[ Even know he holds them, his vicious and brutal gods, even after all they had done to him, all that they had denied him. His heart still beats for Odin, for Thor, for Freyja, his hand still servants to their wills silent as they are. Long have they abandoned him, he figures, but still sacrifices are made and prays are whispered in the dead of night, unable to abanond them as he did so many others. There is little else to hold onto.

The man scoffs, amused, leaning back on his chair one hand anchoring so not to fall while the other remains still inside his jacket, fingers pressed tight to cold metal. ]

No, he fashioned himself nothing more than a man, a king. People whispered him to be a god, or the son of a god, but he bled as they did, wept as they did. Only... [ Again he shifts, leaning forward once more, voice lowering to a more solemn tone. ] He was doomed to wander as others passed to the great halls of Valhalla.

Do you think that to be holy?