Latest Posts by fyribua - Page 2

Thralls of Skuld - Chapter 4: A Frayed String in the Web of Wyrd

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After too long, Geir finally looked back to her with a deep sigh. “I do not know what I saw, Eira” he said with a finality, settling a debate she had not been privy to.

She blinked again, gaining strength in her eyelids. 

“Some of the others, they are.. There have been many discussions.”. Geir shuffled to sit next to the wooden slab she was placed on, lowering his voice as he continued into her ear, outside the privy of nearby ears. She thought of sitting up to look at him, to understand the look on his face, but it was futile. 

“How did you learn it?” he finally asked.

She wanted to speak, but knew she was not ready. So she simply shook her head.

“It cannot be.” Geir looked towards the pale sky where the sun had still not broken the horizon. His eyes, much the same color as the sky, were shifting as if looking for something. He sighed again.

“You are lucky that not many saw. Magnus, myself, a few other nearby warriors. It hasn’t left our ranks.” he assured her. She nodded in appreciation, lifting a hand to the herbal dressing on her neck. The movement made her wince again, and the stitches underneath the cloth pulled at her skin. It was marvelous that they had not needed to burn the wound.

Magnus sprung into her vision, a bright grin on her face, akin to what she had expected from Geir on her awakening. Unlike Geir, he had combed his short blonde hair back from his face, and dressed in fresh woolen clothes.

“By the Gods Eira, we almost left you!” His voice was like bells, where Geir’s was like drawn out battle horns, signifying impending doom. “That fellow from Harvang - Rorik - he found you still alive when the battle had stilled. I saw you go down. I thought surely you could not survive a blow like that.”. Magnus was emphasising each word enthusiastically, as if he was reciting skaldic tales. He was still young, still excited by everything that happened in battle. “But then -” his eyes fleeted briefly to Geir “something clearly happened, did it not? It was unlike any galdr I have ever seen, I mean, it must have been..” Magnus was immediately shot down with a stern look from Geir. He contained his excitement. 

“How’s your jaw?” he asked instead, with a sheepish smile, and she had opened and closed her mouth demonstratively for him.

The ship glided through the calm waters of the fjord as the morning finally broke and a lazy autumn sun was drawn onto the horizon by Sóls chariot.

When they reached the coast of Selund, her body felt stronger. A large lump of chewed willow bark was burning a hole on the inside of her left cheek, but the bitter juices numbed her sweetly as they flowed through her.

They anchored in Roskilde, a day’s travel from Eiklund. The victorious Danir had already had their feast in Scania on the night the battle finished. Now, most were weary and decided to stay a day in Roskilde, to have their injuries tended to or drink another mug of beer to their victory. Eira had been carried to their hosting hall on a wooden raft. While Geir had regained his jovial composure, there was a weary edge to him. Eira had fought alongside him long enough to know that battle did not have this effect on him. Something else was afoot.

The familiar band of fighters from Jarl Ingmar’s land settled in a large hosting hall for breakfast. Eira was still lying on the raft at the far end of the table as food was brought to her. Everyone had greeted her warmly, praising her escape from death. Most others had only suffered minor damaged, except for Rolf, who had lost two toes and was wobbling around on wooden crutches. Two people Eira knew had died. 

She had finally put a name to the stranger who had watched her when she was drifting in and out of consciousness. Rorik of Harvang, a nearby neighbouring village of Eiklund and from a band of fighters that often fought with the Eiklund warriors. 

She wondered why she had never fought alongside him before. 

“I do think we have.” he protested. 

“I would have remembered that sword” she pointed to the pattern-forged sword at his waist, the hilt sticking out of the sheath decorated intricately. She asked him about it, but he brushed it off saying he had earned it when he had joined the raiding expeditions in the West.

When she saw him in his neat and clean clothes, she also realized where she had seen him before. On the Sviar heath, he had been completely unscathed by the heat of the battle, catching her eye but disappearing quickly as the fighting continued. In much the same way, he had now managed to escape her attention as she looked for him in the hall, wondering why something about him struck her as definitively off.

The conversation in the hall flowed more freely now that the small band of brothers had left the company of the many strangers travelling alongside them from Svidland. She understood now Geir’s reluctance to discuss what had transpired, in front of people he did not trust. Yet even here, he was not the first to broach the subject, having sat several seats away from her. Instead, as they had all recalled the spoils of the battle, putting forth their most formidable attacks and defences, one warrior had mentioned Eira’s unlikely survival, and the room had fallen quiet. 

With a pained exclamation, Eira had fought her way to sit up halfway to look upon the room from her sickbed.

“Don’t hold back. Tell me your thoughts”, she willed her voice to fill the room gaping back at her. She needed them to explain to her what they had seen, for she remembered only the distorted impressions of her senses as her life’s blood flowed from her.

Magnus, unsurprisingly, was the first to speak, his words always working faster than his mind. “Well you must be a long lost daughter of Odinn, or maybe a vølve!” he exclaimed. 

Rolf, now Rolf the Toeless, to his left, interjected: “Vølvur do not wield the power for destruction like that.”

Magnus shrugged unphased and responded that daughters of Odinn also did not wield magick without being taught how. Which beckoned the question that Geir had been first to ask her.

“Who taught you how to do that?” someone asked from the end of the table.

“And how come you never told us?” Magnus supplied, ignoring the obvious fact that a commoner speaking loudly of such skills would certainly face death at the hand of the jarl. 

“I have never been taught anything other than battle galdr. I do not even know what exactly I did.” began Eira, her eyes shifting around to take in the eyes on her, many clearly unconvinced by her words. Geir’s eyes, which she knew the best, were also the most doubting. His grey eyes most often took the warmness and hue of molten ash, but now they were hard like iron.

A small but fierce shieldmaiden, whom everyone aptly called Thyra - shieldbearer - instead of her given name, Thurid, spoke up. “Imagine what we could do if we all held such powers. Eira, you will have to teach us everything you know.”.

Before Eira herself could protest, Geir finally raised his voice. “And risk the death of all of us? Imagine what Ingmar would do, what the King would do, if he found a flock of common karls practicing that kind of magick?” Some heads nodded wearily at this.

“If we all knew that kind of magick, we could overpower the King.” Thyra’s voice was low and hesitant, herself not fully convinced of what she was saying. What she had said was a dangerous statement, and a roar of overlapping arguments ensued - who did she think she was, to challenge the king - but also yells of encouragement “Yes! It is about time we changed the unjust ways of these jarls and kings” and “It is about time we fed them their own poison”. 

In only a few seconds, the hall brimmed with a surge of excitement and anger as discussions broke off between pairs, some yelling over the heads of others to make themselves heard. Several people gestured to Eira, arguing over how it would even be possible for her to learn magick without training, with someone else stating that no one would have any reason to teach a commoner like her. Eira thought of Unn and the vølve, but held her tongue.

Eira’s eyes fell on Rorik of Harvanger - had he been there the entire time? - standing in the back of the room watching her friends seated at the long table. He looked highly amused, a tuck on the sides of his lips as his eyes darted from face to face. He did not engage to let his opinion be known. As the only other observer of the ignited dispute unfolding in front of them, it struck Eira how Rorik, once again, did not look like he belonged here.

Geir’s booming voice cut through the chatter. “In that case, Rolf, we may as well challenge the Gods themselves!” 

“And why not? What even makes the Æsir our Gods? If all that separates us from Odinn is seiðr…” Rolf’s voice faded quickly from a yell to a more controlled volume, when he noticed the commotion around him had stilled. Eira appreciated for a brief moment that the eyes of the hall were no longer on her. Rorik’s amused face had fallen, now staring intently at Rolf too.

“What has possessed you?” Geir demanded, everyone holding their breath for the answer. Rolf averted his eyes, as if struck by the man whom many in the room considered a father figure, sometimes akin to Thor himself. But Rolf’s words had stirred something in Eira, bringing forth a wonder and yearning that she had only named to herself on sleepless nights. Knowing that someone else might share the sentiment helped her find her voice. 

“We all grow up being told we are helpless spiders in the Web of Wyrd. That whatever has been written will be, the grand tale of the inescapable fate.” Her words dripped with more disdain than she had intended. The room clung to her words. “Meanwhile, our lords and rulers are taught something very different. Kings and Jarls are blessed by the Gods with magick, but why them?” Her words hung in the air. She wanted an answer.

“There are ancient works at play, you know that, things beyond our influence. The bloodlines of Odinn and such.” Magnus offered.

“Of course, and it is in their best interest that we all believe that.” Eira scoffed. “The highborne people wield only a fraction of the magick that the Gods do, and still it is enough for us all to be ruled by them. It secures their power over the rest of us. But you know what they say - Odinn granted only the magick to the Jarls in return for their continued favor and devotion. Our rulers use their magick only to hoard their magick. Odinn did not give magick to divine beings with moral codes above the rest of us. They are but men. They’re greedy and power hungry. This means Odinn’s will in Midgard is to uphold a delicate balance of rulers and submissives.”

Somebody shifted in their seat, causing the bench to creak underneath the weight of the many people who were now staring wide-eyed at Eira. But the room remained quiet. She could not stop herself. The endless sleepless nights poured out of her mouth, desperate to be heard. 

“What the Jarls fear the most, what our new King fears most -” she did not mean to spit out the word, but she did “is to be overpowered by those beneath them. Odinn fears the same thing. That is why magick is hoarded by only those indebted to him.”

Finally, someone interrupted her. She was thankful, for she knew what she was about to utter may get her hanged or smited if she continued. It was Rorik, speaking up for the first time with a clear voice cutting through her river of words.

“Do you really not believe that this has all been written before us? We know the end of the world must come, and everything leading to Ragnarok will happen as it is woven by the Norns. Even if it is not just, it is what must happen.”

This ignited something in Eira, swelling into the pit in her stomach that had been carved by the sound of little children’s screams being swallowed by water, and Geir’s wails deep in the winter night two years ago. 

“How can the death of innocent children have any place in the outcome of Ragnarok?” Her voice was shrill now, something she was not proud of in a room full of men who looked at her with furrowed bows. But she looked each one of them in their eyes, and saw that many averted their eyes and nodded solemnly at her words. 

“You all saw what happened in Götaland, a proof that what we thought we knew may not be so. I do not know how it happened, but something changed the fate that was written for me that day. Something shifted, I can feel it. And we must pursue it. There are ways of magick available to us that we have never even imagined..” Eira’s words trailed off, as she steadied herself, trying to hold in what had happened with Unn and the vølve, to not reveal a secret she had sworn to keep.

Geir must have noticed that she had veered into a territory of something that she did not want to share widely. “Eira,” he began, in the same way one would try to steady a frightened horse. “We all wish these things could be helped. Every one of us have felt the senselessness of the Gods' wills at times, but we must trust that there is a meaning to the ways of the world.”

“You might even have changed your own fate, Geir,” Rolf reflected quietly. “You know as well as me that a Jarl's babies never die. Why do you think that is? Odinn has allowed them to avoid death, to challenge the web of fate, while the rest of us lose everything! Why not at least try to see this through? What do we have to lose?” He did not raise his voice like Eira, but there was a pained challenge in Rolf's voice, having known his own unjustifiable loss.

Geir did not answer, his face unreadable.

“That’s enough, Rolf,” Magnus stepped in. “It is not for people like us to concern ourselves with fate and destiny. They’re decided by the Gods for a reason.”

The tension in the room had reached an unbearable crescendo, and burst something fragile, sucking all the energy out of the air. A finality settled around them. Eira watched as Rorik the stranger slipped into the shadows and disappeared, while the rest of them turned their sullen faces back to their breakfast plates. As a subdued hum of chatter slowly resumed to the hall, Eira knew that thoughts had been said aloud which no one else had spoken in their lifetime. Something had been stirred, which would not settle anytime soon.

1600’s anatomical engraving with alchemical symbolism /// by Gerhard Altzenbach

'Ronja the Robber's daughter' by Ilon Winkland

Thralls of Skuld - Chapter 3: Blood and Yarrows

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The Danir had advanced through Scania quickly, aiming to invade Götaland, the land of the Geats, from the southeast and catch the army unawares. King Gorm’s troup was large but moved swiftly. Svidland was still scattered across jarldoms and smaller kingdoms, and the Geats were the first frontier towards the larger, northern powers of Svidland. King Gorm had brought thousands of warriors from the land of the Danir. They had been unleashed with fury onto the Geats, who indeed were taken aback. But the Geats quickly gained their composure, and retorted forcefully. After months of Danir raids, the Geats had known a storm was coming, and they met them bravely in the early morning hours, finally given a chance to avenge themselves.

The gilded halls of the afterlife would see a rare feast tonight. There was no doubt the valkyries soared high in the sky that day, divine warrior-maidens who picked the strongest of fallen warriors and brought them to Freyja and Odinn. The heath was littered with prospects on this day.

The smell of blood was foul and sweet and intoxicating. The air was thick with clanking of axes, the loud thudding of shields blocking deadly blows. Grunts, shouting, someone screaming loudly, and the wet gargle of someone drowning in their own blood at Eira’s feet. A javelin was singing through the air. The woman to Eira’s left did not duck fast enough as it pierced her layered woolen tunics and threw her on the ground. The dead woman had afforded herself only a helmet, but it had not helped her. Eira thanked the Gods for the spoils of previous battles, as she moved fast through the crowd, protected but unhindered by her leather vest.

Where Gorm had found all those berserkers, she did not know. They were wild warriors wearing bearskins and driven by Odinn’s bloodrush to perform carnage unlike anything Eira had seen before. It was clear that the Danir King’s first and foremost goal was to strike fear in the entire land of the Sviar. The concise, well thought out formations and shield wall advancements Eira knew from Geir’s leadership style in smaller battles were nowhere to be found on the heath that day. The berserkers were awful beasts. They screamed as they advanced, their voices deep and growling, their minds not in this world any more. Like vølur performing rituals, their eyes were blankly floating in another realm, but their flailing arms and fast feet had a presence, a divine knowing of where to strike, that couldn’t be learned. Eira understood now why people said that berserkers were said to be blessed with Odinn’s seiðr, because they were not of this world.

The Danir were gaining ground, moving forward through the hordes, one foe at a time. They moved more collectively, shoulder by shoulder, suffocating the scattered opposition. In a fleeting moment of air in their advance, Eira took in the scene around her. Geir’s enormous person cleaved the way ahead, wielding an axe that most people would not even be able to carry. On his flank was Magnus, as always, never leaving the great Thorian warrior’s back open. To her right stood a Danir warrior with an exceptional sword, a great feat of iron which was rarely found in the ranks of the common men, who mostly wielded axes and spears. The warrior was uncommonly unscathed for someone who had fought alongside them for hours. Wiping blood off her own brow, Eira did not know whether to respect him or disdain him. He must be either an exceptional fighter, or an exceptionally cowardly one, to look untouched on the seventh hour of fighting. 

Her eyes shifted back to the Geat in front of her, knowing a wandering eye on the battlefield could mean death in seconds. Her enemy had made that exact mistake, and Eira charged at him, shield first, smashing his helmet to his brow, her axe whispering through the air before it reached the soft tissue of his chest. When she looked up again, the unscathed warrior had disappeared from the brigade. Maybe his fate had finally caught up with him.

It was chaos, but it was somehow effective - each side fought with awestruck inspiration in a way that made blood rush to Eira’s ear and left a slight smile on her face as she placed her axe between a young man’s eyes. This was the way to live, and this was the way to die. There was a unison in knowing that. It transversed Danir or Sviar, enemy or foe. Drunken on the bloodshed, every warrior on the heath that day felt that they were fighting for a spot in Freyja’s hall Folkvangr, or Odinn’s hall Valhalla, and each enemy was but an aide on the way to that glorious afterlife.

That, of course, was not the whole truth. They were not there to enter Valhalla in a fury of blood and glory, but because King Gorm had a self-serving vision, in which he ruled over all the men of the northern lands. He was more than willing to sacrifice the lot of them to make it happen. Eira had not seen the famed Gorm, did not know the face of the man she was fighting for. Ingmar, Thorstein and the other jarls, who had travelled north with them on their grandiose longships, were also nowhere to be seen. But all of this was easy to forget in the overwhelming confusion and roar of adrenaline.

Maybe the stark absence of their own noble rulers was the reason something across the battlefield stood out so boldly, distracting her momentarily from the life and death scene unfolding in front of her. Far across, in another battalion of warriors, stood a man in the midst of the common men, who looked anything but common. Strong, swift and frightening, the man towered over his surroundings. Wielding a highly adorned iron sword, and clad in a hauberk the like of which Eira had rarely seen on the battlefield of commoners. His presence stopped her in her tracks. This man was not supposed to be on this heath. Had the Geats made the unlikely move of unleashing a high ranking magick wielder on the commoners?

Something caught in her throat, harsh and violent. Maybe her body knew before her brain that she had made a fatal mistake. She did not see the Geat before he was above her, planting his axe deeply into Eira’s clavicle with a squelch and a crunch. Hard and precise. A perfect blow, her leather armor helpless against it. Eira fell to her knees, her eyes wild as she tried to orient herself. The sky was gray, harsh above her. The ground was cold. The air sang with clangs of iron on wood. Thunder, or maybe the waves of a stormy ocean, welled up in her ears.

In seconds she was soaked by thick, warm liquid, each pulse drawing out her lifeforce. She began to whisper, desperately, the only prayer of galdr she could think of for strength to face what was coming. Give heed!  For I did not creep behind a shield. For I lived sworn as a blade of the Æsir. By Tyr! Ask first Eir for mercy…  Her voice failed her, and the forcefulness required of galdr was just a croak that eventually waned. She had never tried dying before, but knew this must be what it felt like. The hands of Skuld grabbed her, cold palms twisting her heart. She was thrashing, looking for a way to wield off the enemies closing in on her to deal the final blow. If she could only muster a swing of her arm, a signal for help. Something. Anything. 

In a crack of fire, the air around her seemed to explode. It was like the spark of a blacksmith’s hammer on the forge, but booming loud and forceful. The Geat towering above her flew through the air, as if grabbed by an invisible valkyrie. An exclaim of pure shock and fear escaped from someone close to her as they were propelled through the air. From the corner of her eyes, she saw other people land with hard thumps on the earth around her. Unmoving. She wanted to look for the source, to understand the change in the air, but she could not turn her head. She thought she might have lost the last of her life’s blood. The pain dulled, but it did not vanish. Skuld’s hands loosened as the gaping feeling in her chest dissipated. Two ravens circled above her in the sky and she knew surely, with Odinn watching, that this was it.

…

When she woke, she felt like she had not existed in months. There was a pressure on her chest. She knew Geir was somewhere by her shoulder, and she told him the last thing she had thought of before she had closed her eyes, eons ago: That this was it. She felt like he ought to know that she was leaving him. But instead of Geir’s face, she saw another person lean over her. Light blue eyes, dark hair. Someone she recognised faintly, a resemblance of someone she had only seen briefly the battlefield. An unscathed warrior with a great sword. But she couldn’t stop herself from leaning backwards into the shadows, a swooping feeling in her stomach of falling into a void, as everything disappeared around her.

…

A stabbing pain from her throat and chest jolted through her, telling her it had not been a dream. Was she home? She couldn’t be. Her bed was moving. The sharp herbal scent of yarrow and comfrey poultice rose from just below her nose, stinging her and overwhelming her senses. It smelled like Unn’s hands. The wet dressing on her clavicle was a cooling contrast to her burning skin. 

She listened to the sounds around her for a while before they began to make sense to her. She heard the waves first. The chatter and clanks, thumps and scuffling of people around her. Then, seagulls. They must be close to shore. Slowly, as if the muscles around her eyes had weakened completely, she blinked her eyes open. The sky above her was a light wash of grey with streaks of blue peeking through, a smatter of fluffy clouds dappled across. It must be the early hours of the morning, Sól not having ridden onto the sky in her chariot yet. Eira’s bed swayed gently up and down. If it was not for the pain, she might think she was flying. She blinked a long, slow blink, trying to lift a cloud from her mind. When she opened her eyes again, Geir’s grey eyes were staring down at her, a frown on his face, his ginger hair falling wild and uncombed towards her.

He did not say anything for a long time. She was not sure if her sense of time was off, or if he was really just standing there, inspecting her. Eventually, he reached for something at her side, pulling out and opening a small leather pouch. “‘Reckon you’ll want this” he mumbled gruffly, stuffing small pieces of willow bark into her mouth. She did not fight it. 

Her jaw felt slack, but she chewed meekly anyway. At least the stiffness of tetanus had not set in her jaw. The bitterness of the bark made her wince. The line between Geir’s brow deepened. He still had not spoken, and it was unnerving. He was a thinker, yes, when it came to strategy and the ways of the world, but words always came easy to him and he was never quiet for long.

“What…” she began, her voice hoarse like grainy sand. He turned his head stiffly, holding out a large palm to cut her off. He knew what she wanted to ask, and he did not want to answer.

The Knotted Mind

This piece symbolizes the struggles artists face—be it financial, emotional, or spiritual. Yet, despite this emptiness, his mind burns with an unstoppable force, representing inspiration, obsession, and the compulsion to create.

Nude Vampire With Gloves by Tanja Jeremić

Thralls of Skuld - Chapter 2: The Divine Order

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“I went to see her, you know. To ask for her help.” Unn said, throwing her head in the direction of the simple wooden hut nestled in between the tall grass and wild bushes. They were returning to Eiklund in the late afternoon, after three days of foraging. Eira wondered how flowers and plants could weigh so much.

“I thought you didn’t believe that fate could be changed?”

It was known that some of the woven threads of destiny spun by Norns led directly to vølur, woman wielders of a high magick form of called seiðr. Although they were inhabitants of Midgard, seiðr allowed them to walk between this realm and the eight others. Eira wondered what had driven Unn to call upon the services of such a seeress.

No one knew why this vølve had come to Eiklund two summers ago. Usually vølur were called upon by those in need, arriving with a following of young girls who helped them practice their seiðr through elaborate rituals of singing and drums. Yet the vølve who now resided on the far border of the Eiklund county had come alone, on her own volition. It had caused some suspicion, but she had made no demands or disturbance to the everyday life of the Danir. 

When a child had fallen woefully ill some months after her arrival, desperate parents had sought out the vølve, and she had performed a healing ritual that had fully recovered the sickly child. After that, people from all the nearby settlements flocked to her. Some even attributed last year’s bountiful harvest to her arrival. Yet many still harbored some suspicion towards the inconspicuous seer at the edge of the village. It seemed too good to be true, that she would have come simply to aid the people of Eiklund specifically. Eira herself had never sought her out, and neither had Unn until now.

“It was not for my own sake. When one of Ulf’s boys fell sick, I did not know what to do.” Unn explained. 

Eira remembered the rattling lungs of the scrawny little kid a few months ago. It had been many years since Ulf had lost his own children to the nøkke. He had filled the hole in his heart by taking in three orphaned boys, one of whom was a weak and sickly child.

Unn continued: “Ulf had come to me, you know he does not trust the vølve or anything magick, since the children…” she trailed off for a second and let the heavy words hang in the air. It felt like a small, sharp dagger stabbed between Eira’s ribs, briefly inserted and retracted again.

“But my tinctures and galdr could not help the child, and I could not bear to tell Ulf that it was beyond my powers.” Could not bear to tell him he would lose another child. Eira knew that was what Unn really meant, from the pained expression on her eyes. “So I took the child to the vølve, without telling Ulf. I thought she would heal the child through her own ritual, but instead she asked if she should teach me how to do it.”

“Teach you?” Eira’s mouth fell open. Unn nodded. “You mean, teach you seiðr?”

Eira looked back over her shoulder towards the vølve’s hut, which they had left behind as they turned onto the main road for Eiklund. The saying went ‘to wield seiðr without the Gods’ permission is to challenge Odinn himself.’ There were stories of both Gods and Jarls going to great lengths to stop the common people from using complex magick without permission. A threat to the nobility of Odinn’s chosen bloodline - and all their lucky lackeys - was a threat to the divine order itself. The commoners who showed magick prowess were plainly killed, while suspects were branded with magick runes that weakened them over time. In the olden days, entire villages had been burned to the ground or swallowed by the earth, vanquishing any rebellion that had existed in the hearts of the commoners.

“Yes, she wanted to teach me -” Unn avoided Eira’s wide eyes staring at her.

“This was months ago!” Eira interrupted whichever meek statement was coming next from Unn. “How could you not tell me?”

“I was not quite sure what to make of it. I didn’t know why she would teach me. It felt like being told a secret I did not ask for. I was afraid of what would happen if people knew.” The muscles around Unn’s brow and jaw had tightened. Eira bit her lip, considering the insinuation. It was true, this could not reach the ears of Jarl Ingmar, their vengeful ruler.

“Well -” A gleam sparked in Eira’s eyes, a curious excitement on her lips. “Did it work?”

Unn nodded again, still not quite meeting Eira’s eyes as she said “The boy is still alive, is he not? And stronger than ever.”There was a trace of pride in her voice.

Eira squealed. “Imagine!” she exclaimed, gaping. She grabbed Unn by the shoulder, bringing them both to a halt in the middle of the road. They were close to Eiklund now, the longhouse on the outskirts of the village visible in the distance. She contained herself and said more hushedly, “You must go back to learn more, Unn.”

Unn bit her cheek, removing Eira’s hand from her shoulder, gently but decidedly. “There is a reason why it is not allowed, Eira.” With that, Unn started walking again, not allowing herself to be influenced by Eira’s intent eyes on her. Eira had wanted to ask her more, but Unn walked away too quickly.

As they entered Eiklund, Eira excused herself from following Unn to her house. She had been absorbed by aiding her friend in the past few days, but knew that it was time to catch up with her warband, to prepare for what loomed ahead. They were leaving to join King Gorm’s army in Southern Selund in just a few days. 

As Eira bid Unn goodbye, Unn told her sternly “Do not tell anyone, okay?” and Eira promised, quelling the beaming curiosity inside herself to pursue this new information further. Imagine, she thought again as she made her way between the scattered longhouses of Eiklund, what real seiðr could do in the hands of the people.

Eira found a band of shield-brothers and sisters from Eiklund and the neighbouring villages, gathered at Ulf’s house. The smokey longhouse was filled with laughter and the smell of roast pork, telling Eira that she had arrived at just the right time. Ulf’s house was always a chaos of people.  The three orphan boys he had adopted chased each other around the house like Sól and Máni, the sun and moon who chased each other endlessly in the sky. The boys screeched and fought until they were sent outside with a yell from Ulf’s wife. People often flocked to Ulf’s house, him and his wife known for their exceptional hospitality. Today was no exception.

When she settled next to Geir, he slapped her shoulder heavily with his large hand and greeted her with a warning, his voice warm and jesting: “We were hoping you would not arrive in time for the discussions. We were planning on sending you headfirst into the Sviar legions, having you test out their powers before the rest of us go ahead.”

“Always the strategist.” Eira rolled her eyes.

“It’s brilliant!” Magnus, a young warrior, gestured enthusiastically between Eira and Geir.

“You would say that, wouldn’t you?” A shieldmaiden to Eira’s left jabbed at him, Magnus feigning ignorance over the thinly veiled suggestion. On the battlefield, people grew bonds beyond normal friendship. There was a deep familiarity between the frequently deployed fighters of the jarldom. Sometimes the bond developed further than friendship and loyalty. Most people did not see it in Magnus’ eyes, the utter devotion melting together with his always sparkling eyes and the expected admiration for the famed fighter Geir. For some, it was not even considered a possibility. But Eira was sure of it, and her shield sisters recognised it as well.

“Now tell us Eira, have you finished plucking flowers, so that you can actually discuss this new war with your warband?” Geir said with his roaring laugh. “We need your skills in galdr and runes to bring us to victory.”

The discussions of how exactly they would tackle this new venture continued into the night. Geir was convinced that their new foe, the Sviar, would be strange creatures with unknown powers and tricks. Of course, they had all met many Sviar traders who were as human as themselves, but Geir believed in preparing for the worst.

The coming days proceeded with many preparations before they would all leave to join their neighbours, travelling to the coast of Selund to join the army of their new King. 

So Eira had spent her last days before departure casting runes and inciting galdr in tedious rituals. It was a slow and imperfect process, the outcome never guaranteed. The galdr were rhythmic, metered songs, passed down from parents to their children, or between people of certain vocations. Eira’s verses had been taught to her by other warriors, but she had a special sense for the forceful vocalizations required for effective galdr. The galdr she knew was meant to strengthen the armor of her friends and weaken the weapons of her foes. There was never a way of knowing if it had worked, until they were on the battlefield.

She also weaved protecting words and phrases into wooden shields. Carving destructive runes of Tiwaz for strength and Isa for striking fear in the hearts of their enemies, anointing the runes with the blood of a ritually slain goat. She invoked the many Gods of war, Odinn, Freyja, Thor and Tyr, to grant them prosperity on the battlefield. Eira liked especially to call upon the oversight of Tyr, hoping for a fierce but righteous battle without unnecessary cruelty.

While she had her moments of disdain for the merciless nature of the Gods, Eira accepted the importance of these preparations in swaying the outcome of wars. It was a matter of understanding the divine order of things. Eira had always known her place as a warrior in the world. One must have courage and strength on the battlefield, but they must also know their place within the warformation. A strong shieldwall holds no cracks. This mentality was brandished into the very vocation of the commoner warriors, distinctly separate on the battlefield from the noble Jarl’s men and mages. The common men were blades, sharpened to carry out the bidding of their rulers without question, bound to steel and duty. They were rewarded with the spoils of war, fame and riches, but more importantly, a place in the halls of Odinn or Freyja in their eternal afterlife. This was the sweetest bounty, one which now urged her towards the land of the Sviar with excitement in her chest and courage in her heart.

by cocorrina.co

𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘴𝘦𝘵

Blessed Moon day. (Monday)

Tired of all who come with words, words but no language I went to the snow-covered island. The wild does not have words. The unwritten pages spread themselves out in all directions. I come across the marks of roe-deer's hooves in the snow. Language, but no words. -Tomas Transtromer

Nicola Samorì - In principio era la fine (2016)Olio su tavola - 40 x 30 cm

An evil presence fills this place

Cultist Church, by me, 2024

Circle of Anthonis Mor, Portrait of a Man in Armor (detail)

1558

Witold Pruszkowski - Falling Star, 1884.

Gilt bronze fragment from "the Temple Pyx", Germany, mid 12th century

from The Burrell Collection, Glasgow

Thralls of Skuld - Chapter 1: As The Seasons Turned The Tides

Read on Wattpad and AO3

In the land of the Danir, the late summer was filled with a bustle unlike any other time of the year. The harvesting of barley and wheats and haymaking kept the hands of the farmers busy, filling the air with the husky scent of grains.

Boys arrived from the summer pastures with cattle and sheep. The livestock returned fattened enough to keep through the winter, and the boys were filled with the experiences of leaving home on their own for the first time. Those who had returned short of sheep, which had veered off on dangerous roads or fallen prey to the wolves, looked downtrodden, worried about their fathers’ disapproving gazes. The ones who returned successful stood a foot taller than when they had left, emboldened by the spirit of Thor, who was not only a God of strength and thunder, but also the kind of maturation that often happened in the transition from boyhood to manhood. The boys had no doubt felt it in those months alone in the land. Alongside the return of the herders, tradesmen left for the tradecenter in Lejre to trade off their surplus wares and acquire winter supplies.

Offerings were made across the land to Freyr, the beautiful Vanir God of bountiful harvests and fertility. Those who knew how, burned runes of Nauthiz and Wunjo for endurance and good fortune for the coming months, knowing that Jera, the rune of fertility, would no longer do them any good. Others whispered simple rites of galdr, a throaty and rhythmic song to enchant their scythes for the final harvest of the year, hoping to turn the Gods in their favor and keep their harvested grain from catching rot in their storage chambers.

The village of Eiklund, too, was abuzz with the vital preparations before a long and harsh frost grabbed the lands. It was a larger settlement, with more than a dozen longhouses scattered across the grassy and lushly forested environs. The weather was milder here, away from the harsh and windy coast of Selund, the large island where Eiklund lay.

Eira found herself dragged into the woods every day by Unn, who wanted to forage the forest floor for the gifts of the last days of summer. Berries, mushrooms and medicinal herbs were abundant in the dense forests, which was just a few hours hike from Eiklund. Unn was enthusiastic in her plans for the big bundles of angelica and yarrow they found, remembering the strengthening tinctures her grandmother used to make from the dried herbs in wintertime. Eira was more excited for the bilberries and lingonberries, which she would use for marmalade, and the hazelnuts which would taste sweet like honey once they reached the dead of winter.

The days were still mild. Rays of sun broke through the canopies throughout the day, making the task light work. The two women did not mind spending many days in only each other’s company. They were more like sisters than friends, in both good and bad ways. Still, it was clear that they were not related. Unn was blonde, tall and plump with a soft and friendly face. Eira was shorter, her body strong and her hair long and auburn. She had a chiseled face with a strong jaw and dark brows that often fell naturally into a slight frown.

One day, they had returned painfully late in the evening to Eiklund because Unn had insisted on continuing their gathering “for just one more hour”, for almost three hours. The next day, Eira showed up with supplies for camping overnight. If they were going to spend all day out there, they might as well do so without the hassle of scurrying home late in the treacherous half-dark of dusk.

They had spent that evening in a makeshift campsite, sharing stories of the inhabitants of Eiklund and draughts of freshly brewed late-summer beer. As the hours stretched into the night, their conversation had slowed to slurred confessions about life. Unn missed her grandmother terribly, who had been her last living family member. Unn’s mother and father had died after a cough took hold of them when they were still supposed to have many years left in Midgard. Unn’s brother had died in battle. The grandfather, more mercifully, died of old age, reuniting him with his children in death in Niflheim.

Unn’s grandmother had been the village herbalist and healer, and spent the last years of her life passing on her skills to Unn. When dysentery had taken the grandmother, her final gift to Unn was teaching her how to care for the dying, and after, how to prepare them for burial. Unn had not wanted to learn it, not like that. But now, over the bonfire, she admitted to Eira that she was glad their last days together were spent learning instead of fretting and grieving.

The grief never came, not truly. After her grandmother’s death, Unn had taken over her duties as a healer for the community, although she still had things to learn. But Unn was studious and hardworking, and Eira helped her as often as she could. 

Unn often thanked Eira wholeheartedly for her help, believing that Eira did it simply from the goodness of her heart and the sisterly bond they shared. In truth, Eira had a keen interest in the skills and magick of healing and herbalism. Being a warrior herself, she saw the difference those skills made on the battlefield. 

Evoking Eira’s namesake, the Goddess of healing and mercy, Eir, was something no commoner knew how to do. Healing magick was reserved for the noble Jarl’s, their family, advisors and favoured fighters. A highborne warrior who knew how to incite healing galdr on the battlefield often saved wounded warriors from bleeding out before they could be attended to. For warriors of Eira’s station, all they could hope was to be able to carry the surviving injured back to the closest healer after the battle ended, before the cold fever of rot took hold. Then, the healers would work the kind of simpler herbalism that Unn was now foraging to prepare for.

The timely preparation of the healing ingredients was vital this late summer. Unn had been nervous since Jarl Ingmar’s men had brought news to Eiklund of an impending war. The Jarl, whose jarldom reached from the northern coast of Selund and into the countryside where Eiklund laid, had recently sent his men around the jarldom to raise their banners and swear their fealty, announcing that Jarl Ingmar had finally bent his knee to King Gorm.

In just a few years, the ambitious Gorm had consolidated the independent jarldoms across the land of the Danir into one united country. Jarl Ingmar was one of the last jarls to be convinced of the King’s vision of a united kingdom. Deeply entrenched in his own decade-old bloodfeud with the neighbouring Jarl Thorstein, Ingmar had seen the unison of the jarldoms as an admission of defeat. Yet, with a wrath and force that could only be explained as godly intervention, Gorm had managed to break every single jarl into either loyalty or submission.

After waging internal battles to solidify his rule over the Danir Jarls, Gorm has turned his eye towards the land of the Sviar. He was now calling upon the forces of his jarls to raise their banners under him and campaign into Svidland. Effectively, King Gorm had freed the people of Eiklund from one blood stained doom, only to bind them into another.

Unn had fretted, knowing she would be without her grandmother to care for the casualties.

Eira, on the other hand, had been excited. She had remarked herself as an exceptional shieldmaiden under Jarl Ingmar’s constitution. In the last few years of territorial warring between Ingmar and his neighbour Jarl Thorstein, Ingmar’s land had become famed for breeding a strong and stubborn kind of people, suitable for warfare. That was why their villages were first to be visited when it came to calling for axes.

Eira, coming from modest roots and destined for nothing great, had seen her natural skills as a fighter as an equal curse and blessing. She told Unn as much that night in the forest, where they had shared admissions over beer and bonfire. “Fighting feels like grabbing fate by its balls, escaping the grip of the Norns for just a moment. As if I can control the outcome of my life, instead of being left to the whims and mercies of Jarls or the Gods, as we are in every other aspect of life.”

“Do you really feel that you have no control over your own destiny?”

“Do you not?” Eira was both curious and provoking. “The Jarls decide when we fight, the Gods decide when we die. All we get to decide is what to put in our mouths, given the Gods have blessed us with a bountiful harvest enough to fill our bellies.” 

Unn shrugged, and began thoughtfully: “When my parents died, I felt like that. Like my life had been decided by something out of my control, knowing only the Norns hold the power to do that.” She weighed her words for a moment before continuing “But most of the time I believe that I can influence the outcome. That’s why I wanted to be a healer like my grandmother.”

That makes two of us, thought Eira, but she did not speak it. She yearned to be in charge of both life and death, believing that if she wielded the same authority to make decisions as the Jarls and Kings, many innocent lives might have been spared. It was probably naïve, thinking that might and lordship would not corrupt her, the same way it did to those who were born into it.

“Beer makes you think too much of fate and power,” Unn poked at her. It was true. “Let us rest, tomorrow you can take control of someone’s life by collecting enough yarrow to save your brethren’s lives in the months to come.”

As Eira laid to rest on the ground, still warm from the abundance of sun they had been blessed with that day, she thought of the many injustices borne to her community from the will of the Gods. When she thought of that injustice, which she did often, she thought especially of her shield-brother Geir.

Geir was one of the most famed living fighters of his station in the land of the Danir. While Geir was not of a bloodline important enough to sit at the high table of wartime decision-making, he was often chosen as warband leader to lead scores of warriors on the battlefield. He was almost impossibly strong, resembling Thor himself, exceptionally large and fiery-haired with thundering eyes. More importantly he was smarter than any other person on the battlefield. Where other warband leaders fought with a fierceful belief in sheer strength, Geir saw holes in their defence and patterns in their attacks, guiding the shield walls this way and that. He was quick to make decisions, almost always anticipating correctly, each and every time overpowering the enemy through wit as well as skill.

Geir’s wife, Siv, had bore him four sons, but only one had survived. A quiet boy of five summers, born in the shadow of the death of his kin before him and after him, Geir revered that boy like a gift from the Goddess Freyja herself. Once, a neighbour had jested that Geir, the best warrior on all of Selund, had taken all the strength for himself and left nothing for his kin to survive on this earth. Eira had found the jest cruel, and with a biting look silenced anyone who might think to laugh. She knew that perhaps the cruellest part was the hint of truth, knowing that the Gods indeed enacted these cruel ironies in Midgard, seemingly intent to not let anyone receiving their favor live a life too easy.

The last time Siv had been pregnant was two winters ago. In the cold dead of night, she had woken bloodied and birthed a still child. The wails of that night had woken the neighbours, and Eira knew that they were not only from Siv. The bereavement had settled on Geir’s face like curdled milk for more than a year.

Siv, a quietly resolute woman, had gone to Unn the next day, requesting a tincture to keep her bleeding at bay, and prayed to Freyja to still her womb. Unn, a helpless gossip with access to too much information from her occupation, had told Eira, but also rushed that she must not tell anyone, especially not Geir. Eira knew that Siv could not take another heartbreak, and forgave her for never telling her husband. At the same time, Eira knew that the only reason the scorned mask had lifted from Geir’s face, returning a booming laughter to his lips and life to his eyes, was the belief that he would yet father another child.

Such were the many fates of the people Eira called her neighbours, friends, shield brethren and sisters. Some took staunch devotion to the Gods, believing they might turn the tide of their fates with reverence. Others, under no illusion that they might have control or influence over the Gods, settled to just live their life on earth, accepting all of the occasional cruelty and glory it entailed. Eira thought those latter people were the true thralls of whichever fate Skuld, the Norn weaver of the future, had decided for them.

Jarl Ingmar’s bloodfeud with Jarl Thorstein had spun the destiny of many. The politics of bloodlines and the ruling class ranged far beyond their mundane concerns - it was not born from the will of the commoner. But as it spilled from the halls of nobility into animosity in the settlements of the commoners over the last decades, so had the bloodshed. Some had emerged victorious, like Geir and even Eira. The fierce battlefield between the two jarls had been a place for warriors to prove themselves and gain the favor of the Gods, the Jarl and the people. Others had died, screaming and writhing in agony, entire settlements engulfed by magickal fires set by humans birthed from evil spirits.

Eira had often marvelled at how the Jarl’s most favored men would not dirty their hands on the battlefield like true warriors. Born to nobility, they learned from a young age the ways of complex magick, wisdom that was forbidden to the commoners. Yet, instead of fighting on the battlefield, the highborns wielded their magick in cruel and unforgivable ways, stealing from both themselves and their victims the chance to live forever in Valhalla or Folkvangr. That glorious afterlife was only given to those who died on the battlefield. The highborne left the commoners to fight out their petty wars on the battlefield with rudimentary magick. The commoners hoped, often futilely, that a simple weapon incantation or rune casting might turn the battle in their favor, knowing full well that either Jarl and their mages could end the feud in a duel of magick, if they only dared face each other.Musings over the impunity of Gods and men alike often consumed her when she closed her eyes at night. This evening, the beer had laid a soft blanket over her mind, lulling her to sleep before the anger took hold of her and catapulted her into sleeplessness. She embraced Nótt’s cloak as the night enveloped her.

Nino Migliori | da “ Herbarium “ - 1974

Cloud Study, John Constable, 1822, Tate

Presented anonymously 1952 Size: support: 476 x 575 mm frame: 605 x 705 x 70 mm Medium: Oil paint on paper on board

http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/constable-cloud-study-n06065

The night the Moon was devoured. | Edge of Darkness

soft winter sunrise

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.

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

From the Viking hoard found in Lejre in 1850.

National Museum of Copenhagen, Denmark

Filling my tumbler with old woks

Kraft brown toned paper, office markers, pencils, liners, gouache.

cillaibohult