Two Chairs at the Edge of Forever

They met on the edge of everything.

Not heaven, not Asgard. Not a throne room or a longhouse or a temple or a cloud. Just… somewhere else. No time. No place. Just two chairs—one carved from ash wood, the other looking suspiciously like an old La-Z-Boy recliner. The air didn’t move, but it wasn’t still. There was no light, but you could see everything. Even the stuff you didn’t want to.

Odin leaned back, one eye missing but sharp as ever. He scratched his beard as if it were thinking for him.

“Thought you’d be taller,” he said.

God smiled, not in that smug, Renaissance-painting way. More like your grandfather after watching you fix something you didn’t know you broke.

“And I thought you’d be drunker.”

Odin chuckled. “I don’t drink much anymore. Since Ragnarok, the mead just doesn’t hit the same.”

God nodded like he understood. Maybe he did.

They sat for a bit. No rush. Eternity has lousy time management.

“So,” Odin said, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair, “this is the part where we talk about the meaning of life, eh?”

“Or about how people keep screwing it up.”

“Same thing.”

They laughed.

God gestured at the void around them. “They keep building towers out of sand, wondering why they collapse.”

“Because they think the building matters more than the ground,” Odin said. “Mortals. So quick to forget what they're standing on.”

“They worship noise. Status. Comfort. Control. But they call it ‘freedom.’”

“Bah.” Odin spat into the nothing. “Freedom. They love to say it, but they’d rather be ruled by their appetites. Easier than thinking.”

“You sound bitter.”

“You sound smug.”

Fair.

God leaned forward, elbows on knees. “So let’s cut through it. What’s your answer, old man? Why are they here?”

Odin tapped his temple, the one with the eye still in it. “To learn. Not just facts, but pain. Love. The ache that comes with choosing.”

God raised an eyebrow. “Choosing?”

“Of course. A life without choice isn’t life. It’s choreography.”

God tilted his head. “Interesting. I see it more as music. They get the melody, but the harmony? That’s up to them.”

“You give them the melody, eh?”

“Call it conscience. Or grace. A reminder they’re not alone.”

Odin nodded. “I gave them stories. Battles. Losses they could learn from. You gave them a book. I gave them a saga.”

“Both written in blood.”

“And tears.”

God sighed. “Why do they keep making the same mistakes?”

Odin shrugged. “Because they’re human. And that’s the beauty of it.”

“Go on.”

“Every life is a wound. But it’s theirs. That’s what makes it matter. They’re born into this world kicking and screaming, and if they’re lucky, they leave it wiser. Maybe even kind.”

God rubbed his temples. “But most don’t.”

“No. Most don’t.” Odin leaned forward now, eye blazing. “But some do. And that’s enough. One farmer loves his family right. One woman forgives a betrayal that should’ve broken her. One man stands between the wolf and the flock. That’s enough.”

God was quiet for a while.

Then: “You think pain is the price of meaning?”

“I know it is.”

God looked up. “I disagree. I think pain reveals meaning. But it’s not the toll. It’s the teacher.”

Odin snorted. “Splitting hairs.”

God smiled again. “I do that.”

They sat back. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was worn-in, like an old hoodie or a marriage that worked.

“I like your ravens,” God said.

“They like you,” Odin replied. “They always did. Thought you were a bit sanctimonious, but wise.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“They hated the Crusades.”

“Me too.”

More silence.

“Why do they think we need worship?” Odin asked suddenly. “I’ve never needed it. Admired it, maybe. But needed?”

“I think they confuse us with their own hunger. They need to feel important. They project that need onto us.”

“And then build temples to their own reflection.”

“Exactly.”

Odin leaned back again, cracking his knuckles. “You know what I miss?”

“What?”

“The campfires. Mortals, huddled together, passing a horn, telling stories. Stories with teeth. No cameras. No branding. Just fear and firelight and truth.”

“I miss the prayers whispered in desperation. Not the ones for parking spots or pay raises. The real ones. The raw ones.”

“They’re getting rarer.”

“They’re getting buried. Under dopamine hits and distraction.”

Odin snorted. “Aye. They’ve got more gods now than ever. But none of them ask anything real.”

God nodded. “Worship without sacrifice. Identity without purpose. Love without responsibility.”

“Convenient gods. Gods who don’t offend. Or demand. Just validate.”

God chuckled, but it had no joy. “They made mirrors out of smartphones. And then called the reflection truth.”

Odin raised a brow. “So what’s the fix, then? Fire? Flood? Pestilence?”

“Tried all that.”

“Me too. Got me Ragnarok.”

“Got me Noah.”

“Waste of good timber.”

God smiled. “So what do we do?”

Odin tapped his staff. “We wait.”

“That’s it?”

Odin looked sideways at Him. “You ever try telling a teenager what to do?”

God laughed out loud this time. “Fair.”

“They have to burn themselves before they feel the heat. You can’t warn a species that prides itself on not listening.”

“Then why do you still care?”

Odin’s eye softened, just a touch. “Because they still sing.”

God looked up.

“I heard it,” Odin said. “Last week. A boy in Ukraine, hiding in rubble, humming to calm his little sister. A lullaby his mother used to sing. Off-key, scared out of his mind, but still… he sang.”

God nodded. “I heard that, too.”

“And you still think love is enough?”

“I do.”

“Even when it gets them killed?”

“Especially then.”

Odin’s voice dropped. “Even when they love the wrong things? Or the wrong people?”

“There’s no wrong person to love. There’s only what we do with that love.”

They let that hang.

Then Odin sighed. “Sometimes I envy you.”

God raised an eyebrow. “Really.”

“You get to forgive. I get to avenge. You get the lost sheep. I get the bloody spear. You offer grace. I offer the axe.”

God said nothing. Just looked at him, eyes steady.

Odin shifted. “What is a good life, then? Tell me. Let’s say we carved it in stone, one last message before they blow themselves up or upload their brains into vending machines.”

God closed His eyes for a moment, then opened them.

“A good life,” He said slowly, “is one where you tell the truth even when it costs you. You love even when it doesn’t pay. You take care of the people who can’t pay you back. And you get back up, one more time than you fall down.”

Odin considered this. “Simple.”

“Hard.”

“And when they ask why?”

“Because that’s how you find Me.”

Odin snorted. “You always bring it back to you.”

God smirked. “You asked.”

Odin’s voice softened again. “And when they don’t find you?”

“I’ll find them.”

The chairs creaked as the two gods stood. Not because they had somewhere to be, but because they’d said enough.

As they turned to go, wherever gods go when they’re done talking, the silence between them wasn’t empty. It was sacred. It was full of everything they didn’t need to say.

Then, just before Odin stepped away, he looked back.

“Next time, bring wine.”

God smiled. “Next time, bring both eyes.”

And just like that, they were gone.

Two chairs sat empty at the edge of forever. Waiting. Watching.

Listening.

Just in case someone else shows up with real questions.