Silent Gods

Askel didn't know how long he'd been listening to the same song.

The headphones were warm. The room was dark. New York was noisy outside the window — a constant, dense noise, without pauses, as if the city had never learned the meaning of the word silence.

Askel knew that meaning.

He knew it too well.

The rune on his back was cold. Not freezing — cold. Like the glass of a window in winter. Like the hand of someone who's no longer there. Like everything you can't touch without feeling wrong.

He didn't touch it. Didn't look at it. He left it alone.

The guitarist's voice filled his ears like water rising slowly. Askel closed his eyes.

He'd known that song since he was fourteen. He'd listened to it hundreds of times — on the bus, in his room in Copenhagen, on nights when beer wasn't enough and music was the only thing holding the pieces together. He'd always felt it as something beautiful and distant. A song about others. About people who felt lonely.

Not about him.

Askel didn't feel lonely. Askel felt empty. There was a difference — loneliness presupposed there was something to fill. Emptiness was more honest. Emptiness didn't wait for anything.

But that night — that night in New York, in that room that smelled of detergent and cold coffee, with the sound of the city coming through the cracks in the window — the song sounded different.

Askel opened his eyes.

The ceiling was white. Anonymous. Without cracks, without stains, without anything that made it real. It looked like the ceiling of a place that didn't know it existed.

He thought of his mother. Of Ingrid sitting in the kitchen with the empty table in front of her. Of that house that had stopped being a home the day they left — first Thora, then him. A house without the people who live in it is just four walls and a roof. A container. A form without content.

He thought of Thora. Was she okay? Was she sleeping? Was she listening to something too, to not hear the silence?

Probably not. Thora didn't need music to survive silence. Thora was the silence.

He thought of Birkir. His father. The man who had raised him without ever telling him the truth. The man who had loved his mother enough to carry an enormous secret his whole life without ever collapsing. Three years since he died. Three years and still sometimes Askel turned to tell him something and remembered.

He remembered and then didn't say anything to anyone.

The rune on his back pulsed.

It wasn't pain. It wasn't heat. It was something subtler — like a word you're about to say and then don't. Like the feeling of being watched by something you can't see.

Askel didn't move.

He let the song end. Then start again. Then end again.

Outside, New York never stopped. Sirens. Horns. Voices in languages he didn't understand. A city of eight million people, each convinced their noise was necessary, each convinced their pain was unique.

Maybe they were right.

Maybe every pain was unique. Maybe loneliness couldn't be shared — you could only stand next to someone and hope their loneliness didn't make too much noise next to yours.

Askel had no one next to him in that moment.

And for the first time — not because he was sad, not because he wanted someone, but simply because it was true — he understood that this was the loneliest day of his life.

Not the hardest. Not the most painful.

The loneliest.

There was a difference. And that night, with the warm headphones on his ears and the cold rune on his back and New York screaming outside the window, Askel finally understood what it was.

Loneliness wasn't the absence of others.

It was the moment you stop expecting them to come.

The song started again for the fifth time.

Askel closed his eyes.

And waited for it to pass.

---

The song ended.

The silence lasted a second.

Then Askel changed tracks.

The guitar was different. Dirtier. More distorted. A sound that asked no permission. The voice was lower, rougher — a voice that spoke of someone who wasn't as smart as he thought he was, who did stupid things, who was afraid of being wrong.

But it wasn't a sad song.

It was a song that knew it was a song, and didn't give a damn about pleasing anyone. A bit like him.

Kurt sang. He talked about being stupid. About being a desperate case. About making people laugh when he tried to be funny.

Askel listened.

And for the first time in hours, he didn't feel alone. He felt understood. Not because the song was about him — it was about someone who wasn't him, who had never made the same choices, who had never killed anyone. But it was about feeling out of place. About feeling wrong. About doing everything you could and never being enough.

Askel closed his eyes.

The smoke. The beer. The music. Copenhagen. The rune on his back. Höðr's blood. Thora's voice saying "don't do it". Piper's voice saying "you're too far away".

All the people he'd met. All the people he'd lost. All the people he'd never had the courage to look for.

Was he stupid? Maybe. Maybe it was stupid to have chosen the darkness. Maybe it was stupid to have killed Höðr. Maybe it was stupid to think he could go back and do things right.

But the song didn't judge him.

The song was just there. Like a hand reached out that expected nothing in return. That offered no answers. That only offered its presence.

Askel turned down the volume.

The noise of New York came back. Sirens. Horns. Voices. The city that never stopped.

His voice was a whisper.

"Today is the loneliest day of my life."

It wasn't sad. It was a statement. Like looking at the sky and saying "it's going to rain". Like touching the rune on his back and saying "it's cold".

The headphones were still warm on his ears. The song kept playing. The city kept screaming.

He only heard the music.

And for the first time since he'd killed Höðr, he wasn't trying to forget. He was trying to remember. He was trying to understand.

And he had no answers.

But for the first time, he didn't care.

---

Askel didn't hear the door open.

He only heard the sound of the city changing — as if something had come between him and New York, as if a body had interposed itself between his room and the world.

Then he smelled it.

Mint. Something sweeter. Something that smelled like Piper.

He opened his eyes.

She was on the threshold. Her hair was short, shaved on one side. The tattoo on her neck climbed up to her jaw. Her eyes were dark, and they looked at Askel as if they were reading him.

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"You didn't answer your phone," she said.

Her voice was a blade. A blade that cut through the silence.

Askel didn't answer.

Piper entered. Closed the door behind her. The noise of the city faded, as if the room had decided to protect them.

Askel looked at her.

Piper did something simple.

She took off her hoodie.

The movement was slow, almost ceremonial. As if she were taking off something she no longer needed. The hoodie fell to the floor. Then her shirt. Then her jeans.

She remained in her underwear and bra. Her skin was pale, marked by tattoos Askel had never seen.

Askel looked at her.

Piper approached the bed. Lay down beside him. Her body was warm. Her scent was stronger now.

Piper took his headphones. Plugged them into her phone. Searched for a song. Found it.

The first notes were a clean guitar, almost transparent. A note that repeated itself, like a question that found no answer. Then the voice — low, hoarse, tired. A voice that spoke of apologies. Of everything that had been done and couldn't be repaired.

The sound was different from the other songs. It wasn't anger. It wasn't distortion. It was an admission. A surrender. The voice of someone who had stopped fighting and decided to tell the truth.

Askel closed his eyes.

The song spoke of someone who had tried to be what others wanted. Who had done their best, but their best was never enough. Who had apologized for being what they were, because being what they were was never enough.

Piper pressed against him.

Her body was warm against his side. Her head was resting on his shoulder. Her breathing was slow, steady, as if she were listening to the same song with the same closed eyes.

"You don't have to apologize for being who you are," she said.

Her voice was a whisper. A whisper that blended with the song.

Askel didn't answer.

The song continued. The chorus was simple — almost a prayer. The words spoke of someone who had done wrong and didn't know how to fix it. Who had hurt the people they loved. Who had tried to be better, but every attempt had failed.

Askel thought of Höðr. Of the blood on his hands. Of the body splitting in two. Of the blind man's smile as he died.

He thought of Thora. Of his sister who had watched him walk away. Of her eyes as she said "don't do it".

He thought of Piper. Of the girl who had entered his room, who had undressed, who had lain down beside him without asking for anything. Who had taken his hand and taken him to the concert. Who had kissed him in the dirty bathroom of an East Village bar.

Was it all wrong? Was it all right? He didn't know.

But the song didn't ask for answers. The song only asked to be heard.

The song ended.

The silence lasted a second. Then another.

Askel opened his eyes.

"Did you hear it?" Piper asked.

"Yes."

"What did you hear?"

Askel looked at her. His eyes were tired, but not empty.

"That I can't fix what I broke," he said. "But I can stop apologizing for being who I am."

Piper smiled. A tired smile, but real.

"Then you're on the right track," she said.

Askel looked at her.

"Why are you here?"

Piper looked at him. Her eyes were two pools of light.

"Because you're alive, Askel. And I want you to stay that way."

Askel closed his eyes.

The song was over. But the silence was no longer empty.

It was full.

Full of Piper. Full of warmth. Full of something he didn't yet know how to name.

But that he didn't want to lose anymore.

---

They stayed lying down, her body against his side, her head on his shoulder. The phone had fallen on the mattress, the headphones dangling like an anchor that had stopped looking for the bottom.

Piper lifted her head.

"Does the TV work?" she asked.

Her voice was a whisper, but it was a whisper that cut through the silence.

Askel opened his eyes. Looked at her.

"I don't know," he said.

"How can you not know?"

"I never watch it."

Piper snorted. It wasn't a snort of mockery. It was a snort of someone who had just realized they had to do everything themselves.

She got up. Her body left the bed with a fluid, feline movement. The tattoos on her skin seemed to move in the half-light — the serpent climbing up her thigh, the bird spreading its wings on her shoulder. Rhea had done divine work on her body.

She looked around.

The room was small. A bed. A wardrobe. A desk. A window overlooking a courtyard. And in a corner, forgotten, covered by a hoodie that hadn't been worn in months, a television.

Piper saw it. Looked at it as if she'd just discovered a forgotten treasure.

"Fuck, there's the remote," she said.

Piper approached the television. It was an old model, one of those you don't see in stores anymore. The screen was thick, the remote was black and worn, the buttons were worn as if someone had pressed them millions of times in another life.

She turned it on.

The screen lit up. It wasn't broken.

A faint hum filled the room. Then an image — a movie that had already started. A man in a room. A woman entering. There was no music. There were only words.

Piper sat on the edge of the bed. Looked at it.

"It's not broken," she said.

Askel didn't answer.

He looked at her. The light from the television reflected on her face.

---

It was a city that had never known the sun.

Rain. Always rain. A black, low sky that seemed to want to crush everything. Skyscrapers that loomed like the fingers of a giant corpse. Wet streets, neon lights flickering like sick hearts, walls covered in graffiti no one read anymore.

And a man.

A man torn from life. His face was an image of pain. He wore black clothes. He walked through the city like a ghost who had forgotten he was dead. The tape wrapped around his hands.

The music began to play.

It wasn't light music. It was a wall of sound — a bass that vibrated like a heart that didn't know whether to keep beating, an electric hum that seemed to come from the city's wires themselves. The voice was distorted, distant, as if someone was singing from another world.

Rain, pain, night.

Dead souls that find no peace.

The man was guided. The bridge between the world of the living and the world of the dead. He climbed onto the roof of a building.

He was searching for something. Or someone.

On the roof there was an abandoned guitar, as if someone had left it there years before. The man took it. His fingers found the strings. He began to play.

It wasn't a cheerful melody. It was a lament.

The notes rose into the black sky, mixed with the rain, lost themselves in the night. The man played as if it were the last thing he would ever do. As if that song were his farewell.

Askel watched the screen.

He watched Piper stretching beside him, her legs over his and her hand on his stomach.

He didn't know why, but that scene was hitting him harder than anything he'd ever seen. The man on the roof. The guitar. The rain. The loneliness that was so dense you could cut it with a knife.

Was it like him? He didn't know.

But maybe it didn't matter.

The movie continued.

The man stopped playing. He let the guitar fall onto the speakers. A sound that was a lament, as if even the guitar had lost something.

Piper followed the movie scene by scene.

The masked man was tying someone to the car seat, perhaps a settling of scores. The car emitted its last lament to the world, as did the man inside it.

Askel watched the screen.

The image of the man on the roof, with the guitar in his hand, the rain falling on his painted face — that image was already etched in his mind.

Piper pressed against him.

"It's a strange movie, but good," she said.

Askel didn't answer.

But his fingers found Piper's fingers. And he squeezed them.

The movie continued. The city kept burning. The man kept walking through the shadows, searching for those pigs who had thrown him from the top of his apartment, killing those who had broken his girlfriend's life, killing those who had prevented them from getting married on Halloween night.

But Askel wasn't watching the movie anymore.

He was watching Piper.

Watching the light from the television reflecting on her face. Watching her eyes, which were two pools of light.

---

The movie ended.

The credits rolled slowly across the screen, names they would never remember, thanks they would never read. The music was low, almost a sigh. The city still burned in memory, the man on the roof with the guitar in his hand, the crow flying through the night.

Askel didn't move. Piper didn't move.

They stayed lying down, her body against his side, her head on his shoulder. The light from the television reflected on the ceiling like a dream that didn't want to end.

Then Piper picked up the remote.

"Let's see what's on," she said.

Askel didn't answer. He looked at her.

Piper started channel surfing.

Channels scrolling fast — commercials, news, reality shows, cooking programs, Z-grade movies, American preachers shouting salvation. Everything seemed fake, distant, as if the world outside the window was just another screen.

Then she stopped.

A black screen. Then white. Then the title — in thin, almost calligraphic letters.

An archival footage. The quality was low, grainy, as if it had been shot with a camera that had already seen too much.

A girl.

Small. Tiny. Short, dark hair. Her face was marked by something Askel couldn't define — it wasn't tiredness, it wasn't sadness. It was something else. It was the rage of someone who had seen too much and decided not to stay silent.

The video was in black and white.

Askel looked at her.

He recognized her.

Like you recognize a song you've heard hundreds of times without knowing why.

The girl opened her mouth.

Her voice was a weapon.

It wasn't beautiful in the traditional way. It was hoarse, broken, as if she had screamed too long. But it was full. Full of everything that hadn't been said. Full of everything that had been held back. Full of everything that couldn't be held back anymore.

The song began.

It wasn't a love song. It wasn't a song of hope. It was a song about war. About violence. It was a song that spoke of something that never went away, that stayed there, like a ghost that couldn't find peace.

The chorus was powerful. The girl's voice rose like a scream, as if she were asking the whole world: *why? Why all this? Why does it never end?*

Askel looked at her.

Piper looked at her.

Then Piper began to sing.

It wasn't singing. It was a whisper. A whisper that blended with the girl's voice, that followed it like a shadow, that accompanied it as if it were part of the song.

Piper's voice was lower, more intimate. But it was real. As real as the girl's voice. As real as the rage the song told.

Askel looked at her.

He'd never heard Piper sing. He didn't know she could sing. But in that moment — in that moment, her voice was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard.

Piper kept whispering.

The song spoke of something that never went away. Of something that stayed there, like a ghost. Of something that couldn't be buried, that couldn't be forgotten.

Like Höðr.

Like the blood on his hands.

Like everything he had done and couldn't repair.

Askel closed his eyes.

Piper's voice kept whispering. The girl's voice kept screaming. The two voices mixed, intertwined, became one.

In Piper's eyes, the reflection of the images, the girl painted in gold.

That girl was the most beautiful gift ever given the world, a gift so precious it would be preserved for eternity. Until the end of time.

The song ended.

Askel opened his eyes.

He looked at Piper.

The light from the television reflected on her face.

"How do you know that song?" he asked.

Piper looked at him.

"Everyone knows it," she said. "It's a song you can't forget.. Her, you can't forget.."

Askel didn't answer immediately.

He just reached for Piper's hand, interlacing his fingers with hers. That simple gesture was enough to dissolve all the noise of the bar.

"Now sleep," he murmured. "Tomorrow is a new day. And we have class."

Piper looked at him, her eyes still bright with light and night.

"Why don't you sleep here with me tonight," she said softly, as if it were a question she'd kept in her pocket for hours.

Piper felt the phrase pass through her like a bass note.

"I was hoping you'd ask, Viking," she replied, with her smile.

The night enveloped them like a heavy blanket, made of dimmed lights, slow breaths, and that strange peace that only comes when you trust someone.

Desire was a fire, a presence.

Piper felt it as a strong emotion, like a brand that burned.

Askel felt her closeness as a relief.

Then their bodies merged between the sheets, becoming a single breath that cut through the silence of the room.

They fell asleep, one next to the other, letting sleep take them slowly, until morning.

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