Aesir - Blog Posts

I hate the “Ragnarök is a Post-Christian Myth” theory.

First off, it feels like most people see that Snorri Sturluson was Christian and immediately assume he did what the Irish monks did to Irish mythology. This completely ignores why he wrote the myths down, which was to establish a cultural connection between Iceland and Norway, in order to try and get Iceland to join the Kingdom of Norway (which failed). It also ignores that fact that he WASN’T A MONK. Outside of a part about the Aesir being Trojans and living in Asia (which makes no sense when looking at the rest of the Edda and the myths within), and some stuff about some great god who is more powerful than all of the Aesir and is never actually named, there isn’t much evidence to there being large post-Christian changes.

The second problem is that the theory focuses too much on Loki. He doesn’t do much during Ragnarök. He captains a ship (whatever that meant to the Norse) and he kills/dies to Heimdallr. Each of his kids from Angrboda does more. Fenrir eats Odin, and in some versions also the sun, moon, and stars. Jormungandr floods Midgard and poisons the sky, along with killing the strongest of the Aesir, Thor. Hel(a) brings an army of Draugr from her realm to fight Odin and Freya’s einherjar (Freya got half of those who died in battle). I agree that Ragnarök is a story of revenge, but its not Loki’s. ITS THE JOTNAR’S REVENGE. Revenge for a long list of insults and grievances that started with the killing of Ymir during the Voluspa by Odin and his brothers. Also, both Fenrir and Jormungandr are getting revenge against the gods they hate most, whom they are stated to kill. In the end Surtr, king of Muspelheim, kills Freyr, destroys Asgard, and burns all of the worlds (which since they are made of Ymir’s corpse, make this technically Ymir’s funeral pyre). Also the Jotnar on Loki’s ship aren’t his troops, they are led by a different Jotun, and it isn’t even his ship.

I could do an entire other post on the problems with how Loki gets viewed through modern lenses, and I’m tempted to.

Sad God

Tell me one thing Loki.

How long have we had to watch humans use their fortitude to spread bad things and lie.

How long have we had to feel moderation being suppressed.

How long have we seen justice protect the accused and ignore the victims.

And why do humans use their prudence to harm others and plant the wickedness?

Tell me again Loki, do humans really deserve their will when there is blood on their hands?

An Eternal Hope: Prologue

Summary: The wood elf Ilandian reads an excerpt from an ancient book recording the history of the lands of Valhöll, back to the time of the Old Gods. Briefly, its inconsistencies and falsity gets his mind off of his human mentor Torvir's failing health...

Rating: 18+

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of death, battles, use of poison, depictions of loss and grief, if I missed anything please let me know!

All rights reserved. This work has been copyrighted. No part of this book may be copied or used in any form. [Don't mind my crappy attempt at quoting my copyright page. I don't think I'm allowed to actually use it here. I don't mind reblogs or anything like that, but please don't repost without my permission and especially without credits to me. Thank you! <3 ]

Refer to the pronunciation guide if you have any questions!

In the beginning, before you or I or our ancestors lived, the world was born to ice and fire.  

  In the south, there was a realm called Muspell. This realm was made of magma and volcanoes; it was a barren wasteland of basalt and brimstone. Few things lived there, and those that did were inherently hellish. To the north was another realm, called Niflheimr, and this world was vastly different from its counterpart; cold and unforgiving. Great mountains of ice and snow rose into a deep blackness, lit only by the distant light of Muspelli flames. It was a lifeless emptiness of windswept tundra, save for one thing: Hvergelmir, the spring that is the source of the eleven rivers called the Elivagar. They were Svol, Gunnthra, Fjorm, Fimbulthul, Slid, Hrid, Sylg, Ylg, Vid, Leipt, and Gjoll. 

  Between these realms was a great endless chasm known as Ginnungagap. The rivers that sprang from Hvergelmir tumbled into this chasm thick with congealing venom and it turned to slag, which froze into slopes. The drizzle that fell from the venom-rivers was met with slag and turned to rime.  

  From the south, the warmth of Muspell carried up and north on the winds, meeting the rime of Niflheimr across even the chilling depths of Ginnungagap. The hoar-frost of Niflheimr began to melt and drip, and from this began life, as it formed Ymir, the first and most evil of the frost giants. He was the father of all frost giants, and by them, he was called Aurgelmir.  

  From the drops came also Audhumla, the Sacred Cow, who fed Ymir in his youth and nursed him to adulthood. She licked the salty blocks of ice, and slowly, over the course of three days, revealed a man. This man, Buri, was the first of the gods, the immortal men, and he married a frost giantess of Ymir’s line and had a son named Borr. Borr was also married, and he had three sons. They were called Odin, Vili, and Ve. 

 The sons grew hateful towards the frost giants as they became grown men, and so slaughtered Ymir. From his wounds burst rivers of blood so violent it flooded Ginnungagap and destroyed all the frost giants. From the corpse, the three sons created a world made for life to flourish, and they called this Nærnin. To light this world, the sons took the sparks from the ruins of Muspell and used them to create constellations of stars and the sun. To accompany the sun, they crafted a moon from the ice remnants of Niflheimr. All were placed in the black heavens above. 

  Upon admiring their new home the brothers came upon two fallen trees, an ash and an elm. They lifted them and formed the first man and woman, Ask and Embla. Odin gifted them with the spirit of life so that they may move and speak freely; Vili bestowed upon them wit and kindness; Ve gave them ears so that they could listen twice as well as they could speak, and sight so that they could gaze on the beautiful world the brothers had made. They gave solely to the first humans a realm known as Midgard for them to grow and flourish. 

  So that the mortals could keep track of time, they took Night, a daughter of a frost giant who had wed one of Buri’s line, and her son Day, kind and fair, and they were determined by the brothers to make rounds of Nærnin, patrolling its borders and protecting its peoples. 

   Upon Midgard, a man descended from Ask and Embla had two children, and they were so beautiful he named them Sol and Mani, after the sun and moon. Odin, Vili, and Ve were so angered by this that they swept both children away, and after placing them in chariots, bid them to race across the sky in turns to guide the sun and moon on their courses. Mani leads the way, accompanied by two children called Bil and Hjuki. Behind Sol is Hati, a wolf who will one day catch and devour her at the End of Days. In front of her is Sköll, another wolf, who will catch Mani. 

  The Sun, so scared was she of Hati, shed tears of gold. These tears fell upon the surface of Nærnin and when they festered in her light, became tall, fair elves. Some of these fell into the shadows of the world, and these became dark elves and orcs. Mani shed tears of sympathy for his sister, and these too fell on Nærnin, but upon distant lands, and became the shape changing drakes. Elves and drakes were considered to be noble races, but they chose their lands and went far off on their own separate adventures. 

   Over it all stands the Worldtree, Yggdrasíl. Its topmost branches can never be reached by mortal man, and a mountainous root descends each into Asgarð, Jötúnheimr, Midgard, and Niflheimr. Deer frolic upon it and eat its moss and bark. Atop it sits an eagle, Hraesvelg, the source of all the wind in the Nine Worlds. Below, in Niflheimr, rests Nídhogg, and he chews vehemently upon the root of Yggdrasíl in an attempt to weaken her and chew through to Hraesvelg. Between them scurries Ratatösk, who carries false insults from one to the other, causing eternal conflict between the two. 

  When all was done and the world was new, Odin, Vili, and Ve remembered the maggots that had crawled in Ymir’s flesh. They gave them the shape and speech of men and they were called dwarves, but they were stout and stocky in body with unusually large ears and eyes that could see in both complete darkness and daylight. They took to living in the depths of the earth, unseen or heard by most. Their chief was Modsognir, and his deputy, Durin. Though their origins were questionable at best, none could question the craftsmanship in the handiwork of dwarven smiths; it was unmatched by all in the worlds, and would forever remain that way. 

  Now Odin, Vili, and Ve went and summoned the guardians of men. They together built the stronghold of Asgarð, a shining golden city, upon sheer gray cliffs that rose hundreds of feet into the air. This is where the gods, or Æsír, resided, watching over their lands. There are far too many to be named here, but most notable among them were Odin All-Father, the strongest and oldest, and his wife Frigg, Goddess of Marriage; Frey, God of Life, and his sister Valfreyja, Goddess of Love; Thor, son of Odin, God of Storms and Battle; Loki, blood-brother to Odin and God of Mischief; Heimdall, Guardian of the Bïfröst; and Baldr, son of Odin and future King of Æsír. Aside from these, there were twenty-four well-known Æsír, twelve male, and twelve female, and then many more lesser Æsír. Among them lived the Great Elvenkings and Elvenqueens in the City of Gold, and worthy lords and ladies of all races were brought to the Capitol of All the Worlds in a great center of commerce and trade. 

  The Æsír spent many thousands of years together in peace, antagonized by their enemies to start Ragnarök, the End of All Things, earlier than foretold by the three Norns, those who wove the fate of all creatures. They lived like great kings of men and went on many adventures on many worlds, becoming ever more powerful. But, despite all they had done to prevent it, Ragnarök came. 

  Foreshadowed by three years of winter, Fimbulvetr, war soon followed. This war lasted three hundred years and took many lives, and this suffering brought about the End of All Things.  

  The sky ran red when Hati caught Sol, spilling her blood. The clouds were stained with the smoke of war and turned black as a crow’s wing. Fenrisúlfr broke free of his bonds and gobbled up the sun, while his brother Jörmúngandr slid from the oceans onto land, destroying anything in his path. Naglfar, the Ship of the Dead, set sail from Niflheimr for Vigrid, the prophesied final battlefield of the gods. The Bïfrost broke under the weight of a thousand horses’ hooves, and Heimdall blew Gjállarhorn, summoning the einherjerii of Valhalla to battle. The Æsír and the giants with their undead and evil creatures fought to the death on Vigrid’s shores. Amid the chaos, Surtr, the king of Múspellheimr, swung his flaming sword, engulfing all of the world of Nærnin in a hellish inferno that scorched the land to blackness and turned oceans to steam.  

  When the ashes cleared, not much was left. The world had been cleansed but at a terrible cost. Only a mere handful of the Æsír had survived. Of them, Baldr, son of Odin, with his wife Nänna, came back from Helheimr and took the throne. Líf and Lífthraisír, the last humans, were escorted back to Midgard by way of ship, guided by Magni and Modi. But it was only days after leaving that Midgard, and all it once was, sank into the depths of the oceans without the support of Jörmúngandr at its base, leaving nothing more than an island chain. 

   As the sons of Thor reached the broken harbors, so did another ship. A great ship of white wood, it carried dozens of well-armored hominids resembling elves. They were the drakes, coming back to the worlds of the Æsír to fight in Ragnarök, but too late. The Norns had delayed them so the proper fate could pass. Their true forms were dragonesque in nature, their king unimaginably large in size. He was called Fhyrisaal King, and now with Ragnarök ended he had changed his intentions to make an allegiance with the god-kings. The Golden Gods gladly agreed to his peacemaking. 

  A spawn of Yggdrasíl, with the great tree of life long gone, took root in each world, both surface and sky and even deep below in Helheimr and Nídavellír. These were called the Worldtrees, and they became centers of trade, where peoples of all races and worlds, even from distant shores, could meet one another and share tales. Their topmost branches, inaccessible to most, could be seen from most corners of whichever world they were in. These were a memory of what had been, a gift to those who remembered the Golden Age and to those who would hear stories of it. 

  The courts of Gimlé in Asgarð, Brimir in Okolnír, Sindri in Nidafjöll, and Nastrond at the Shore of Corpses were established, all good halls for good men, save for the last, where the dishonorable dead would eternally wade in the poison issued from the snake-mouth walls. Baldr lifted some of the worlds above the surface, letting them float as sky islands, and also put three more moons into the sky and a new sun, and made them take up the positions of their predecessors. This rebirth had the Eight Worlds renamed Valhöll, after Odin's Hall of Warriors.  

  A millennium later, a chain of disturbing murders started in Vanaheimr. When the murderers were caught, it was revealed that they belonged to a cult, their only symbol that of a shadowed skull wreathed in black flame. They claimed they were on a mission to end the peace of Valhöll, thinking the purity of the land obscene. They wished to restore disorder and chaos. The Æsír ordered a dungeon to be built to house these criminals, and a search commenced to find the leaders of the cult, but the damage had already been done. Spies had infiltrated the houses of kings and civil wars had started between the Surface Worlds over territory and game. In an attempt to stop them, Border Walls were erected between the worlds. They were practically insurmountable slabs of stone ten meters high, placed on the exact borders that Baldr had previously determined. 

   No number of dungeons could hold the surge of convicts. The nobles of the worlds began to take prisoners of war and the poor among them as slaves. Any criminals, rogues, or slaves who had escaped fled to the chain of islands beneath the Sky Isles, creating the Pirate Archipelago. Black Markets were established by them on the northern shores of Svartalfheimr and Niflheimr, as Vanaheimr was too closely watched. 

  When the unfinished dungeons grew full, the Æsír had any further criminals caught and placed on the wild, overgrown isle between Höddgarðr, that place which houses Asgarð, and Alfheimr, to be retrieved once the dungeons were finished: Midway Isle. But they could not be found, for they had all seemingly vanished. 

   Baldr, busy with trying to amend the situations of the Surface Worlds with his fellow Æsír, recruited a light elf general by the name of Vaeryn Golden-Eye to investigate with his troops. They found that a few of the prisoners had leapt off of the isle to their deaths, but the majority of them had fallen prey to the isle’s inhabitants: somehow, dragons had roosted upon the isle. They had built a city of pale stone that they called Tal’mar, where the dragonic royalty lived, and they had assumed that none would miss the humans that had been dropped on the isle, which they called Zou’maal. 

  Baldr was going to destroy the dragons, but Vaeryn desperately urged him not to. Despite the deaths, he thought that they would miss a grand opportunity– an opportunity to make allies with one of the most dangerous races of Valhöll. So Baldr reluctantly allowed him to observe the dragons for one year. Vaeryn gathered a few apprentices and began his work at once. 

 The dragons upon the isle were highly intelligent, able to do complex math and communicate through a special form of racial telepathy if they weren’t speaking– and only the eldest among them performed the latter. They were primarily solitary creatures, but some, especially siblings, traveled in groups– very few of them dwelt in Tal’mar. They were so quick, they knew of Vaeryn’s presence immediately, and allowed him to study them up close with the shared interests of their races in mind. A great silver quadruped dragon, Zephysus, was to be their guide, but before the year was out, he had Chosen Vaeryn as his companion. Between them was the first Mindbond of dragon and rider. 

  As it had never been recorded before, Vaeryn reported that he and his companion could now speak through the mind. They shared pain, and emotions; his Bond with his companion gave him further strength and magic, as if he as Zephysus were one. Even without a Mindbond, dragons and their riders were so close, they were inseparable.  

  They together requested to build a school upon the Sky Isle north of Alfheimr to teach not only what would soon become the newly-formed faction of the Drekivörðr, but to return factions of einherjerii, valkyries, and even healers. This academy he called Hýveldírin, after his father. Baldr bid them do so quickly, and thus it came to pass that dragons, men, and elves formed a new class of warrior.  

  Crime was diminished as dragons became more frequent, and peace was returned to Valhöll once more. For ten thousand years, peace was upheld. 

 The Æsír were not surprised when once again, the cycle returned to war as armies of undead and demons began attacking the coasts of the Surface Worlds. Captured individuals claimed to work for a godlike entity known only as Vandr, but his future warmongering actions gave him the title of Lord of All Evil. 

  At the same time, nine haphazard warriors became einherjerii. Their real names are not known, but they were called by all who knew of them Owlheart, Wolfheart, Falconheart, Bearheart, Hawkheart, Ravenheart, Ramheart, Deerheart, and Tigerheart. All nine of them had come from hard lives of slavery, roguehood, and piratehood, and had worked hard to win their half-freedoms in service to the Æsír. 

  At a battle in Jötúnheimr, Vaeryn’s ancient great-grandson, Rígurd, saw their potential, and put them through a series of perilous tasks to prove their worth. Once they had shown beyond doubt that they were the most capable out of the sponsored “heroes” that had been put through the same, they were given special permits and became Drekivörðr. The more they fought, the more it was clear to Rígurd that they were not average warriors. To test his claim, the Æsír tasked them first with finding the fabled Treasure of Fafnir. 

  Following clues in ancient legends, they searched for twelve days and nights before locating the treasure, despite everyone’s low expectations of them. It had been hidden within the cursed dragon’s old lair, guarded by a pack of dögúl hounds, out of Vandr’s number. In the excavation of the treasure with the help of the einherjerii, they found another treasure that they did not expect: a Shard of Bïfrost, a piece of the ancient Rainbow Bridge that had bound Asgarð to Midgard so long ago. When they brought it to the Æsír, they were told to find the remaining eight Shards. 

   It took them four turns of the moon Týrs to find them all. Once brought to the Æsír, they were forged into nine magical swords and nine magical shields, which were henceforth known as the Bïfrostblaða and Seiðskjöllir. The Norns beheld a vision of the nine as heroes, the slayers of Vandr. At their behest, the Blades and Shields were gifted to them, and they were dubbed Drakahalr, held above even the Drekivörðr general in ranking. 

 They were put through several more grueling tasks, which included finding the Shield-Breaking Blades of Sígarsholm and forgotten relics that had once belonged to the gods themselves, which will not be mentioned here. When all of these were located, the Æsír gifted the forty-two blades to the greatest of valkyries, and the Treasure of Fafnir was melted down and fitted to the most accomplished of the einherjerii as armor. As a final gift, enchanted armor, Galdyrbrynja, for the heroes and their dragons were made by master dwarven smiths, crafted out of materials as Gleipnír, the ribbon that had bound Fenrisúlfr, was. 

  War came to Valhöll’s soil, and lasted for many years. This span of time later became known as the Uprising. At the end, the Drakahalr met Vandr himself. He challenged the heroes to face him on Vigrid, with their armies at their backs to face his own. 

   On the dragon-ship the Ellída, the Drakahalr set sail, followed by ten thousand einherjerii, valkyries, and the magic-made vaettrhaerr, born only to serve the heroes. Flying above them was the drake’s army, led by Fhyrisaal King himself. 

 Waiting in the center of Vigrid, amidst the ancient remains of Fenrisúlfr and Jörmúngandr, was Vandr, surrounded on all sides by his army of undead, wraiths, and demons. The two forces met in a clash worthy of songs. The battle lasted three days and nights, and at the end of the third, the Drakahalr finally met their opponent. 

  Their dragons now dead, they had each other alone as they fought the mad king. By command of the Norns, they brought him to a yielding point, and bound him in the ribbon Gleipnír, the very same which had held Fenrisúlfr an age ago. They locked him in a steel coffin with magic chains, and with the help of Fhyrisaal King, buried him eight fathoms beneath the earth. 

   It wasn’t long after that they fell in battle, pelted with poisoned arrows before any could come to their aid. Fueled by rage and grief, the armies of Valhöll prevailed over the failing regiments of Vandr. Upon their return to the Eight Worlds, a proper funeral was held for the heroes. The Norns had more visions of a time when Vandr would return, prompting the Drakahalr to be reborn; next time, they would have even greater strength, gifted with immense power. 

   The Æsír hid the Bïfrostblaða, Seiðskjöllir, and the Galdyrbrynja in places that only the Drakahalr would find them. 

   And for six hundred years, they waited...  

Ilandian replaced the book in its proper place on the shelf, brow furrowed. He glanced over his shoulder; his mentor was too engrossed in ensuring several old documents were in their places to notice him slacking on his own work. Ilandian heaved a sigh and documented the presence of the book he’d been reading, the time, and date, in the record book that his supervisor Torvir had given him.  

   Outside, through the thirty-foot high stained glass windows, the young wood elf could see that twilight was settling on the city of Asgarð. It was a mournful look, he thought. Or perhaps it was his superstitions, having grown up in a place where twilight was considered a time when the spirit world and the world of the living intersect. Ilandian stood from his crouched place at the end of the shelf, glancing at his mentor.  

    For a mortal man such as Torvir, this work was days long and grueling. Often, Ilandian heard the old man’s bones creaking and popping in protest as he tried to sink to the floor, then his body would not allow him to stand again. But for him, it was easy, if boring, and fast-paced. He wondered if Torvir had been a faster man in his youth...  

   No time for those thoughts now, he scolded himself, and whipped back around to sign his name in the log beside his previous recordings. The old man does not have much time left...  

  Torvir was ninety-three, with scarcely any hair upon his head and a scraggly white beard. His eyes and hearing were failing rapidly, but his mind was still fresh and young. He wore the red and gold robes of a noble scholar, such as he was, which hung on his frail, shaking body. He looked as if he might collapse at any moment. Nevertheless, he was considered a sort of priestly figure, insisting on going to weekly sermons despite his poor health and preaching of the Æsír’s greatness. He was a hero of sorts to the people, having even in these recent days been a leader in the hunt for clues on the whereabouts of the Shadowskull Order that even still plotted the Æsír’s downfall. 

   As Ilandian’s deep maroon-on-black eyes scanned his supervisor’s fragile form, he could not help but to feel sorry for him. Filled with premature grief, he closed the record book and crossed the space between the shelves, tables, and seats. “I am finished,” Said Ilandian, louder than he liked to speak.  

   Torvir weakly responded, moving his head vaguely in the direction of Ilandian. His pale blue eyes squinted to focus on the elf’s tall and slim figure. “Oh? Done already, my boy?” His croaking voice scratched roughly out of his throat. 

   Ilandian winced. For seventeen years he had worked under Torvir, and the thought of losing him was a taxing thought indeed. “Yes, my lord.” After a moment of hesitation, Ilandian added, “I could finish your rounds for you, if you’d like.” It was the very least he could do, although it was by no means any repayment for the long years of kindness that Torvir had gifted him. 

    Torvir waved a bony hand. “Nonsense, dear boy; I can finish on my own.”  

  “Then would you at least have me by you?” Asked Ilandian, coming closer and setting his record book down on a nearby table. If Torvir lost his balance, he would not be able to get up. Or if a heavy book fell, he would be hurt. Many horrible accidents swam through Ilandian’s mind, but none so vile as the event which he knew would soon occur. Again, Torvir waved him off, dismissive with pride in his old age. “No, no; go and get yourself ready for the evening tea, Ilandian. I will be there, on time and as promised.” 

   Ilandian hesitated for a long few moments, but finally, he bowed at the waist, inclining his head. If he will not accept aid, he is forced to accept my respect. “If you are... Absolutely certain, my lord.” Ilandian grabbed his record book and quill and made his way to the manifest room, where he could return both items. Silently, he vowed to come and check on Torvir if the old man did not show up for tea on time. 

    In recent years, as Torvir had aged, it had become a tradition for Ilandian and his friend to meet for tea once a week on Wodensdäg. This one would be different; Ilandian knew that it would be his last. With the utmost care, he returned the record book to its rightful place, and he did the same with the quill. He left the room with one final glance to his supervisor before setting off for the Gathering Room. 

  All the doors of the palace of Valaskjalf were huge, crafted ornately of oak straight from the Ironwood to the north of the golden city. Torvir struggled with them, so Ilandian left the doors open for him. Turning right, he traveled down the golden hall lit by the huge arched windows with the setting sun. He passed very few individuals, as these halls were restricted to all but those who were chosen Master Scholars or apprentices. Up a winding staircase in a shining tower crafted beautifully with ancient knot and dragon designs, Ilandian was met with the second floor of a great rounded room. This was the Gathering Room, a meeting room for the Master Scholars of Valaskjalf, those who were chosen by the Æsír to continue their legends and legacy.  

  Positioned around the staircase was a long table, stools, a cooking area, and an entertainment area where the scholars could enjoy songs, music, tales, or plays put on by esteemed members of Asgarð. Tonight though, the room was empty, and Ilandian was alone. With the utmost care, he prepared the woodburning stove and the kettle, and even more carefully prepared the water and tea leaves.  

  Ilandian sat by one of the windows and looked out upon the shadowed golden city. Torches lit the streets, while dragons patrolled the skies. Against the distant rising moons of Týrs, Mún, and Dägsa, the silhouette of the Asgarðian Worldtree loomed over the mountains that surrounded the city like a protective girdle. What will I do with him gone? Will I leave this place, or stay? 

  The kettle whistled as Ilandian pondered; he hurried over and removed it from the stove. His advanced hearing caught the halting footsteps of his supervisor approaching the stairs down below; quickly, he retrieved two old cups from the cupboard. One of them was chipped badly, and after pouring the tea, he added to the unblemished one a few drops from a tiny glass vial he slipped from his sleeve. Regretfully, he replaced the vial and set both cups upon a tray, taking them to the table as he heard Torvir reach the stairs.  

   Ilandian rushed downstairs with all speed to greet his beloved mentor. Torvir was barely hobbling along, exhausted from the day in the library. Ilandian went to his side, assisting the old man up the stairs even as he waved him off. “You should not do such hard work anymore, my friend.” 

  “Nonsense, nonsense,” Puffed Torvir laboriously, “I can do just the same work... As I ever did...” 

   Ilandian remained silent and grim on their way up the stairs. He tried, desperately, to convince himself that what he was about to do was for the benefit of Torvir. He was old and in pain, overworked by the Æsír who did not think to care for him. They considered him replaceable, and already had chosen Ilandian to take his place, including the special duties of finishing Torvir’s work involving the Shadowskulls. If Torvir lived but a few more days, he could very well discover their stronghold and eradicate them from existence, at least for a while. Ilandian was certain that he would not do so well as the old man that he helped up the stairs. 

  The tea, he was sure, was cold when they finally arrived at the top. He assisted Torvir down onto one of the stools and, with a heart heavy with grief and remorse, passed the unblemished cup to his mentor. When his sight was better, Torvir had joked that Ilandian would one day die of paint poisoning if he did not stop drinking from the chipped cup– but scholars, despite their noble status, did not receive enough wages to both care for themselves and repair what they might have lost in their shared possessions– they all spent it on their own persons, rather than what they would commonly use at a gathering. Luckily, most of them detested any kind of socialization. Instead of letting his supervisor drink from it, he drank from it himself. 

   Ilandian had to look away as Torvir drank from the cup. Icy claws of guilt raked deep tears at his insides, and he truly felt as if he were bleeding. “Ah,” He said after a long sip, “That is refreshing, after a long day of work... And delicious! My friend, did you add something more?” 

   “Honey,” Rasped Ilandian, staring at his reflection on the surface of his own tea. “From the beehives of the Asgarðian garden.” 

   “You received such permission?” Breathed Torvir in awe. He coughed a laugh, weak and feeble. “My, you are full of surprises, Ilandian!”  

  You have no idea... Permission to even enter the gardens of Asgarð was seldom given. But as a gift for his dying master, one beloved by everyone in the palace aside from the Æsír, it was practically effortless to obtain just enough honey to flavor a final cup of tea. It was the least he could do… even if it had the double purpose of disguising the poison. 

    Finally, the agony of waiting was over. Torvir’s eyes bulged out of his head as he gasped, clutching his chest. Now, came the hardest part for Ilandian– acting as if he knew nothing of what was happening. He knew of many spells which could allow someone specializing in the necromantic arcane to see into the last few moments of someone’s life. He knew of similar incantations that could revive a soul long enough to allow them to speak of who killed them. He also knew that, with Torvir, such precautions would be taken– especially in the manner of his death. So close to discovering the hideout of the Shadowskulls, it would be all too convenient timing, despite his age, especially when the healers were trying their very hardest to ensure he lived long enough to at least declare without a shadow of a doubt where the headquarters of the Order resided.  

   Thankfully, honey made by Asgarðian bees is renowned amongst the cults of assassins for masking any type of poison, even from magical investigations– a little-used method and a little-known fact. He could present the vial with the poison straight to any sorcerer for investigation and they’d never know it had venom in it. 

    The reaction was fake, yes; but the grief... That was real. 

 “My lord?” Ilandian’s head snapped up. For all intents and purposes, Ilandian’s previous depressive state could have been because he was worried for what he knew would soon come, as everyone was. He had taken up the persona when it was stated by the healer who looked after the scholars that Torvir did not have much longer to live– it was not a terribly difficult thing to do, after all. 

   Torvir collapsed, choking and freezing up; the sound of his mentor’s dying gasps would haunt him for the rest of his life. “No!” Cried Ilandian, and caught his supervisor before he hit the ground. “No, you cannot die yet! You cannot!” 

   It was too late, as he knew it was already– the poison was deep in Torvir’s system. To any who were knowledgeable of human biology, it would look like an attack of the heart. There would be no evidence pointing to the young elf, and he could go about his work without risk of being put away.  

   Stiff with his own grief, Ilandian laid Torvir’s rigid body on the ground; his eyes were open wide, his hand forever stuck clutching at his breast, his mouth agape in a silent scream that would echo for eternity.  

   Ilandian let his gold-tinted tears fall; he regretted what he had done, but he knew it was necessary. I am truly sorry, my friend... I wish it did not have to be this way. Had Torvir been allowed to continue his work, and his body tolerate the weeks of slow poisoning Ilandian had done to him for just a while longer, he may have found the Shadowskulls.  

    And they had work to do yet.  

   Ilandian wiped the tears away with the backs of his hands, forcing himself to regain his composure. Using a special ward, he was able to temporarily shield himself from prying eyes, future and present; none would see his actions henceforth until he dropped the spell, but he could only maintain it for a few minutes at most. He lifted his left hand and incited, “Menora vaurae lietis.” A projection appeared over his palm– the projection of a cave, dimly lit.  

  A silhouette stood before him, awaiting a report. The leader of the Shadowskull Order had never been seen by his followers. All they knew him as was a shadowed figure with an altered voice, speaking from a cave none could find. Many had tried to seek him out– only to end up dead and displayed in the headquarters of the Shadowskulls as an example to others who would try it. He was merciless and relentless; just what the Order needed. 

  “Well?” He demanded shortly in a warped tone. 

  “It is done,” Ilandian replied evenly. His youthful elven face showed no sign of his grief, his expression having been trained into a perfect mask, but the words were heavy on his tongue. “Torvir is dead.” 

 “Good,” The Shadowed Figure leaned back in satisfaction. “I’ve prepared everything. You know to hold a substantial grieving period, yes?” Ilandian nodded; I’ve already begun... “And then you will, over the next few weeks, lead them to an abandoned cave five miles to the north of headquarters. You will then admit to either reading Torvir’s studies wrong, or that Torvir was wrong in the first place. You will later prove the latter, and start the research over. You will be contacted and be given further instructions at that time.” 

  Ilandian fought showing surprise or asking questions. It seemed dangerous to have a battalion of einherjerii and valkyries swarming a cave so close to home, but he knew better than to question the Shadowed Figure. He bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.” 

  The Shadowed Figure waited a moment, then, “...Well done, Ilandian. I know it must have been hard for you...” Ilandian fought a surge of emotion– guilt and grief slammed together, and he swayed with the effort of keeping a straight face. “...But we all must make sacrifices for the good of the people. You must understand how important it is for us to have a spy within the ranks of the Master Scholars; now, no matter how hard they try or how close they come, we can be certain that no one will find us. 

  “The time is almost upon us, Ilandian; rumors have begun to spread... Rumors of the Æsír, of the elves... And of him...” 

   Ilandian’s head snapped up, but the Shadowed Figure continued before he could say anything. “When the time comes, the Order shall rise once again, and we will vanquish the corruption that has filled the hearts of our leaders... Valhöll will be free of lies and deceit once again. Just remember who we do this for, if you ever feel doubts.” 

    Ilandian’s mind flashed to someone– the only one– that he loved. Someone he loved more than anything in the world: the reason Torvir lay dead on the floor behind him, and the reason he had joined the Order in the first place. The reason he was so determined to destroy the Æsír. 

    Without another word, the Shadowed Figure ended the contact. Ilandian let his hand fall for a moment, and then began another incantation that would further shield what had just transpired, sewing the gap of time together so that the transition appeared seamless. If any sorcerer, even any seiðberendr, attempted to scry the past to see Ilandian’s reaction, they would find no trace of spells. All they would see is Ilandian clutching his mentor as he died, just before he ran for help.  

   He raced downstairs, headed for the healer’s chambers. His hatred for the Æsír filled his every step.

If anyone would like to be added to my taglist, please let me know!

A Healing and A Prayer

This past week I've been thinking about performing a healing work for someone in my life that has contracted COVID-19. As healing has never been my forte I've been a little nervous about how to proceed. I noticed something interesting every time i found my mind turning to it (the work) though, the goddess Iðunna. 

Now, as someone who considers myself rökkatru, this was rather odd. Odd or not I decided that if it was THIS persistent, than there must be something to it. 

So, earlier this evening, I dressed a candle, lit simple incense and honestly and earnestly prayed to the Lady of the Orchard. I'm not sure how well the prayer for healing was received (only time will tell) but I did feel a shift in the air when Her name first passed my lips. I believe that She at least heard me and hopefully answered my plea. 

I'm not sure what kind of results I'm hoping to see, but I have decided that regardless of it I plan to continue building a relationship with Her.

“Oh great goddess of the Æsir, Our Lady of the Orchard

Please pass your blessing of restoration onto him that I love.”