by arrow, by teeth — hela & fenrir jb

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fox
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last seen Apr 25, 2024 12:23:42 GMT -5

but a butt ?

by arrow, by teeth — hela & fenrir jb Oct 3, 2022 20:02:51 GMT -5

Post by fox on Oct 3, 2022 20:02:51 GMT -5

f e n r i r

She arrives later, after all the ceremony.

The district buildings are smooth. It's very quiet inside. You touch the pane of glass, warm from sunlight, and watch the birds gather on branches outside your window. Below, a few people still linger in the square. A seer had come for you after the Reaping, lips pulled tautly over her teeth when she spoke her blessing. You laughed at her. You snarled at her. She left you alone and no one else showed.

The sun changes and disappears. The district men in their white shells open the door and the sound makes you pull away from the window. Her footsteps are soft on the varnished floors. You turn to it.

The room hums and shakes. You feel something hum and shake in you too.

You could spend an eternity standing here. You could wait until three winters have come and gone and the Gods are dead for her to give you an answer. You have your fists clenched. Something ripples through you, stretching and tensing, stalking the taste of fear through the trees.

"Why didn't you come?"

You are not you without her.

You were not born. You were pulled from the dark. You had no mother. She was dead before your first cry, as much as a mother as a fish slit open and gutted on a slab of stone. You have only ever had Hela. There is no one else, and there will be no one else, and she must come with you. You burn with it, you hold it like a bird too – the question, the answer, your sister's silence.

gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.
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last seen Apr 26, 2024 16:35:54 GMT -5

by arrow, by teeth — hela & fenrir jb Oct 4, 2022 18:17:12 GMT -5

Post by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Oct 4, 2022 18:17:12 GMT -5

h e l e n e

He goes first, chosen of the old gods.

The forest is sun-tangled and holy. It’s very quiet outside. You finger the bowstring, weave it around the notches, and give it a curious pluck to watch the thread quiver knowingly. Good. There is death tucked within this instrument in your hands. The bow’s very being is drenched by it. You turn back to the trees, to the dandelions and the ragweed. This is a place where the wild remains the wild. You imagine him in a building, trapped behind brick and steel. Your jaw sets.

Your hunt soon begins. There is no signal, no braying note from a hunting horn when you move. You are only a girl who is a huntress, only an animal who is a girl. You turn, though, and look to your side on instinct.

And you are standing alone.

His absence cuts through you like a rust-edged knife.

The sun changes and disappears. The strange men in their white skins open the door and you look at him for the first time and your chest suddenly springs up like a bear-trap, your lungs are knotted by ropes. Your wild eyes wane back into something half-human.

You are not you without him.

“Why didn’t you come?”

“Fate didn’t call me.”

There are ways to this world, rules even a huntress of death must follow. The weft and weave of fate guides, like a string unspooling. You simply go where it leads you and it has lead you to the crossroads. Your wound aches. You swallow the pain. There is no tempting fate. You must let your brother go. You must believe he is on the right path. Fate is a trickster, a mother, and a hunter all in one.

You look at him and press your gift into his hands: an antler, sanded to a bone-white complexion, forked and majestic.

“A white hart’s.”

You made a wish when you slit her throat. You sang a hymn as she died. The old gods are wild and alive and watching.

You raise a bloodstained fingertip and mark his forehead.

“Never one,” you prompt.

Last Edit: Oct 4, 2022 18:43:52 GMT -5 by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.

堕落天使

fox
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1,363 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Apr 25, 2024 12:23:42 GMT -5

but a butt ?

by arrow, by teeth — hela & fenrir jb Oct 8, 2022 18:56:14 GMT -5

Post by fox on Oct 8, 2022 18:56:14 GMT -5

f e n r i r

"Fate didn't call me," Hela says, steady.

There are ways to this world. You have known this since you were a child. You have watched the seers gather over the bodies of animals splayed on the altar like a slaughterhouse, the floor wet with a thousand strands of blood unspooled before their eyes. You were told the stories of the winters, and the roosters, and the death of the Gods. Because even Gods will die. Even Gods abide by fate.

But something blasphemous rests in your mouth. You want to spit out the word fate. You want to say but I called you.

She softens and you bristle, shrinking away from her touch, skin burning with anger. Yet still, Hela takes your hands, and you let her unfurl your fists through gritted teeth. Your sister has a way of tempering you. She presses her gift to you and the words slip into somewhere deep, down to the depths of your stomach.

Then, she raises a bloodstained fingertip and touches your forehead. You close your eyes.

Never one,

"Without the other," you whisper.

In your hands, you grip the bone of the deer. You feel small for a moment, just like the child who used to clutch at your sister's sleeve at each Harvest ritual, squeezing her fingers when the knife came down across the throat of the one chosen that autumn.

The feeling passes. You lift your chin up. You must not feel fear. The old Gods are wild and alive and watching.

"We will see each other," The antler feels cool and smooth, forking like paths in the woods, a crossroads, and for the first time in your life, you will be without her. You look at Hela, eyes mirroring back yours. You swallow the pain. "I swear by the Gods."