What do you think happens to the gods when people forget about them? Do you think they just fade away? I think that's human arrogance speaking, assuming an immortal simply disappears because you cease to believe.
You may rest assured, or uncomfortably, that many of the gods are indeed still around, most have simply moved on to other phases of life. They've blended into the mainstream because they're no longer needed, maybe waiting for the time when people need them again. And now you're asking what any of this has to do with me.
That's easy, because whether or not you believe it, my parents are among those hiding. And they've been in hiding a great long while, because its been many years since anyone gave a damn about the norse gods. I know the name Odin rings a bell, there have been enough corney movies made invoking his name. Yeah, told you, you've heard of him, you just forgot all about it. Me? No, I haven't forgotten, one doesn't forget their father. He's not the man the movies make him out to be. Yes, first and foremost, he is a warrior, a king on the battlefield. But he is also a gifted poet and a talented horseman. He is a gentle man despite his reputation and his wisdom and judgement is valued by many. He is the reason I still walk this earth...
My mother was another sort of creature entirely. Few have heard of Nott and many choose to avoid her altogether. She is a hard woman, jaded and nocturnal. She speaks to few and chooses to live a reclusive existance, riding the night with her horse Hrimfaxi, her only life long partner. I've never met her as an adult, but I'm told she's a stunning beauty, all dark hair and eyes. A woman much desired, perhaps an explanation for her three marriages before her brief union with my father.
I'm not sure exactly how those two came together, it's not a story my father has ever told and I never thought it appropriate to ask. But I know their union was short, ending with my mother abandoning me to him shortly after I was born. I was told that my mother was not the sort to raise a child and my father was not well prepared.
My earliest memories of childhood are all of my father, of spending time listening to him tell the old stories, tell of our family history. His sentiments were nostalgic, it was easy to tell he prefered a world long forgotten. I don't know how many years I spent with my father, learning his craft with poetry, trying to match his gift with horses, and of course learning the art of war. I know where we lived, on the verges of valhalla, time moved more slowly. Despite living apart from the outside world, my father remained aware of it's movements and finally reached a point wher he wished to draw away into the void entirely.
He told me that he could not justify taking me with him, could not bring himself to take me away without really experiencing life or humanity. As you would expect of a child, I wanted to go with him. He refused. Arrangements were made and in October of 1984, I stepped out of my father's world onto the very real and hard earth. I told you before, that while living with my father, time moved more slowly, so despite spending potentially decades learning from him, I appeared as a child of only five some years.
I was placed with the Henrik family, who were somewhat true to the old gods but they had no clue as to my origin, something my father cautioned me to keep silent. Needless to say, I found myself in complete culture shock, seperate from my family and the only home I'd ever known. The Henrik's home in Norway was somewhat similar to my father's home, but of course not the same. A small farm on the Fjords hardly compares to Odin's home.
I think my foster family didn't know how to handle me. I afterall didn't think it unusual for a child to speak like an adult. I quickly learned that it was just easier not to speak than it was to deal with their uncomfortable stares. School became an even greater challenge. In certain aspects I was worlds ahead of my classmates, in literature and language, especially ancient history. The sciences and math were a struggle, but at least the playing field was more even. I was noted as being very quiet and withdrawn, to the point it concerned the school conscelors. But what kind of conversation could I share with the average child when I had lived so many years amount the gods?
For several years I drew further into myself, existing in a world that survived only in my memory. I think I reached points where I was entirely detached from reality and the Henrik's consulted doctors who murmured the possibility of autism. The diagnosis wasn't necessarily true, I just couldn't adapt and relate which I suppose makes autism a reasonable conclusion. By the time I was nine, I'd fallen silent entirely. My foster family kept me in school thinking the interaction was beneficial to me. But my mind, decades older than my body, and much older than those around me, couldn't see the logic in trying to speak or share anything of myself.
When I was twelve, the Henriks gave up and took me out of school. Don't get me wrong, the Henriks are good people, but they weren't rich people and they couldn't afford the care of what they thought was an autistic child. They were forced to surrendure me to the government who in turn institutionalized me. I couldn't even explain the haze of medications my doctors put me through, I don't even know how long I spent existing in a stupor. I know when I turned seventeen, I finally found my outlet. For my birthday, or rather what they thought was my birthday but really just the day my foster family got me, one of my therapists brought me an old guitar. It seems that many believe that music is a good therapy for my condition and I think it was a last ditch effort.
The acustic guitar was old and really out of tune, but holding it just felt right. Within a few weeks I learned to play simple melodies and started to actually listen to modern music. By the time I was nineteen I could play beautifully and it was a release from the world of memories I'd taken to existing in. My mind finally grasped that music could be taken as fiction, especially the more outrageous lyrics. Finally, I could put down my memories and my history and talk about them in a way that was acceptable if not believable.
I think I actually sang my first song when I was twenty, much to the shock of both my therapists and other patients. I think they really believed that I was incapable of any form of speech and maybe I was starting to believe it for myself. Being able to put the truth down in lyrics made it easier to accept the world I had to live in. I won't tell you that it was an easy process, but I was able to find myself again, to orient myself and get a firm grip on reality and the world around me. Half the time I really felt like I was learning language all over again.
But by 21 I convinced the institution and the government to release me from their custody. I won't tell you that I'm entirely cured and capable of complete interaction with this world, but I do my best. I've used my music as an outlet, play for my own sake and on rare occassion for others. I've pursued a classical education in the arts, focused in music and even when as far as college. My education taught me better to adapt, to interact with people again. Although I can't say I'm the greatest conversationalist either.
How many years have passed since then? I'm sure you can count. It's not the years that matter, but the things I have learned from them. The new joy I can take in the world around me. Am I god among humans? I hate to consider something like that. I'm a person like you or anyone else around you. What I can do and how long I might live are regardless. I'm not sure if I have a purpose here in this world, but if I do I intend to find it. Do I plan on staying here for all eternity? Most likely not, some day I would like to be reunited with my father. But that day is long in the future...
