A bit dazzled by his own doing, Tyr stood leaned against a tree, his spear tugged under his arm, and stared at the blood that covered his fingers.

His fathers blood.

His gaze jumped to the side to check on the old god that lay on the ground, covered in dark stains. His eye was tightly shut but his rest rose and fell gently.

He was still alive.

Tyr had not managed to kill his own father. Perhaps it was just his way of rebelling against fate but he still stood strong on his decision to not fight a war.

He did not desire violence for it only led to more violence until one part of the conflict wasn't able to respond with violence anymore.

And maybe, just maybe, there was also a small part in the back of his heart that wanted to hold onto the love that he had for his father.

Because as much as he despised it, Odin was still his father. He had made him, had taken part in giving him life.

Tyr owed him some sort of decency. And if not that, at the very least, respect.

His fingers were tightly wrapped around that small thing that slumbered in the palm of his hand. It felt slimy, almost like the saliva of a dying man that wanted to squeeze itself through the gaps of his fingers.

The eyeball of his father.

Odin had things that were indeed more powerful than his eyes. His spear for example. Or the mind that was so evil and corrupted that even Tyr couldn't find a good thing about it.

What a strange feeling it was.

It was a damaged eye, a pawn in exchange for knowledge about the Allfather's own destiny. It could have been used as a form of payment, a sacrifice to unknown powers.

Perhaps lady Freya would have been able to restore the eyesight with her healing abilities.

But now there was nothing to give no more. Odin wouldn't be able to give away his other eye, it would make him go blind.

He was too vain to take this drastic step. Even though he was insane he wasn't careless.

His limbs weren't fit to be given away. It would make him more defenceless and he would hate that.

If he was honest, the god of war wasn't even sure what he was supposed to do with that eye. It could be used to pressure Odin into leaving him and you alone.

But it also could backfire horribly.

"It would be wiser to get rid of it...", Tyr mumbled to himself and looked at his fathers motionless body once again to check if it was safe to turn his back on him.

It would have been so much better for many to just kill him. But he just couldn't bring himself to do it. It was ridiculous, almost pathetic.

But despite all his common sense he turned away and started to walk off.

A cold breeze caressed the leaves of the trees, the long grass wrapped around his toes.

Something seemed to lurk in the back of his neck. Like a starving animal that wanted to jump from the shadows to tear its prey apart.

Again and again Tyr caught himself how he threw a glance over his shoulder just to make sure that nothing followed him.

Never before had he felt this unsure on a battlefield before. He was war, he lead battles.

So why did it feel like it wasn't over yet?

"How foolish a man can be.", a voice suddenly echoed through the forest. "A god of war. A man with so much ignorance."

Tyr stopped in his tracks.

Was his mind playing tricks on him?

He looked up.

The sky was still blue. The clouds still passed by in the colour of snow. Sunlight shone on his face.

It was warm but not unpleasantly hot.

No, he could have sworn that he had heard a voice. His fathers voice.

Or perhaps just his own?

But that would have meant that he was insane. Just like Odin.

What a strange thought.

It made him huff with amusement. Yet there was this bitter aftertaste on his tongue.

"Foolish...", he mumbled to himself.

Again, his eyes wandered across the landscape.

Trees. Nothing but trees and green.

Like a maze.

Something wasn't right.

With his eyebrows drawn together, the god of war looked down on himself. His hand was still clenched into a fist, covered in blood that dripped down onto his bare feet.

It still felt like he held something.

His clothes were just the way he had left the fight, torn, stained with his own blood.

Whenever he breathed he could feel the wounds in his flesh burn like they had been sprinkled with salt.

Everything was real.

Or at least so he thought.

"Are you... playing one of your games again?", it suddenly slipped off his lips.

The gold of his eyes darkened. Now they almost seemed like stones rather than magical orbs that had been made by the best of craftsmen.

"Ignorance has always been your biggest weakness.", the voice replied without answering the original question. "Some say you got it from me. But I would say it came from your delusion."

"I've tried to show people just how much more there is."

"More than the gods that you've been born with? More than the ones that are supposed to be worshipped?"

"More than Ragnarök. More than winters and the fur of bears.", Tyr opened his hand to have a look at the eye, believing that it was the source of the voice.

His eyes widened.

Struck by surprise, he let his fingers stretch all the way, blood ran them down. His hand was empty.

All he could see was red.

His gaze wandered down on himself. He was also covered in blood.

But this amount couldn't have come from the single eye he had taken. Not even gods bled this much.

Unless they were fatally wounded.

And he was. To his confusion, he was covered in cuts and wounds. More than he remembered he had suffered.

"What?", he asked as he fell to his knees, struck by pain.