17th-century illustration of King Redbad[/caption]I would like to tell you a story. It is a story which has inspired me, personally, on a number of levels. I also believe the story is beneficial to Nationalists in general. In truth, the story is a wonderful (true) fable for all White men of good conscience. It is the story of a warrior king who resisted temptation and remained true to his soul’s calling in his final hour and judgement.
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Once, in a land that occupies what is now the Netherlands, there was a King. He was a brave man, and shrewd, too. Some might say he was born too late, others might say he was born too soon. Radboud was the name of this King. He was Lord of Frisia. Radboud was a faithful servant of his realm, upholding the ways of his ancestors, and abhorring the foreign Gods imparted by the sons of Rome.
The king who preceded him had imposed Christendom, but when Radboud took the throne, he attempted to drive Christendom from the realm. Of course, this was during the height of the reign of Charlemagne – Karl the Great. Charlemagne was a self-styled Emperor who sought to bind all of Europe under the Christian Cross. It would consolidate power and strengthen borders, he felt. It would also give the European Kings more power.
Radboud disagreed. He waged a defensive war against invading Christians, but was overwhelmingly outmanned. The Pagan, resolute that right was on his side, wages his wars. Ferocity and nobility marked his strides. He marched with valour. It was not enough.
Radboud suffered defeats, and his pride was wounded. He began to question his very cause, whether this foreign import, this vapid juggernaut, could indeed be defeated. After seeing so many good men die, Radboud conceded that Christian subjects were better than a dead realm. He began to negotiate with the missionaries. Indeed, it came to pass that a Bishop was admitted to his holding. Radboud hosted the Christian and learned of the new religion which was to take Europe by force, by coercion and stealth. Allowing himself to feign being swayed, the pagan warrior listened as the Christian went on and on.
Finally, Radboud considered it. And, he smiled to himself – at least I will see my fallen fathers again. In that moment, a few of his closest friends saw the grim King smile. Alas, it would not last. Radboud’s smile slowly warped into a crooked grimace as the Bishop said: “since you prefer the company of Heathens to good Christian men, you shall see your brethren, you shall see them in Hell. Not one Heathen shall taste the pleasures of Heathens. They are despised by Christ.”
The Bishop, of course, was thrown out on his head. Radboud was through. Wasn’t it enough that he was willing to allow the Christians leeway? He was not about to drag his tribe through the dirt, to grovel and to beg, and to bear insult to boot. Hardened about the heart, Radboud gathered up his courage and prepared for what he knew would be a death struggle.
Indeed, his struggle was real, for as the wicked Bishop scampered back to his power hungry sire, an army was mounting on Radboud’s door. But Radboud, ah, Radboud was already there. He gathered his Heathen host and made his band to march. They gathered on Cologne, where they met this man, this Heretic Hammer. In Battle, Radboud faced Charles Martel and the Christian horde. He faced one of the princes who had dealt the Heathen Host so much harm. That man, rumour had it, was blessed by Christ, invincible in battle. How many Heathens then had this man erased? How many more would Radboud take from him?
Legend has it that Radboud and his men prevailed, on that day. In a stroke of victory handed down by Wodan himself, the noble Friesians struck like lightning. They came without warning, they came without trump. Radboud struck, and Martel’s men fell. The Christians had neither time to prepare, nor even pray.
Radboud took the town. Once more, as in times past, the Heathen flag hung. Triumph filled the air, for a time. However, the Christians, sly, and unafraid of levying, sieged the men. Bribes and hunger eventually drove the Heathen back home. Unwilling to submit for good, Radboud continued his scheming, until his winter years, he upheld the struggle. Such was his ferocity, his cunning, his vim, and vigour and will, that even the mention of greybearded Radboud rustling filled the Christian French with fear.
In the end, Radboud died. Radboud died, and died a pagan. His successors, half the man that Radboud was, tried their best to hold his legacy. But they all fell, in time. Christianity spread, and it took the minds of Frisian sons – by deception, war was waged. Some say that the Heathen Sons sealed their secrets in vague manuscripts. Others say that the spirit of Wodan slept in the souls of Dutch sons. But though Christianity had conquered, Radboud and his race had proved true Sons of Wodan, for even unto promise of bitterest erosion, they dared to defy the inevitable.
~~~
So what is our moral to be, for this sad and epic tale? We know what is right, we know what is wrong. Today, Radboud’s struggle is against the Marxist, the Bolshevik, the whole host of Semitic subcultures which have degraded culture so. Today Radboud fights the lunacy of political correctness. His Martel and Charlemagne are Obama, are Merkel today – tomorrow: Clinton and the United Nations. Radboud’s sons face their cousins – a host of brainwashed liberals, they outnumber him a hundred to one.
Yet one thing remains the same: one good Heathen can inflict fear in ten passive Christians; one great renegade can upset a baker’s dozen of American sheep. There lies another secret, often neglected by Heathen poets. When Odin knelt at the funeral pyre of bright Baldur, he whispered something, something secret. I know that Odin spoke a truth: Ragnarok is not forever, the end is just another beginning. Man can bargain with his Wyrd, for what is written is unknown. Our only defeat is the one we write ourselves.
Long Live King Radboud, may he smile on his Sons and Legates!
[caption id="attachment_6314" align="aligncenter" width="300"]
Embroidery depicting the legend in which the Frisian king Radbod is ready to be baptized by Wulfram (in this embroidery replaced by Willibrord), but at the last moment refuses. From the Museum Catharijneconvent, Utrecht[/caption]"I’d rather go to hell, with my noble ancestors, than to go to heaven and join the likes of you…"
King Radboud, talking to Christians trying to force him into baptism
http://www.renegadetribune.com
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