varðhygi — vin

at home, we'd inscribe seals onto spearheads of the hunters, the hilts of swords, body of arrows, and name Tyr in the carving of it. i learned them from books of vellum, the bleached pages worn from years passed down hand to hand.

i lie the glaive on the table. half-cleaned, Roe is gone. pieces of clay roll, still sharp on the floor, the plants strewn across the floor.

i light the knife in fire. the air hangs with the green scent of mugwort.

“knife,
blessed by the feeder of wolves,
do i hail.”

it bites soft, into the wolf joint.

“for the one-handed god.”

warm, it slips down my wrist. the air turns with burnt sweetness. i hold the knife in my hand, carve vegvisir into the blade of the glaive.

the sound of footsteps,

i turn. Roe in the hall. he comes over, and i touch his arm with the uncut arm. as warm as any flame.

i pull the glaive from the table and give it to him.

“take it.”