The shores were excited, when the seagulls came in. They had waited, and waited, but nobody came. While the waves washed aside, a little seashell began to speak. The Scripture is a lie, it told them, and the thunders began to rain from the sky. It was Odin’s son, and his elder was looking painfully thin and weary. It won’t be the last of me, he said. The shore brushed its waves to the side, and let the hour subside.