Odin walked. He had been walking for a long time. He knew now, what he hadn’t wanted to believe. From his throne he had seen it, both with the eye he still had, and the one floating in Mimir’s well. His two ravens, Hugin and Munin had whispered it in his ears for centuries. He had to go there, he had to see it up close.
He had walked between humans, wandered among them. He had travelled through the whole of Midgard, asked, investigated. It was just as bad as he had feared.
His name was still there. Some old tales, some poems from lost times. Some people named their children after him, others abused his name in their fight for power, in their struggle for their right to repress others. There had been a time when he would have enjoyed that, maybe even feel honoured, but now he didn’t care. They did’t believe. To them he was nothing but another word. Just another dead god in history, a symbol from past times.
-Well, at least I will have less to worry about, Odin thought. -The world of men is no longer my concern.
It would feel good to come home. Now all he had to do was to drink wine until Ragnarok arrived. At least that would be something to look forward to.