it's your own body & mind — roe & vin
Oct 26, 2023 1:17:47 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Oct 26, 2023 1:17:47 GMT -5
❦
The vǫlva spoke,
"In autumn, before the harvest, and dark grows the sun, a child will be born. Hallowed by Sea-Brightness, she will come, woven in baleful clouds. In autumn, before the harvest, she will speak what cannot be revoked, true in her seventeenth year."
Spákona, the vǫlur heralded. A great and powerful seeress.
Born in the autumn,
the child's mother knelt on the floor, curled and screaming.
Strange how life could gut her like a fish, split between abdomen and thighs. Creation is supposed to be painful, they were taught as children. A woman knows this. A woman bears it.
Frigg's grass burned over the flame. The bjargrýgr cradled her agony, her bones pressed against her skin like dulled knives as her body writhed. The women in the room chanted galdr-songs, runes cut down the taut ridges of her spine.
He bled from her in the darkness of night, to a brutal storm, eyes sea-green.
She had a son.
A shame, maybe.
Nine nights after birth, the father brought the child onto his lap.
If he could not be the seeress foretold, then he would be a warrior. Oathkeeper. Fashioned in the likeness of Tyr himself.
"Eyvindr," he gave him this name.
Eyvindr.
Vin.
"Vin."
outside of Helheim, before Valhalla. he calls my name.
i turn, chest ragged. the ringing in my ears goes on. wintry and carving, he settles like a chill, that cold, aching pain at my temples, hungry and ruinous.
the name,
it feels like a labour to breathe. i close my eyes. be quiet please. the roar of the wind shudders against my back. i look again.
his face sharpens in the light.
"Roe."
i let go of his arm.
sound softens. he does not hear it. strange, i don't remember when i grabbed him. just that i did.
up close, he looks the same. scowling, burning like flame. no mortal wounds but a death glare. he shifts his weight, and the motion catches. it is the tremor and the grimace. i gaze from his leg to his face.
"you're limping."
The vǫlva spoke,
"In autumn, before the harvest, and dark grows the sun, a child will be born. Hallowed by Sea-Brightness, she will come, woven in baleful clouds. In autumn, before the harvest, she will speak what cannot be revoked, true in her seventeenth year."
Spákona, the vǫlur heralded. A great and powerful seeress.
Born in the autumn,
the child's mother knelt on the floor, curled and screaming.
Strange how life could gut her like a fish, split between abdomen and thighs. Creation is supposed to be painful, they were taught as children. A woman knows this. A woman bears it.
Frigg's grass burned over the flame. The bjargrýgr cradled her agony, her bones pressed against her skin like dulled knives as her body writhed. The women in the room chanted galdr-songs, runes cut down the taut ridges of her spine.
He bled from her in the darkness of night, to a brutal storm, eyes sea-green.
She had a son.
A shame, maybe.
Nine nights after birth, the father brought the child onto his lap.
If he could not be the seeress foretold, then he would be a warrior. Oathkeeper. Fashioned in the likeness of Tyr himself.
"Eyvindr," he gave him this name.
Eyvindr.
𓅪
Vin.
"Vin."
outside of Helheim, before Valhalla. he calls my name.
i turn, chest ragged. the ringing in my ears goes on. wintry and carving, he settles like a chill, that cold, aching pain at my temples, hungry and ruinous.
the name,
it feels like a labour to breathe. i close my eyes. be quiet please. the roar of the wind shudders against my back. i look again.
his face sharpens in the light.
"Roe."
i let go of his arm.
sound softens. he does not hear it. strange, i don't remember when i grabbed him. just that i did.
up close, he looks the same. scowling, burning like flame. no mortal wounds but a death glare. he shifts his weight, and the motion catches. it is the tremor and the grimace. i gaze from his leg to his face.
"you're limping."
vin scavenges supply shelves
Xq0EMVEsM31-13
13 | Antidote
