Norman looked rough. The only color to him was his blue tattoos. The black ink blended with the iron trinket necklace and big black wolf hide. The warriors set him gently down against a boulder, a great rock he had noted before, streaked with rust. Only here, in this sick dream, it was covered in moss. Its plush mossy sides were streaked with blood.

Two warriors had him dressed in a white wolf pelt, like Norman’s was black. The vest was laced and had a hood made of the animal’s head, the top part, which he could pull over and lace with a pull chord as a hood. The moccasins felt a lot better than his socks and shoes, lacing up to his calves.

He looked at One Ear, nodding to Norman, “Is he okay to move? I don’t want to stay here—it’s my fucking dream now. I’m moving.”

One Ear nodded up over the mountain, then made a side nod to the east, “We go, burn Sate Snake house.”

The man looked to Norman as the old dude dressed in owl feathers applied a salve to the listening port where his ear used to be. The look was negative.

“Oh, we’re not leaving him here!”

The old man spoke some gibberish. One Ear stood before him, a bit taller than he was, and spoke slowly, “Black Fenri no go be day—be moon.”

Looking at the sky shut out by the towering trees, Christos snarled, “Like there is a difference between the two in these damned woods?”

The man nodded to Norman, who was groaning, “Speak Black Fenri.”

Christos shoulder bumped the kid, as he noted the fellow must be about twenty. The punk took it as an honor and grinned, whispering to his fellows, “White Christos, White Christos…” They joined the chant, their tone lowering but continuing in a hissing chant as he neared Norman.

The three who had attended Norman backed away, hissing “Black Fenri, Black Fenri,” turning their backs towards the awesome tree of the hanging dead. The two chants syncopated in his ears as he stood over Norman, who looked up, pale as white ash, and grinned, “Half-white, anyhow, you damned Greek!”

“Oh, you get out of this funk, you’re gonna correct that when you tap.”

“I will,” grinned Norman, in obvious pain, “Back and forth: Ware Ago, Hel, Dare Gone—Heaven’s Hall closed, the World Tree felled and burned… it hurts, man.”

This was beginning to feel real, except, “I’m not thinking to myself anymore—this IS a fucking dream, Norman!”

Norman grinned, “No, our lives, in the Dare Gone—your world, was the dream of a slain race, mourning a chained Son of God. That’s why we had to talk to ourselves. Under the Lie, self-editing, that was the go to, the default setting for those of us who did not take the zombie programming…”

“You’re starting to sound like maniac Norman again.”

“I’m in touch with the sacred stone, how I was sent to you. Away from this I devolve into a myth, here, in the Ware Ago.”

“Okay, I’ve played enough video games. If I want to get out the other end of this damned dream, I play by the rules. What are the rules in this, your kook-storm dream?”

Norman chuckled, the men in the background continuing the “White Christos, Black Fenri” chant in low hissing tones.

“You have seen, as I have pointed out in the Dare Gone, that protestant doctrine leads directly to atheism. This began, with Luther on, with a strong desire for three things, to favor the Muslim over Catholic/Orthodox or Heathen, to convert the African, and to convert the remaining—can’t say their names here, bro. This is sacred ground; the usual suspects, the people who by doctrine do not speak or write the name of God—because their god is not Our God.”

“Bro, you’re a fucking heathen—going to Hell.”

Norman pointing to a brand on his breast bone, pulling aside the lace of the black wolf pelt, a cross, footed by a hammer and ax.

“Me, yes—my duty, Hell-scout. Our God is/was the same. Conversion of Godly pagans in the Satanic Roman empire took hundreds of years; much resistance. In Nordic regions, conversion took a generation or two. But the Synod of Satan had already infiltrated Orthodox and Catholic Churches at all levels.

“In 1070, a thousand years after the sacred grove of Sweden was blessed, it was cut and burned. It had been planted where the Nordic prophet hung himself, as a revolt against the financial world of the Synod. Synodians, with their usury and slave-driver money, were required to build churches and provide treasures… Why not just bless the grove and raise a cross in the middle? Why build cathedrals? Because these profane things, these temples, were raised to the money god of the Syndod, the god whose name they will not write or speak.”

“Okay, Norman, you are boring the shit out of me, again, and boggling my little brain. Get to it!”

“Christos, atheism only occurs under Synod and Protestant conditions. The further north you go in Europe, the quicker the conversion to Christianity—and the quicker the flip to secular humanism, to atheism, which is the centerpiece of Puritanism. The Synod worships evil, the snake, the coin. To gain power they need people who worship the material: money, machines, mechanisms—AI, man. Read Job, Mathew and Luke. Your world is Satan’s fief. Dante and Milton new—but your entire race has been programmed to forget.”

“So what, we are saving the world from AI, back here, in this dark age dream?”

“No, our—your world, is utterly lost. But there could be another world, a world where the Synod did not insert a consumptive substructure into Christian forms, a world where the Synod scribe behind the conversion of Norway did not replace Wotan with Satan, did not force Thor holdouts to swallow snakes; a world where the Synod did not found the Knights Templar, the Rosicrucions, the Frankists, the Masons, Great Britain, Corporations, America, all as fronts for Synod banks.”

“Get to it, I want out of this messed up mad genius dream of yours.”

“Christos, it is almost A.D. 1400. Henry, Baron of Roslin, Chief Justice of Scotland, Admiral… Jarl of Orkney, Lord de Sinclair, Templar, Mason, Synod agent, with the True Cross, Crown of Thorns, even the bones of the Mother Mary, that arch fiend, Founding Hell Father, is sailing up the Potomac to the Anacostia River, to bury the Synod Ark, Templar treasures, at what would become Arsenal Point. [1]

Pointing to the tree, “These, fine phenotypes staked to the last sprout of the World Tree, were an advanced team, Gothic/Norwegian, tasked with eradicating these holdouts fled from Norway, Iceland, Greenland. I can only move at night—I’ll catch up. From here, my articulation will degrade according to the distance from this stone.”

“What do we do?” frowned Christos.

“What have we always wanted to do? It’s a war, that chance at a Synod-free world in some other timeline, born here, today.”

Norman vomited a mixture of bile and blood and nodded his block head along the moss bloodied with his own life flow.

Christos turned as the others stopped their hymn. One Ear approached and spoke to him, “Light-the-Sky,” and nodded to the three men who had been chanting Black Fenri, “Black Fenri knives, hunt by night.”

“We,” he motioned to the three warriors, including the chest cleaved one, “trace White Christos, down Po-to-mac.”

He grinned, “I know the way. On me.”

The men hissed, “White Christos,” and followed him up the mountain, no switchbacks on this run, not with new knees again.

…

Notes

1.) This theory has but one adherent, the present author, -JL 7/24/26

,_D.C.