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Vincent takes the supplies and goes forward, bowing his head to the tree before beginning his climb. It doesn't take long for him to already feel the soreness in his palms. He wasn't unfit, but he'd long enjoyed the benefits of being a demi-god on Midgard. He nearly stopped the first time he thought he'd reached a high enough branch, but he forced himself to continue on, until he felt the air grow cold and thin around him.

"Come on. You were ready to fade into non-being to save the world. You gave up your spark for the chance to save your friends and family. What are you ready to sacrifice for something new?"

Once the stars began to grow sharper, he stopped climbing. He was prepared for the ordeal of the three days, but he wasn't keen on the risk of being eaten by an eagle (particularly when he still wasn't sure of the parameters of the longevity Odin had granted him). He crouches onto a branch and ties the rope in place on the limb and his ankles, partially affixing the blindfold before he lets himself swing over, the rope snapping taut as he begins to sway in the air.

"Well... here I am." He shuts the blindfold in place, and resigns himself.

It's almost relaxing, for the first hour. He feels his back stretch, his breathing acclimates to the thinner air, and he lets his mind wander.

It doesn't take long for the dizziness to set in, as the blood pools in his head. Various images of the realm's most notable champions begin drifting through his mind by the time he first starts having to cough up some of the blood that gets into his nose. The rate at which he goes numb to the cold is a painful mercy.

The insights beginning to come to him give him something to focus on by the time blood from his eyes begins to soak into the blindfold, helping him keep from panicking and tearing it away. By the time it had dried, the first day had ended, and three faces were etched into his soul.

It was nearly noon, or at least twelve hours had passed, time was difficult to reckon, on the second day, when he finally blacked out for the first time. He awoke when his lungs briefly failed, and he choked his way back to breathing, being sick before he could settle himself again. He waited until he was sure he could resist tearing away the blindfold before he reached up to clean his mouth.

"Is that all?" He croaked out, forcing himself to smile, as he could feel it growing colder, as --was it the sun?-- as whatever provided light receded again. "Perhaps I should stay longer than suggested.." He laughed, sickly, until blackness took him again, and another three faces came to him.

It was his flesh being pecked at that woke him on the third day. He screamed and thrashed. "I am not dead yet! I will not die!" He rasped, feeling leaves fall past him as the branch swayed. He coughed, spitting up blood again. "I can't die. Find your meal somewhere else, you stinking feathered vermin..."

He supposed he was either achieving enlightenment or going mad. He could feel an openness in his mind, as if something massive and complex had been constructed; but he knew, as surely as he knew anything, that if he relented a moment too soon, it would collapse like a house of cards.

He spasmed a few more times that day, when the birds tried their luck again, a few even tearing his flesh in their ambition. The last three faces to come to him made him want to cry in fear and admiration, as they came with thunder, with light, and... recognition.

"I've seen you before..." Vincent would have been sick again, had his stomach still held anything, as a sense of dread welled up in him, childhood memories being revisited in a new and terrible clarity.

Finally, the rope snapped, as the day ended.