Death Shall Come On Swift Wings
"Death shall come on swift wings."
From those haunted lips, that Hellish alto voice snarled, striking a cold, piercing fear through the very souls of the...creature's enemies - for it could ne'er be called a man. The clouds rolled low and menacing, darkness sweeping over the entire place as of Death's shadow. Lightning and thunder flashed and split the air above them, and the howling of the wolves of war curdled the blood of every mortal.
"Upon the blades of ye mortal men lay congealing the blood of innocents," he spoke placidly with eyes closed, though his words seemed as though cradled by intangible fire from their womb and sharp as daggers as they plunged deep into the hearts of the fearful men. "Of mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, lovers, and even the bestial, all of whom have done no evil by you. Bathed in blood have you all. Reek of the foul stench of innocent death do you, as the souls of the dead that hang about your heads tell of your evil deeds. Ye shall feel the Judgement brought down upon thee by the great and wise, all-knowing Fenrir, god of Judgement and Righteousness as well as lord of all the lupine race.
"Against the chain of Gleipnir your soul will be tested," the creature went on, his voice still unaltered but for the direction to which fearing souls it was directed toward. "If thy soul be of noble quality, the blade I hold will snap only the chains you are bound in." As he said this, the mortals felt their bodies constrict in ethereal chains that bound them fiercely, cutting off breath and ceasing their movement but for their eyes. "You will then be brought upon to the land of the Ever-Free, where all of venerable root reside in the afterlife."
The immortal, who had been striding through their presence, now stopped, his eyes, as before, remaining closed. His voice, however, did not remain the same. "But if thy soul bear the dark root of corrupt, twisted evil..." he growled, a deeper, more primal octave drawn out upon the ears of the mortals, "my sword will cleave through your flesh, heart, and your malicious, black soul, and you shall feel the ageless, endless agony of all those against whom you have committed wrong. Thou wilt be denied the afterlife and will reside only upon the burning Plains of Hel as the warriors you have chosen to be, serving the armies of almighty Fenrir as he would see fit."
Slowly, almost as if the immortal were merely prolonging their sentence on purpose, he drew his sword. It was a glittering blade of a substance not of this Midgardian land, black as the skin of the Egyptian god Anubis himself, twice as long as a mortal man's leg from hip to foot and as wide as a man's forearm, with both edges sharper than any blade of this mortal plane. He smiled a fanged smile, the feel of the blade in his grip a comforting weight, like that of an old friend he had not seen in a long time. The scent of the fear in the hearts of the mortals pervaded his nostrils and he growled in delight, licking his lips with a thirst he craved to slake with the blood of these wicked beings.
"Tzar'rok, my friend," he said, holding the blade lengthwise as if offering it to Fenrir, himself. "Always you hath judged fair in my stead. Again I ask thee to deal justice in the name of the almighty one, our lord Fenrir."
With those words, he let drop his black robe to the ground, revealing a toned, sculpted body, covered in black fur, wearing only the crimson sleeveless tunic of the ethereal deities, tight and flush against his rippling abs and chisled pecs. The mortals drew breath in a collective gasp. They had never seen anything so beautiful in all their lives, for no mere mortal beauty compared to the celestial radiance of this one. But nothing could prepare them for what he did next.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the immortal opened his eyes, and his smile widened tremendously. What those mortal men saw in those eyes was something that no mortal ever lived to tell of. The mix of beauty incarnate and living nightmare within those endless eyes stripped the men of every bit of resistance or opposition they could have had, reducing them to mere bodies and souls with still-beating hearts.
But not for long.
The immortal slowly approached the first man, his expression completely stoic and placid, while the man's was of unadulterated terror and curiosity. He was surely wondering what death would feel like...he could see it in the depths of the mortal's mind.
"Grimnir Vethulf," he called out the man's name in that deadly octave, "thou art to be judged first of these men. In defense of thy soul and the actions of which thou hath committed in thine lifetime, how dost thou plead: righteous...or damned?" he questioned, a snickering, vicious grin on his lupine muzzle, a growl clawing its way through his fang-filled maw.
Grimnir cringed at the grin and the growl from the immortal, but clearly stated aloud, "I am righteous!"
The immortal silently chuckled inside. "So we shall see."
In a blur so fast that the men thought no time had passed at all between, the massive blade was swung clear through the chain and cleaved in that same, unaltered arc, a clear line down the middle of Grimnir's body. From the line, blood did not merely splatter the ground and the surroundings, it drenched. As if every drop of blood in the man's body had been concentrated right where the blade had carved the space, it flew back and practically coated every man behind the body in the grisly remains of their former comrade.
"Grimnir Vethulf," the immortal said without emotion, "...damned."
The other mortals now were shivering, each covered in blood, as the immortal turned his angelically demonic eyes upon them.
"Who's next?" he growled.
One by one, the mortals were called up by name and proclaimed themselves righteous, and one by one they were felled by the sword, each and every one damned, their blood further drenching their comrades and the ground upon which they had stood. One had even pleaded for mercy.
"By the gods, mercy, please, I beg of you!" the man had cried aloud at the top of his lungs, his eyes wide as he took in his final moments.
The immortal's eyes had not wavered, though his expression lost that smile for just a moment, becoming a truly emotionless mask of death, his eyes a pitiless pair of pits of despair. "Why?" he had responded in almost a whisper, then descended upon his body with the massive blade. That man's blood had flowed in even greater amounts upon the faces of his comrades, as if in a message to those who would beg for their lives.
Finally the immortal arrived at the last man, his body thoroughly covered in entrails and blood, which lent him a smile as he pronounced his name.
"Roran Iskryne," he growled out, his eyes looking into the eyes of a man who knew he was defeated and simply awaited his sentence. "Dost thou plead righteous, as thy comrades have, or damned?"
"Damned," Roran softly said, and the immortal's eyes widened slightly. An honest soul was rare, and an honest soldier's soul even more so. "I accept my fate. But before thou hath swung the blade to depart me from my life, I ask but one request."
An eyebrow raised from the immortal's eye. "A request? Of what could you possibly wish to know before your soul is damned to the Plains of Hel?"
"Your name."
The immortal actually backtracked a step in his surprise. He had not spoken his name to a mortal in over six millennia, but it was of no use to them, for they never lived to use the power of his name against him, to summon him or otherwise. He smiled slightly and nodded.
"Of time unending that I have lived, I have been called many names by many different races and species, among other things. The most appealing, I will admit, is that of the name Ulfrik Weylyn*, which, roughly translated into your language, means 'The Son of The Wolf Ruler.' And so I am, the son of our lord Fenrir, himself.
"May he be lenient upon thy soul," he growled, even as his sword came down upon Roran's head, cleaving him cleanly in two and drenching the already-saturated ground with more blood. The howls of the wolves upon the mountains cried out in pleasure as the blood flowed, and the rain began to fall, though it did not touch the celestial body of Ulfrik Weylyn, son of Fenrir and god of Judgement. He smiled as he sheathed Tzar'rok and pulled on his robe, his body fading into mist as the rain slowly began its attempt to wash away the blood.
"Peace be restored upon this place," were the words that hung in the air as the rain fell eliminated every trace of the immortal presence who had brought divine justice upon that place.
Note: * - - Ulfrik (ulf = wolf (Old German) + ulrika = wolf ruler (English)) Weylyn (the son of the wolf - (Celtic))
(The name is actually a slightly fudged, imagined version of these names that I found on a website long ago, so if it's somewhat incorrect in the translation, I'm sorry.)
Started 3/25/10 - Finished 3/28/10