The story of Crom’s supremacy

In the ancient halls of Asgard, where the gods roamed and schemed, a gathering was called a contest of strength to determine supremacy. Odin, the Allfather, sat upon his throne, his one eye piercing the shadows. Thor, the Thunderer, flexed his mighty arms, eager for the challenge. But it was Crom, the grim and loveless god, who intrigued them all.

Crom, you see, was different. Unlike the other deities who bestowed boons upon their followers, Crom offered no such gifts. No paradise awaited those who worshipped him only the cold mist of death. Yet, there was a power in his indifference, a raw force that drew men to his side.

The gods assembled in the great hall, their eyes fixed on the central dais. Odin's ravens, Huginn and Muninn, perched nearby, their feathers ruffled with anticipation. Thor's hammer, Mjölnir, lay at his feet, its weight a reminder of his might. And there, in the shadows, stood Crom a towering figure, his eyes like flint.

"Welcome," Odin boomed, his voice echoing off the walls. "Today, we prove our supremacy. Let the trials begin!"

First came the lifting of boulders. Thor hefted one effortlessly, its weight cracking the marble floor. Loki, the trickster, conjured illusions to distract his opponents. But Crom? He merely scowled and walked away. No boulder could impress him.

Next, the gods wrestled. Thor grappled with Baldur, their sinewy forms twisting and straining. Freyja, the goddess of love, used her wiles to unbalance her foes. But Crom? He stood apart, arms crossed, unyielding. No one dared challenge him.

The final trial was a battle of wills. The gods hurled insults, hexes, and boasts. Odin recited ancient poetry, invoking the very fabric of reality. But Crom? He spoke no words. Instead, he stared into the abyss, his gaze unyielding. It was as if he drew strength from the void itself.

As the trials concluded, Odin surveyed the scene. Thor's biceps bulged, veins pulsing with power. Freyja's smile was both beguiling and deadly. But Crom? He remained unchanged, a silent enigma.

"Who is supreme?" Odin asked, his voice echoing through the hall.

The gods glanced at one another, uncertain. Thor flexed his muscles, Freyja twirled her necklace of amber, and Loki vanished in a puff of smoke. But Crom? He stepped forward, his eyes aflame.

"I am," he said, his voice like distant thunder. "Not because of gifts bestowed or promises made. I am supreme because I am unyielding. I am the cold mist that awaits you all. And in that stark truth lies my power."

Odin nodded, his single eye gleaming. "Crom, the god of grim wisdom," he declared. "May your strength endure, even when the stars themselves fade."

And so, Crom stood victorious not through magic or might, but through sheer defiance. The gods bowed, acknowledging his supremacy. And as they dispersed, Thor whispered to Loki, "Perhaps we've been chasing the wrong kind of power all along."

And so it was that Crom, the loveless god, became a legend a symbol of unyielding strength, a reminder that sometimes, the greatest power lies in the absence of it. And in the cold mist of his indifference, men found courage to strive and slay, for what else shall they ask of the gods?¹²³