Immortal Blood

	Mark Belt (Stars) Barren Realms Mud Part 4 Prophesy Fulfilled

And so it came to be that the veteran Brodgar sat back and relaxed for the first time since his late childhood. He quickly drained a tankard of ale and, after wiping the foam from his beard, he sighed in absolute contentment.

"This be my lot in life now," he said to his second tankard, "Aye, I think that I’ll get to be likin’ this."

The Great Warrior Brodgar settled down into an easy life of ale, stories, and merriment. One might think that he would have chosen otherwise. With all the acquired fame that his battle-won glory had bought him, he could have ruled the Mountain City. Indeed, with his power and armies of all races, he might have brought a new war to the Realms, a war of conquest. But Brodgar was tired of fighting, and he never wanted to rule anyone. Besides, he had just fought a long war with someone who liked to pick on the weak. Why would he want to repeat that? No, it was ale and song for Brodgar, and he would have had it no other way.

Not much is known of Brodgar during the remaining years of his mortal life (even he seems to have forgotten—I wonder if the mass consumption of ale had anything to do with that?). One thing that he was known to have accomplished, was the rebuilding of the ancient shrine in the ruined city. The stonework was rebuilt and the shimmering silver walls restored. It became a yearly pilgrimage for young dwarves to visit the shrine and worship their beloved goddess, and also to marvel at the renewed glory of the stonework.

Brodgar himself grew old in those years, and his once coal-black hair had turned gray-white with age. His beard grew so long, it was said, that he had to pick it up as he walked, otherwise he would have tripped. If he grew more than a bit round in the waist, then it didn’t really matter; he was happy. The only things that remained the same were his eyes; still as blue as a summer sky, they gleamed as he told stories to the youngsters, smiling as if the battles happened only yesterday.

Finally, at a ripe old age, Brodgar knew that it would soon be his time to move on. Indeed, he had lived longer than most. Perhaps it was the lingering effects of Mota’s Blood that gave him strength and kept him strong even into old age. Perhaps he was just too content drinking, laughing, and telling stories to leave this world yet. Whatever the reason, he knew that he had lived a bit longer than was normal. As if that realization set off a reaction, he suddenly became very ill. He was forced to stay in bed most of the day and the doctors proclaimed that he would soon go to rest with the Great Heroes of Legend.

During the final days, Brodgar thought more and more about that bright summer day when he saw the apparitions of his grandmother and father. It had happened so long ago that the old dwarf nearly forgot about it altogether. "Imagine that," he said to himself, "almost forgettin meetin me own dad an’ grandmother! Maybe I should go an take another visit to the ol ruins."

So Brodgar decided to take a final trip to the very same place that started it all.

Perhaps not so surprising, all the dwarves of the Mountain only nodded their heads when the plan was announced.

"Who be we to deny the Great Brodgar his last wish?" they asked themselves.

When the elderly dwarf stubbornly told everyone that he intended to go alone, a few were amazed. But all the dwarves knew that once the Mighty Brodgar made up his mind, there was nothing that anyone, not even an evil God of Chaos, could do to stop him.

Barely a whisper stirred the air that warm summer afternoon. The bright sun hung in a cloudless sky, a golden pearl in an ocean of blue. Peace was the word that best described that day in the Barren Realms. The atmosphere was pure tranquility, and it seemed as if nothing could have disturbed such perfect serenity. It was a time most suited for contented contemplation. And it was with regard to this sentiment that a city of mountain dwarves spent the day in a party of cheerful reflection.

It may be true that the underground community could neither see the vast expanse of blue sky nor could they feel the warmth of the smiling sun; but that gentle relaxing atmosphere pervaded even the darkest shadows of the deepest caverns. So it was that every dwarf was in the hall of his or her clan, happily discussing pleasant matters—such as the legendary Battle of the Goblin Storm—and told stories like, "Brodgar and the Dark Demon." If some of the over-enthusiastic warriors got a little too animated (only a few bloody noses and broken bones), then it could not be held against them; the peaceful sun was hidden far from view anyway. Still, every dwarf (even the injured wrestlers) thoroughly enjoyed that day with friends and kin. Every dwarf, that is, except one.

Brodgar wandered down the roads of the ancient city, now half grown over by the valley’s forest. His tired old limbs scrabbled through the dust as his once unequaled strength began to fade at last. He hummed a quiet song to the few animals that periodically joined him on this, his last journey. He made a feeble attempt to kick a pebble at a squirrel that was chattering at him. All he managed was to scatter a little dirt, but the squirrel seemed to think it might be rude to make too much fun of the elderly dwarf, so he squeaked in what seemed to be mock-fear, and then skittered off. Brodgar snorted through his beard and kept struggling on down the road.

Finally he came to the very spot where he had met his grandmother and father so many years ago. He stared at the spot and tears formed in his eyes. "It be a long time ago, since I seen you, grandmother," he said. "And father, I hope ye still be proud of me." Then he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "Look at me, all fallin’ to pieces an’ such. An ol’ fool I be. Well, I’ll be seeing all me ol’ kin soon enough."

As if summoned, the air shimmered in front of the venerable dwarf, and a familiar dwarven woman appeared. Next to her stood a great warrior, and on his arm was Brodgar’s beautiful mother.

The old dwarf could only stare, his eyes two mirrors of the azure sky.

"Brodgar," his grandmother called to him, "now is the time for you to fulfill your destiny."

He only shook his head in wonder. "I already did so, didn’t I?" he asked.

"Not so, my son," his mother said as she stroked the whiskers on her chin, "you only fulfilled half of the prophecy. You were a great leader in the world, and you have great power and majesty."

Khardan nodded in agreement. "That’s right, me boy," he said. "Ye forgot that part about the Blood of the gods. ‘And to the gods you will return!’ Ye remember now?"

"I don’t understand," Brodgar murmured. "I have lived a long time. Surely there be no more to ask of me…"

"Ah, but there is, me lad, there is."

"Wait! Don’t go!"

But it was too late. His grandmother, mother and father all disappeared as silently as they had arrived, the smiles on their faces expressing their love and pride.

Then the aged dwarf found himself surrounded by other figures. Beings of indescribable beauty, some clothed in light, others in darkness, but all with welcome joy in their eyes and smiling faces.

"We are the immortals," one of them said. "In your veins flows the blood of the gods, venerable dwarf. Now your destiny is fulfilled, as Corra had prophesized. You have been carefully watched. Though you had been treated poorly, you did not become bitter; though you were small, you did not begrudge others; and when you had grown strong, you did not take advantage of the weak. It has been decreed that you will join us this day."

New life flowed into the ancient dwarf as he found himself imbued with the same divine light that enveloped those around him. He smiled and took one last glance at the Mountain of his birth.

"Good bye," he said and was surprised by the power and beauty of his own voice. "I have served thee long enough. Now the entire world be my charge."

And so the Great Brodgar took his place among the immortals of the Barren Realms.