Valhalla Calling (an ode to Assassin's Creed)

I.
I knew him.
Not as the ravens knew,
from far above,
but near—
by his shadow,
by the blood he washed from his hands
when no one watched.

They call him wolf-kissed,
axe-born,
breaker of kings.
But I knew the silence he carried
like a wound.

II.
He came from frost.
And left it wherever he passed.
Not cold in soul—
but shaped by it,
as iron is shaped by flame.

He laughed like thunder,
and mourned like stone—
quiet, unyielding,
until the crack ran deep enough
to sing.

III.
The gods took notice.
Odin whispered in his ear,
or perhaps he was Odin—
it matters little.
When your fate coils like a serpent
around your neck,
you stop asking
whose voice speaks in the dark.

IV.
We raided together,
and built from ruin.
He sowed no peace,
but he made space for it.
He built not for glory,
but to give others a roof
before the storm returned.

And it did return.
It always does.

V.
They say he walked west,
beyond the whale-road,
where even the gods blink
and lose their names.

I do not know what he found.
But I know what he left.

A name not spoken with fear,
but with fire.
A path not paved in gold,
but in choices made
when no one else would choose.

And when I speak of him now,
I do not cry.
I drink.
And I remember.
And I wait—
for the longboat
that will take me the same way,
past the edge of this world
into whatever he saw
with that quiet, stormbound heart.