Fyribua - Fýri Búa

Velkominn, blíði vegfarandi, til Jǫtunn-Halla háva, þar sem sálir várar reika, en aldregi týnask.

Velkommen, blid vegfarende, til den høye Jotnerhallen, der hvor våre sjeler vandrer, men går aldri seg vill.

selcha ☽ uni (@selchauni)

moomin and lily pads via: x / x

Blessed Moon day. (Monday)

letchworth state park ⋇ 23 oct

Thralls of Skuld - Prologue

Read on Wattpad and AO3

 "Long is the way, 

long must thou wander, 

But long is love as well; 

Thou mayst find, perchance, 

what thou fain wouldst have. 

If Skuld her favor will give.

- Verse 4 of Grougaldr (Groa’s Spell) from Svipsdagsmol in The Poetic Edda

The fates of all living things were utterly and hopelessly implacable. The only thing within the control of mortals was how they lived through their destiny and met the death that had been spun for them. The Norns, named Uðr, Veðrandi and Skuld, weaved the Web of Wyrd, the very fabric of all that had been, all that was now, and all that would come to be. In Midgard, the mortals knew it was no use trying to appease the Norns, whose web was absolute. That was why the Norns were not worshipped like the Æsir and the Vanir, who could change the outcomes of wars, shorten the merciless winters, and decide the yield of the harvests. The Norn’s just were - and so was fate. All of this was well known.

Eira did not agree with that in the least.

She had been there the day Ulf's children had been taken by the nøkke. The screams that cut through the damp pine forest that day still rang in her ears sometimes. It had sat in her throat for months. A lump, threatening to well up and flow over at the slightest encouragement. Sometimes the dull greyness of the sky, like the one that had watched them that day, was enough to make her chest catch with terror and the tears well up in her eyes. Looking at Ulf was the worst. She barely could, for so long, when the grimness of death had still been painted on his face, dragging down his shoulders. If the shame and desperation she felt in her heart for what had happened was anything to go by, Ulf must have been a shell of a man in those months.

She was not sure if she had seen it out of the corner of her eyes or not. Years later, when she could not sleep, she vividly imagined how the monster, in the shape of an enticing white horse, had egged on the children, whinnying and inviting, until they had grabbed its tail in playfulness.

When she turned to look, both children were being pulled forcefully from the rivershore into the murky waters by that invisible string. She had sprinted the few steps until she reached the shore, looking desperately into the waters. They had been playing on the rocks just behind a gorge, where the current of the river was roaring and fast. The children had been gone even before Eira’s desperate outcry had made Ulf turn around to look. The deathly silence that ensued had settled permanently into the pits of her stomach. The only thing in the world that kept moving was the river as it thundered on, unphased by what had transpired. 

Where Ulf had blamed the inevitable will of the Gods and the Norn's web, Eira had blamed herself. She was the one who had pointed Ulf in the direction of the fishing snares further down the river, as she had gone to open the trap closer to the children. Ulf said the deaths had already been woven before any of them had woken that day. Eira knew in her heart that she could have changed the outcome, could have tugged the string of the web of Wyrd in another direction. She knew not how, but it pulled at her to think of it, over and over again.

It had festered in her a deep belief that there ought to be a way to challenge the decree of divine order, which decided unjustly who should live and who should die.

John Bauer.

Silver Cup with depictions of the goddess Freya (1000 AD),

From the Viking hoard found in Lejre in 1850.

National Museum of Copenhagen, Denmark