For years the throne had been empty, the halls had been without use. After Ragnarok it had been hard enough to survive and no one had dared to claim the title, nor had a king been needed.Â
But now the prince had returned and people had cheered for him and no one had asked any questions when Baldr took the throne. It was, after all, what he was born to do. It was his right and his burden.
When the new king rose, the court fell to their knees and Clint's eyes left the face that he had longed to see for so many years to bow his head and bare his neck.
Hard eyes looked over that scattered crowd, that coronation of necessity that came from this ruined world. A king out of force, for who else could think of stepping to the ruined throne, it's golden wings crumpled and decoration molten from the intense fires that had swept in Ragnarok's wake.
A dead king on a ruined throne. It was a pitiful show of what this life would be.
Yet there was no-one else. Magni and Modi, so war-filled, victory screaming in their veins from having lived, having this land to call their own and not the shadows, even they were not fit for it yet. Not while Mjolnir was divided between them, not while death was so close to their doorstep each night.Â
They needed someone who knew the taste of the end well. Who would push through the blackness in a hope of some light, for he knew what lay in the shadows, and feared them no more. They needed a draugr, a spirit of vengeance to claim Gungir in clawed, dry hands, and lead them to life.
And so he looked to those who swore loyalty, knowing they could, they would do no else. For he was the lesser evil than what lay in that wilderness. He was the snarling beast that stood on their ground, and tore chunks from the evil that so lingered from the Ragnarok. They bowed to a monster, in hopes that he would not turn in madness and destroy them all.
