The emo norseman

In the depths of the darkness didst the Hero look upon his own gaze, meeting the stark eyes starring out of the stark gaze. He didth ponder the reflection before him. His sinews flexing with each breath didst his despair know no bounds, for he was inconsolable. He didst stand at the peak of the mountain that straddled the world, for naught was there left to conquer. The gods of old, who’s passing the mighty warrior had striven to accomplish had left him bereft of passion. For he who had grown from only a babe, with stories a plenty of injustice and immorality inciting the very foundation of all he based himself upon, and drove himself to learn and grow and fight until he hadst ridden all such things from the land; Gods, demons, villains, monsters. They had all fallen to his mighty conquests. Although his name and verse were now so solidly intertwined, he hath no joy from his name being passed as the breath of the wind throughout the world. This was not what hath driven his mighty stature throughout the years of lore. It was the challenge, the struggle, the act of defiance in the face of terror and that which was wrong. It was the indeterminate will to continue that had brough him here!

For he had set himself task. Whenst he had found that, as a young man the wrongs which he hath seen, perpetuated against the innocent in his home town, eradicated, by sinew, strength and cunning, didst set himself a second, the goal the same, but now the place he didst consider his home did expand. Did his influence upon the world grow, Uutil now, the area that was his home had straddled the world. Beneath his feet didst the world tremble and tumult as did his mind. For as much as he didst love the accomplishment and that which he had achieved didst he wish for more. Alas there was no more. Evil had been ended. The remaining challenges he couldst find in this world were swim the longest river, traverse the greatest desert, find the fruit the gods did plant of infinity and wisdom. All these he had done. The last stood beneath his feet, he hath climber the world mountain. The birthplace and rudder of the world, which didst sit in its shadow. Unstatisfying was the sensation that no truly great challenges and tasks were left. A hero, without which to continue to be a hero.

Gazing in the wall of ice, he saw his eyes, cunning and fierceness had been replaced with drawn and introspection. He reached forth his mighty digits breaking before him, icicles like those he had driven into the massive eyes of the hydra as he unblocked the river of ages righting the balance of the underworld, and with a slight twist didst he break it from its root. Grasping the now free dagger of ice, didst he catch his gaze again. This gaze he did keep as the freezing sharpness of the ice was drawn over the taut muscles covering the inside of his wrist with agonizing slowness and intense pressure.

Crimson staining the summit astride the world, did the savage intensity of the Hero, who had set so many legends of justice and triumph in his wake stare into the glassy gaze until the last drop of life, left those eyes.

Emo norse poetry? What do you all recon. I think it wasn’t norsey enough?