alfadhirhaiti — marik & the forresters
Jan 15, 2024 1:44:41 GMT -5
Post by tick 12a / calla on Jan 15, 2024 1:44:41 GMT -5
FREYJA
MJǪKSIGLANDI
OF THE BEAR'S EYE
MJǪKSIGLANDI
OF THE BEAR'S EYE
eirik wails.
away from his mother for only moments. spoiled thing. sif holds him through the procession, clutching both of his hands.
the year turns over. the father, undying, is dying. it is an illness from the gods. his lungs stink of rot every time he breathes. his voice wavers. he is an omen, a weakness, and they will burn him and then wash the ashes into the river.
and when they do - the question sings.
who now?
their society cannot be unruled. it will not work. without order, the natural world turns in on itself. they would slaughter each other, devour each other, if not for a steady hand.
freyja has passed eighteen. she has passed twenty. she has been given her epithet. her byname. her symbol of surviving the cradle.
mjǫksiglandi, they call her.
well-sailing. far travelling.
it is her, after all, who seeks the divine. she is the one who gathers the worshippers, and the infidels, and she is the one who guides them through the gate.
in the years where the family has been sparse, she was the one who deciphered seiðr and set out to find their new children. she brought them home. gave them a home.
and so it is her, after all, who raises the chieftain's mantle.
why would it not be freyja?
how could it not be freyja?
she has her own huginn, and her own muninn. she has her own geri and freki. her gungnir is her tongue, centuries sharper. the war god wears her brother's face. daughter of the norns; fate-bringiner. odin looks on her and weeps.
they set the headdress on her. they drape the fringed cloak. wolfsbane. vervain. she holds an ivory idol of boar tusk. they bring a bear, in honour of the twins, and freyja uses freyr's knife to split it down the centre. silly boy left it behind. bone-handled. useless in the arena. he has been dead for five years.
eirik has grown in five years. he runs circles around the great fire until he turns dizzy. he paints with the hlaut, trailing his hands along the altar. he will be king. he will.
she sits in prayer for nine nights. a shame that vin is dead. her favourite seiðmaður, soft, easy to see through. yet she rises, leans, and sif is there. the air in the hut is stale. the runes on her hands have faded, the charcoal gathers in the palm grooves.
she is led outside, blinding, suddenly. the sun rises cold.
their hands all outstretch as she passes. they are reaching. the crown passes.
freyja mjǫksiglandi. of the bear's eye. of the forresters.
all-mother.
almóðir.
ᚠᚱᛅᚢᛁᛅ
her first enactment is to send sif to the square.
the victor has arrived, and they must be hospitable.
"if he will not come." she tells her muninn, "make him."
they arrive with an armed guard.
freyja stands on the edge of the forest, waiting, ivory sentinel. she sees the peacekeepers and she laughs. sif returns to her side, freyja touches the back of her neck.
she smiles. horrible thing.
"what do you think we will do to him?" she asks.
the guards shift.
yes, what a wonderment. what do they think they will do to the boy who slaughtered their sibling-child. she envies their imagination.
the trees rattle. the night is very dark.
"come." a path suddenly, through an oak pairing, trail worn down by nine generations, "they're waiting."
