Blót
Sessrúmnir, in the fields Of Asgard
Freya kept looking at the new godi trough her mirror-water. Though his way of persuading the king might not have been the most fine and eloquent, but it certainly worked, the God had to admint. He was an extraordinary human. Odin had made a good choice.
Right now, she could see the thoughts of the old man as he lay on his back.
"What if the king takes my head for my actions? What of all the knowledge I have bee enthrusted with? What of all those unsung songs I know? What of the Old World? Something must be done!"
She saw what actions he would take now. She knew trough those mirrors that view all that there were many priests in Uppsala, and in all of Svealand who doubted the Nameless One, and were always searching to fill the void the departure of the Aesir and Vanir left in their hearts. Bureus would need to search them out. Freya decided to help him. And hopefully, the Cloaked One would help as well. Those ravens could deliver messages into the hearts of Man very effectively, she had to admit, remembering the many bets and games she had played with Oden.
Time flows in strange way where the Gods walk, for the next thing Freya saw happened many a day later in the World Of Man.
Bureus gathered some of the finest of the warriors around him. All of them knew something of magic, and of the runes, some of them would eventually become godis and guardians of knowledge when the old man would be feasting with her, or with Hel, only the Norns know, and they do not tell.
He told them of many things, of their duty to train some of the finest of the kings men, so they may stay in Uppsala, of their new quarters in the city, of all those everyday and menial things that life consists of when one moves, and of things only to be whispered, of things to come, of the gratness of the Aesir returning, and of the first steps towards this. Then, he led them into the temple of Uppsala.
Deep inside the age-old crypts that spawn underneath the temple like a spider-web, forgotten by those alive, and only inhabited by those who do not talk anymore in tounges understandable to man, those whose bodies have long withered away to nothing but dust, whose souls have despite this not found their freedom, becouse the pearly gates reject them, and the Halls Of Hel are closed to them as well, those, who converse in tounges that sound like leaves falling down, like wind blowing, like the night and like darkness, a few living made their way ever deeper into the earth. At their helm was a man of many a year, clad in robes fit for a renessaince kaballist, but with a heart of an old godi.
After three long hours, spent in the utter darkness of this strange place between life and death, they arrived in the deepest crypt. Bureus remembered this place, and so did the Godess who watched him. It was the place where the most sacred stone from the Great Temple was hidden from the christians. Bureus remebered it for other reasons, as this was the spot one of his old teacher took him for a lesson on the runes. He did not see the need for such a journey then, but he saw it now. He hated the journey even more than he did when he was young, though.
The man surrounded the stone in silence, and one of them opened the sack they carried with them, producing the badly beaten body of a whining cut-purse from it.
Freya could hear his cries, echoed by the empty halls, stirring the dead from their eternal conversations, and ensuring that the thiefs soul would have a very uncomfortable journey into the Halls. For he would be killed in a minute, Freya knew. She could already feel the energy of the ritual streaming up the Great Ash, filling her with power. She heard the steps of other Aesir in her hall. So, they felt it too. Very well then, she said to her guests, and bid them a seat and a mirror-water without taking her eyes of her own, only gesturing with her hand.
The ritual continued. All Aesir and Vanir felt the power of age-old, almost forgotten chants slowly make their way up from the plane of Midgard to the Home Of The Gods. They all heard the death-scream of the thief, they all felt his warm blood splattering the moss-and-web-covered stone, they all felt Bureus' hand smearing the warm blood all over the stone, while the selected warriors continued to chant prayers to them.
And then, they did their part of the ritual. The Ash shook at the power they sent back into the stone, making it almost glow with energy and heat shimmering, holy radiance. A loud thunderbolt hit the top of the Church, melting the cross upon it into a hammer-shape, and a new sproutling began to grew on the filed where the Old Ash Of Uppsal stood manyyears ago. The Old Temple had been restored.
Having done their part, the men in the mirrors took up the stone, and left the rotting corpse of the cut-purse behind. The carried the stone all they way trough the crypt, the deathless souls passing before them, and sighing almost audibly, for now, they were finally allowed into the Halls Of Hel. As they reached the inner church, they hid the stone under the main altar. Some of them wanted to tear down the markings of the Nameless God and of White Christ, but the time was not yet right, so Bureus told them. The Gods would, for now, only whisper into the hearts, not speak with the thunderous voice they used to.
And deep in the shadows, a rat scurred away quickly, unseen by the mirror-waters
Freya was proud of this mortal. He had alone achieved what would take weaker man many lifetimes. Now, there was time to feast, again. She bid all her guests to stay, and offered them the finest wine she had made from the fruits of Iduna in many a century.
Deep inside his cave, Loki was smiling with a crooked, plotting smile.