This might disappoint you somewhat, but I have to say my interest

Host: The night was long and wind-scarred, the kind of night where clouds dragged their bellies low across the moon, and the wind whispered through the pine trees like some forgotten lament. The forest stretched wide — black, endless, and silent — except for the crackle of a small campfire where Jack and Jeeny sat, their faces half-lit by the restless flames.

The firelight trembled over Jack’s sharp features, casting a pale glow on his grey eyes; he looked distant, like a man staring into another century. Jeeny, small and still, sat cross-legged, her hair shimmering like liquid ink, her gaze soft yet full of conviction.

Above them, the stars were veiled behind mist, as if the heavens themselves were uncertain — reluctant to take sides in what was about to unfold.

Jeeny: “You know what Varg Vikernes said once? ‘This might disappoint you somewhat, but I have to say my interest in Tolkien has faded dramatically over the years. His language skills are amazing, his story good and fascinating, but... he has a very Judeo-Christian perspective, and his use of mythical creatures is very... ignorant.’”

Jack: (smirking) “That’s classic Varg. A man who builds his world on mythology criticizing another for using it wrong. Irony’s still alive, I guess.”

Host: The fire crackled sharply, sending a few sparks into the cold air — tiny, glowing fragments rising like arguments before dying in silence.

Jeeny: “It’s not irony, Jack. It’s a difference of belief. Varg’s saying that Tolkien’s myths were too moral, too Western. He saw Middle-earth through a lens of good and evil — angels and demons — while the old Norse myths embraced chaos, duality, and tragedy.”

Jack: “You mean he preferred his gods more flawed and his monsters more human?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To him, myth wasn’t about teaching right or wrong. It was about revealing how deeply we belong to both.”

Jack: “And yet, look where that thinking took him — prison, isolation, radicalism. His so-called myths turned into justification for hate. Sometimes, the line between ancient wisdom and madness is thinner than a sword’s edge.”

Host: The wind rose, rattling the branches above. The firelight danced on their faces like a restless spirit. Jeeny’s eyes flickered — not with anger, but with sorrow.

Jeeny: “You always bring it back to judgment. Maybe he went too far, yes. But can’t a person question foundations without becoming a villain? Tolkien’s world — beautiful as it is — was soaked in divine order, prophecy, purity. Varg saw through that. He wanted a world where myth was wild again — untamed, unowned.”

Jack: “Wild myths are fine. But wild minds burn everything they touch. Tolkien built a world to give people hope after war. Varg tore his world apart trying to make it bleed. There’s a difference between creation and rebellion for rebellion’s sake.”

Jeeny: “Is it rebellion, or is it truth? Think about it — Tolkien’s elves, his men, his dark lords — all moral archetypes. They serve a cosmic order. But in the old sagas, Loki was a liar and a savior. Odin was wise but cruel. There was no perfect light, no perfect dark — just endless struggle. Isn’t that closer to how life really is?”

Jack: “So you’d trade meaning for chaos?”

Jeeny: “No, I’d trade certainty for honesty.”

Host: Her words fell like embers, slow and glowing, settling into the quiet between them. The forest seemed to hold its breath. Somewhere, an owl called — lonely, distant, ancient.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? I think people romanticize chaos because it excuses them from responsibility. It’s easy to worship disorder when you don’t have to live by it. Tolkien gave people a map — a structure. Varg burned the map and called it freedom.”

Jeeny: “But maybe the map was wrong to begin with. Maybe what you call structure is just comfort — a myth for modern minds who can’t handle mystery anymore.”

Jack: “Mystery without purpose is just noise.”

Jeeny: “Purpose without mystery is just control.”

Host: The fire hissed, one log collapsing into a burst of glowing ash. The smoke curled upward like a sigh, lost in the darkness. Their faces flickered — one hard, one tender, both haunted by the weight of centuries-old stories still arguing in human tongues.

Jack: “Look, Jeeny, I get the appeal of Norse myth — gods that die, heroes that fail. But that’s not enlightenment; that’s fatalism. It’s saying, ‘the world is cruel, so why bother?’ Tolkien believed in redemption. In the idea that even the smallest creature can change the course of fate. That’s not Judeo-Christian dogma — that’s hope.”

Jeeny: “But hope built on hierarchy. On a heaven above and a hell below. Why can’t meaning come from within the chaos — from accepting that we’re both monster and savior?”

Jack: “Because people need something bigger than themselves to believe in.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they need to stop hiding behind gods altogether.”

Host: The tension in the air tightened — like the moment before thunder. Jack’s eyes flared, catching the firelight; Jeeny’s hands trembled slightly, clenched around the fabric of her coat.

Jack: “So you’d have us all be gods, then? Each making our own truth? That’s not freedom — that’s fragmentation. That’s how civilizations fall.”

Jeeny: “And maybe they should fall, Jack. Every time one crumbles, something more honest grows from the ruins. Isn’t that what myths always tell us? Ragnarok isn’t the end — it’s the reset.”

Host: For a long moment, the fire roared higher, as if feeding on their words. Then, slowly, it softened, collapsing back into a quiet glow. The storm above had passed. The wind stilled. Their voices, too, fell into introspection.

Jack: (softly) “You know, when I first read Tolkien, I was twelve. I thought he was showing me how the world worked — good versus evil, light versus dark. But maybe... maybe you’re right. Maybe he was just showing us one version of the myth.”

Jeeny: “And Varg, for all his arrogance, was showing another. Both flawed. Both mirrors. Maybe that’s what myth really is — reflection, not revelation.”

Jack: “A mirror can show truth... or distortion.”

Jeeny: “Depends on who’s looking.”

Host: Their voices quieted to whispers. The fire had dwindled to a small pool of amber coals, flickering like dying thoughts. Above, the clouds parted, revealing the moon — full, silver, watching them like an ancient witness.

Jack: “So what do we do with myths, then? Worship them, or rewrite them?”

Jeeny: “We live them. Every choice we make, every fear we face — it’s all myth made flesh. Tolkien wrote his, Varg tore his apart. Maybe we just... live ours.”

Host: The night softened, as if the forest exhaled in relief. Jack tossed another branch into the fire, the flames rising again — not fiercely, but steadily, with purpose.

Jeeny watched the light play across his face, and for a moment, he didn’t look cynical at all — just tired, human, and searching.

Jack: “Maybe myths aren’t meant to be believed or rejected. Maybe they’re meant to remind us what we’re capable of — both the creation and the destruction.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They’re not answers. They’re questions we keep asking because we’re still alive enough to wonder.”

Host: The fire hummed softly, the smoke curling upward into the starlit void. The world around them was vast, ancient, and unknowable — and yet, in that moment, it felt intimate, almost tender.

Jack looked up at the sky, his voice low, almost reverent.

Jack: “Funny. Maybe that’s what connects Tolkien and Varg after all — both wanted to make sense of gods that stopped speaking.”

Jeeny: “And both forgot that sometimes, silence is the answer.”

Host: The flames dimmed one last time, and the night returned to its quiet dominion. The two sat there — shadows before a dying fire — neither conquerors nor converts, but something in between: seekers caught between faith and freedom.

And as the first light of dawn crept through the trees, the world felt reborn — fragile, flawed, and, in its imperfection, profoundly sacred.