Witege’s Underwater Monument to Failure, Treachery and Resignation

Carved in stone off the coast of Naples. Written in Norse Runes and Gothic.

  I, Vidga, called Witege in the South, son of the smith Volund, will be remembered for many 
  black deeds: That I slew Dieter and the two young sons of Attila—and this is true, but I 
  begged them not to fight me, and if I could have stopped to bind their wounds I would have; 
  that I slew the brave young Alphart treacherously, and this is more or less true, for if I 
  had not used treachery he would have slain me—I am not a dreamer, and this vice was my great 
  virtue when the Magdalene spoke, and I understood; that I betrayed Theordoric, my dear 
  friend and indeed my liege to his archenemy Odoacer, and this, too is true; but I did have 
  my reasons.
  
  Hildebrand the Wise slew his own son, but none dare call him a murderer. The boy (a full-
  grown man, really) had thought the father he had never met was dead, and, recognizing the 
  arms of his father by description, thought he had found in Hildebrand his murderer. The two 
  fought in ignorance, and young Haudubrand died by accident. Are not these extenuating 
  circumstances? Are not there extenuating circumstances?
  
  I am not as other men, frankly. There are many strange things in this world, and Attila's 
  veins run rich with elven blood, my half-brother Heim is the child of a swan maiden, I have 
  stayed both as guest and as prisoner with Laurin the High King of the dwarves, my children 
  are half mer, Queen Virginal I don't even understand at all, and Theodoric himself is 
  descended from one who suckled like Romulus at the wolfs teat—but I claim no special birth 
  beside bastardy, no bizarre parentage besides a conception sprung from hate and revenge. My 
  sword arm is strong, but I have met many whose sword arms were strong, and Sigurd and 
  Beowulf and Uther and Alphart were stronger. It is not that my vision has been clearer, or 
  that I possessed a will that others lacked; mine has been the singular gift that I could 
  abandon an idea when it had outlived its usefulness. Theodoric, a great man in so many ways, 
  a greater man than I in almost all ways (although once I beat him, when first we met, once), 
  lacks this gift, and the world may be doomed for it.
  
  Odoacer can be called a usurper, but this has never technically been correct. He overthrew 
  the empire, but he did not crown himself emperor. Similarly, although he drove the infant 
  tribal chief (no more, no less!) Theodoric into exile, first to Constantinople and then, 
  when his bale influence there grew, to the Hunlands of the north and east, he never really 
  took Theodoric's title. Odoacer was a Gothic chief before Theodoric was born, and, Odoacer's 
  genius for consolidation being what it was, Theordoric was not the only tribal heir he 
  disenfranchised. Odoacer was king before Theordoric's father could have conceived of the 
  title. To say that Theordoric has a more legitimate claim to the crown of all Italy than 
  Odoacer does is ludicrous. Theodoric is better at fighting giants, Theodoric possesses a 
  better sword, the second best sword in the kingdom (ahem), Theordoric, in the end is proved 
  craftier and more audacious. This is what his kingship rests on. If I am a traitor to a 
  friend, I am not traitor to the natural order or the divine plan. It is the divine plan, by 
  which I explicitly mean the divine plan of the Christ, O Arians, I sought to serve.
  
  We were all there in Biglittle, at the tomb of the Magdalene. Brother Ilsung spoke with 
  plants and she laid out the story of the nature of God, the story of the axis and the 
  waters, which I may not speak of. Theordoric, drenched in the teachings of Arius, called it 
  heresy (this was, after all, why we were there, we were looking for heresy), the Magdalene a 
  whore, her words mendacities. But I saw the piece of skin adhering to her skull where the 
  Christ touched her, I sunk my hands into the amphora of blood-soaked earth she collected 
  from the foot of the cross. Theodoric could not accept that Arius was wrong, and the Christ 
  God. I will accept that evidence dictates we form a new hypothesis. Had Theodoric seen it 
  this way, I have no doubt that we could have had a shot. He could have marshaled the church, 
  reinvigorated with its new stamp of orthodoxy, to his aid, he could have used his power to 
  set up programs and societies to contrive, in the centuries remaining us, a strategy. Surely 
  other adventurers have stumbled on pieces of the puzzle, and if Beowulf or Uther, say, or 
  their children even, were to come to Rome to seek advice, Theodoric would be able to assist, 
  compile what knowledge we had, send out seekers for more. In a century or two, I am 
  convinced, we could have solved the problems and kept everything safe. And by everything I 
  mean everything. Kept the world safe.
  
  But there is no talking to Theodoric. His grim steadfastness that saw him through thirty 
  years in the court of the pagan Huns, that held firm against Sigurd and Kriemhild and Hagen 
  and ever so many giants, that brought him through the terrors and marshes of Italy to final 
  conquest in Rome, that determination and resolve we all saw as so admirable, forbids him to 
  recognize when there is more at stake than his principles. He forbids anyone to speak of 
  what we have learned, and slanders the Magdalene's tomb as a false one. I have even been 
  saddled with a ridiculous geas preventing me from relating except in the most ambagial terms 
  what I have learned, or where. (She's in Megamicro, she's in Hugetiny, ask her yourself). It 
  seemed clear, at that point, that the only hope for the world would be Theodoric's loss, for 
  Odoacer, illiterate Odoacer I might persuade but the learned Theodoric never. It was then I 
  threw my lot in with the usurper so-called. Heim went along with me, as I knew he would. To 
  my horror, and to their credit, no one else did. I gave him the City of Ravens, and I gave 
  the ravens a feast. But that was all I could do.
  
  Brutus and Judas I have been called, traitor and murderer. And of course it didn't work. 
  Odoacer was slain, and slain, I might add dishonorably. We have squandered the greatest age 
  of heroes since the Trojan War. We have squandered our only chance, for such an age will 
  never come again. The church will never investigate these bizarre and novel claims without 
  Theodoric's push. The truth will be buried, and I will retire to a new life under the sea.
  
  Because I know when to abandon an idea. The idea is trying and the time to abandon it is 
  now. Perhaps you, dear reader, will have a better shot, and preserve a better name. C. 
  Valerius Galerius, that's a good one. Ahem.
  
  So farewell, Bolfriana, may Theordoric spare your life and the remainder of your family; I 
  guess in truth I used you, but I was, after all, trying to save the world. Farewell, 
  Dietlieb, scion of the Danes, farewell Hildebrand, may your beard grow long, farewell, 
  Ilsung, it wasn't your fault. Farewell, Laurin and Kuenhild, I hope your children (?) favor 
  their mother (ha!). Rest in peace Alphart, and say hello to Wolfhart in the next world; you 
  would have liked him. Farewell, Theodoric, my liege, my friend, and may you reign wisely and 
  long. But you will never read this. None of you will ever read this, only Wachilde will.
  
  So, Wachilde. Hey.

Beneath the message is inscribed a hammer and tongs with entwining snake crowned by three carbuncle stones (since pried out and stolen by Karl Shinyhands).