colours over and over again, shining their light down upon the dismal nights of the north, but never in his seventeen years of existence had he seen them shine as bright as now. As the greens, yellows and blues mystically danced across the sky, he wondered what had strengthened them this time. Did the gods have plans for this night, this cold winter’s eve? Did Thor almighty, with his hammer and his fury, want to send a message across the lands, of sights unseen, of actions undone, of words unspoken? Had Mjölnir finally drawn her last breath of fury, leaving the god of gods alone in his domain?
         His mind travelled to memories of his childhood, home at the island; of the Seer, in all her knowledge and power; of the tribe, as fierce as they were stoic. He faintly remembered a voice which, in retrospect, must have belonged to the Seer.
         Midgård will rue the day the dancing colours take on the skies…
         Though seventeen years of age, having just recently become a legal adult, he had always known these words contained more questions than answers. Yet, he had to answer them. It was his task, his meaning, his purpose.
         The rivers shall run red; the ocean shall swallow the world…
         He had heard this prophecy at the tender age of ten, and yet, he believed he understood it better than any elder. These words were meant for his ears; their questions for his intelligence. He was different, and he was indifferent.
         For when the lights devour the night sky…
         This was his day, his night, his time. His task was set before him, and yet, he was scared.
         All men will feel his wrath…
         Scared of what these words meant. Scared of what he would become.
         As he will demand back what is truly his.
         Scared of taking the leap. Scared of looking back. Scared of falling. Frightened. A coward. A wimp. A weakling.
         The lights shone brighter again, illuminating the cold, deep blue iceberg he had mounted. The cold, northern winds blew through his auburn hair, chilling him in a way no natural wind could.
         He knew he had to jump. He knew that, to calm the almighty Thor, to sooth his divine anger, he had to make the leap. This was his task, no one else’s. This was his purpose. He was born unto this very moment, this second of selflessness, this moment of glory. His name would cover the pages of all scripts; his body would stand, as an iron statue, proudly in the village square; his face would be plastered across shields, scattered around the archipelago.
         He, the son of Thor himself, the demigod of the archipelago – the weak, the scared, the puny. Since birth, he had known his home was not here. He was not a Viking, he never were. He was born different, raised different, thought of as different.
         But, for the first time in seventeen years, he was indifferent. His was the face of the divine, his was the body melded by gods. Not the chief’s, not his father’s, not his mother’s. No one knew what he felt, what he would become, what he had been. No one tried to learn. No one cared.
         He felt a rush of warmth, born in his chest, rising to his head. The cold, screaming Nordic wind felt like a slight summer’s breeze, gently caressing his over-heated body. His slight shoulders drooped from the sheer force of the heat, his scrawny legs barely held him up. He looked down the steep cliff, gazing down upon the vast emptiness that was the Arctic sea. Down there, no one would comment on his stature, no one would sneer at his weaknesses, no one would punish him for his ingenuity. Down there, the gods awaited, gently calling his name, begging for him to re-join them in Asgård.
         The northern lights grew ever stronger, slowly but surely illuminating all that was, tricking the feeble human mind into thinking it was broad daylight. Soon, villages would wake up, the villagers thinking this light meant daybreak. Soon, every pair of eyes north of the Arctic Circle would turn to the skies, and the women would gasp, the babes would scream, the men would shiver. This day would be embedded into memory as the day the gods demanded their own.
         And they would receive.
         He took a deep breath, cherishing in the freezing feeling as the cold winds gathered in his lungs, their temperature like a thousand daggers in his chest. The warmth soon overtook the cold, and as it did, he knew it was time.
         Time to leave this world behind. This ungratefulness, this despise, this chagrin.
         Time to let go.
         Time to return home. Home where he belonged.
         With the gods.
         He exhaled, looked up at the skies, and smiled.