In the sacred forests of Germania, where the towering trees cast long shadows and the mist clung to the earth like a veil, the Germanic tribes honored their gods with fire, blood, and sacrifice. These gods—Wotan, the all-seeing lord of wisdom; Donar, the thunderous protector of warriors; and Freya, the life-giver—were deeply feared and revered. For generations, the people had offered sacrifices to maintain the balance of the world, ensuring the gods' favor and protection.
Among the Cherusci tribe, Segimer was a respected elder and warrior, a man whose life was shaped by his devotion to the gods. He had seen battle, he had spilled blood in their names, and he had led his people through many winters. He believed without question in the old ways, knowing that the gods demanded sacrifices to keep chaos at bay.
One evening, as the tribe gathered in the sacred grove to prepare a ritual offering to Wotan, a stranger appeared at the edge of the gathering. He stood quietly, watching the proceedings with a calm that seemed almost unnatural in this place of blood and fire. His clothing was simple, worn from long travels, but his presence drew the eyes of those nearby. He carried no weapons, yet there was something unsettling about him, something that whispered of deeper knowledge.
Segimer, noticing the unease in his people, approached the stranger, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His voice was rough and commanding as he addressed the man.
“Who are you, stranger? This is sacred ground, and we prepare a sacrifice to Wotan. What brings you here?”
The stranger turned slowly to face Segimer, his expression calm, his eyes filled with an unsettling peace. In a voice low but powerful, he spoke words in the ancient tongue of the gods, the language of old, “Ek em Jèsa. Ek kumman fram andwleiti in ƿiðerthegnan līoht. Frah daga aldia ǽ.” – “I am Jèsa. I come from the face of the eternal Light. From the days of old.”
Segimer blinked, taken aback by the strange but familiar words. The ancient language, rarely spoken except by the priests in their rituals, carried weight. It was the language of the gods, and yet here it was spoken by this simple stranger.
“You speak the old tongue,” Segimer said, narrowing his eyes. “Yet you claim no place among the gods. What is your purpose here? What do you know of Wotan and the others?”
Jèsa smiled gently, but there was sadness in his eyes. “I know your gods, Segimer. Wōdanaz, Þunraz, Frijjō—I know them well. I have seen them as they once were, before they fell from the light. They were angels of the Creator, meant to guide and protect. But they desired more than what was theirs. They wanted worship, power, and to control fate.”
Segimer stiffened. These were not the words of a madman, but they were deeply troubling. “Our gods did not fall,” Segimer said firmly. “They protect us. They demand blood because that is the way of things. Without them, chaos would consume the world.”
Jèsa’s expression softened, his voice filled with sorrow as he spoke. “Your gods were once servants of the true Creator, but they turned away from their purpose. Wōdanaz was once the keeper of wisdom, meant to teach and guide with love, but he desired to control fate, to wield knowledge as power. Þunraz was once a protector of life, meant to guide the storms to bring rain and nurture the earth. But he grew proud of the fear his thunder inspired and demanded worship. And Frijjō, who once guarded the cycle of life, began to crave control over life and death, turning the natural order into a trade of blood and sacrifice.”
Segimer’s hand clenched around his sword hilt, though he did not draw it. The things this stranger said were heretical, yet they struck at something deep within him, something that resonated with an uncomfortable truth. “And yet, they still hold power. We hear Donar’s thunder. We see Wotan’s wisdom in our dreams. How can they be fallen if they still shape our world?”
Jèsa stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “They hold power because your people give it to them. The sacrifices, the blood—it sustains them, but it does not bring peace. They are cut off from the light of the Creator, and now they feed on your fear and devotion. But the Creator asks only for your heart, your love, and your peace.”
Segimer was silent for a long moment, wrestling with Jèsa’s words. He had always believed that the gods ruled through strength and demanded sacrifice. But now, standing before this man, he was confronted with the idea that the gods themselves were not as they seemed.
“If what you say is true,” Segimer said slowly, “then what are we to do? We cannot abandon the gods we have worshipped for so long. Our people would not understand. They would be lost.”
Jèsa’s gaze was full of understanding, his voice soft but firm. “I do not ask you to abandon them today, for I know your people are not ready. Ihru folk skal ekki thaes dagas sēon līoht – ‘Your people shall not see the light in these days.’ But one day, far from now, your descendants will understand. They will see through the lies of the gods, and they will turn to the Creator. The sacrifices will cease, and they will know peace. But that time is not yet.”
Segimer felt a weight settle over him. He understood now that the path Jèsa spoke of was not for him or his people, not in their time. The old ways ran too deep, the gods’ grip too strong. But there was a seed of truth in Jèsa’s words, a seed that would grow in the hearts of his descendants.
With that, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the forest. Segimer stood watching him until he was gone, knowing that while his people would continue to honor the old gods, something had changed. The seed had been planted, and though it might take generations to grow, one day, the light would shine.
This work is not intended to be historically or theologically accurate. It aims only to explore a creative "what if" scenario and is not meant to offer any factual or doctrinal assertions.