THE TENTH BOOK OF SLAUGHTER
10 Slaughter 1:1-3
Unto Hel
Of the runes of the gods and the giants' race, through the nine underworlds He came, to Niflheim beneath, beyond the gates of Hel. The home where dead men dwell. And she, the eponymous overseer, the goddess of Death, representing the horrors of slaughter and decay, grotesque in appearance, adorning the severed corpses of children upon her being. Yet, for all this, she receives their ardent devotion, as they approach her as a son approaches a mother.
He sits alone in His simple home, consciousness coming and going, as the machinations of Ragnarok race through his mind. His preparations were not made hastily. Retrieving Thorwald's Cross and Skarpaker Stone only further ensured the fruition of His prophecy.
And amongst men, none have yet been spared. The King had been wounded, crippled in the wake of the Great War in the heavens. Yet, He is not foolish. To believe that The King would submit posthaste so as to avoid war had not crossed His mind. He afforded the vain option to The King knowing well that submission without war would not come to pass. For it had been written that the gods received warning of the impending upheaval, yet turned an insubordinate eye, and thus, war followed closely behind.
The unbridled fury bestowed upon Derek Jacobs served as adequate foreshadowing of the torment that awaited The King. The looming stipulations were of little importance, the result would not waver based on the lot casting of The King's subjects.
His eyes are heavy, yet consciousness has not departed. The familiar crowing of the sooty red rooster encompasses his ears as it had several times before. The shrieking of the otherworldly bird, signaling that She awaited as The Angel of Death trods down from his worldly haven.
The plummeting had become commonplace to Him, no longer did He experience the foreign sense of fear that was present when He was first grabbed from within the darkness of the factory when She beckoned for the first time.
Through the lush fields of Folkvangr, where the unchosen labor, querying Odin for their rightful seat in Valhalla, yet relegated to roam in irrelevancy for the rest of eternity. Their weary heads turn to gaze at the passerby, unaware that He is as much their Redeemer as he is Redeemer of the gods.
Plunging deeper, into the eighth world, just beyond the royal hall of Hel, called Niflheim, or Mist World. The winds are fierce against His skin, blistering the molecules of His human form. The Frost Giants groan at the presence of a foreigner, yet recognize His presence from prior passages. Crossing the confluence of the nine frozen rivers, He can sense the closeness to the heavy wrought gates.
She appears from beyond the frozen mist, secluded by the gates which have entrapped Her since the dawn of time. Beneath the third root of the World Tree, she rules over the halls of those deceased by natural causes or old age or intolerable cruelties. The deafening cries of torment and agony emitted from the forsaken wastelands beyond the gates rattles the heavy wrought bars, yet She stands in a grotesque serenity, gazing upon Her chosen one as He approaches through the mist.
Hel: Welcome home, my son.
Slaughter: Above here, they say that home is where the heart is. Where then do the heartless take up residence?
Hel: Now is not the time to be coy. I trust that the preparations have been made according to my wishes?
Slaughter: They have. The King is wounded and on the defense. He has been warned of the impending upheaval, yet turns a blind eye in ignorance. His armies are assembled, yet not truly aware of the magnitude of war that awaits them.
Hel: Ah, how Odin shall fall at our hands.
Slaughter: The King shall fall by my hand alone.
Hel: Hold your tongue, mortal, lest you forget who dragged you out of the darkness of your pathetic mortality and afforded you the opportunity to become a god.
Slaughter: I do not seek to become a god. I seek liberation from eternities of injustice, I seek decimation of the jester King and all of his subjects, but most importantly, I seek a world born anew.
Hel: There is no room for your longings here. You have been enlisted to carry out my plan!
Slaughter: Ah, your plan. The plan that you constructed through the ages while rotting behind these bars?
Hel: When the heavens fall, so too shall these gates of imprisonment. And upon the ruined world shall we ascend, to rebuild it anew, under my rule.
Slaughter: In the wake of my destruction, there shall be no rulers.
Hel: You are in no position to make demands!
Slaughter: This is no demand, this is prophecy. Within the Book of Slaughter, it is written that when the preparations have been made, Ragnarok is unavoidable. And in the wake of the Great War, as above, so below. Once Garth Black is destroyed, the path to the heavens shall be paved in fire, and so shall The Angel of Death ascend, to commence war.
Hel: Do not speak to me about what is written! Do you not fear your own entrapment within these gates?
Slaughter: I do not fear.
Hel: Such a presence commanded by a mere mortal who is inches away from eternal imprisonment.
Slaughter: The imprisonment of My soul was begotten long before you summoned Me here. Perhaps it is you that should tread softly, Queen of the Damned, for at the hour of reprisal, neither god nor mortal shall be spared, whether in the heavens above, or the pits below.
Hel: Your blasphemies shall never take shape! You shall be slain by the mighty Odin and relegated to an even more intolerable eternal suffering than your mortal mind can fathom. You will carry out my plan, and you will deliver Odin's golden shield to me so that I may rule over the fallen world, just as we had discussed. Or, you will spend eternity under the rule of my hand, not in a free world, but in this prison of sin.
The Serpent emerges from within his mortal tomb, enveloping his host inside his swollen scales. In a swift motion, The Serpent plunges His head through the bars, delivering a blow to the midsection of the enraged goddess. She bends at the waist from the impact, staggering, nearly down to one knee, as The Serpent slithers out of reach and retracts into human form.
Slaughter: Stagger behind your captive gates, Queen, for soon, you too shall kneel at the feet of your Redeemer.
Hel's rage fills the underworlds with an overwhelming force. Amdist the chaos, The Angel of Death slowly paces away. Gone are the chills from the frozen plains of Niflheim as the Frost Giants cower behind the mountains so as to avoid Him. The grasses of Folkvangr lay on their sides, imparting a path through which He walks. Ascending back to the mortal world, having professed to destroy every known realm and all beings within.
Garth Black holds more importance than he could ever fathom. For upon his fallen shield, the Great War commences. The world to which he has returned is vastly different from the one he departed, and as such, terror shall reign supreme over his will, and the will of all, mortal and eternal. As above, so below, the Redeemer has come.
