I know that I hung, on a windy tree, all nine nights,
By spear wounded, and given to Odin, my self to myself,
On that tree, that none knows, from what roots it runs.
Wind and fire, and one fleeing,
From the cruel conflict.
Through the forest, far from home,
Of magic and monsters.
He knows not whither, he knows not whether,
His feet should fly;
For he leaves behind beloved father
To a deadly doom.
But Fate weaves a woeful day,
In his countered conquest.
But Fate leaves a lenient way
For his son to safety.
Chasing in the mist, of purple mercy,
The flyer falls.
He strikes his head, on the stricken earth,
And all light is lost.
~Ah-ah, ah-aah… Ah-ah, a-ah-aah…~
With no loaf nor horn did they gladden me. I looked down,
I took the runes, screaming I took. I fell again thence.
Rages a storm, of starkest rain
And biting breath of wind.
The skies are black, bright only when blades
Of lightning lash them.
In the freezing dark, in front of him there,
A tangled twisted tree,
On which dangle chains, rusted and charred;
And nails bore its branches.
Lightning flashes, and he flinches,
Young, timid and untrained;
Unlike his father, fearless warrior,
Duke of eagles’ dale,
Fierce and brave, who raised his banner,
And ousted the east.
Not so his son, uncertain and shy,
Skinny and scared.
Then the thunderous hit, in Thor’s hammer
Knocks him to his knees.
Mighty songs nine, I learnt from the famous son of Bolthor, Bestla’s father,
And a drink I got, of the dear mead, Odrerir-sprinkled.
Who there stands, before his stammering self,
Darkly and dreadfully?
Whence came that figure, to him quavering,
Cowering and conquered?
A rod it holds, and in robes is clad,
Dry against the downpour.
They play violently, in the vicious wind,
Light as laughing linen;
As lightning rends, and thunder rocks,
The coal-grim clouds.
DOST THOU FEAR? A fearsome voice
Calls from the cloak.
Naught the boy says, his tongue seized
By petrifying panic.
DOST THOU FEAR? The figure advances
On the broken boy.
On his rear he crawls, racing away:
No, no, no—
DOST THOU FEAR! And lightning flares;
It raises its rod;
And points its end, at the prince’s throat—
I FEAR! I FEAR!
And thunder calls, but soft and calm.
The rains run no more.
The winds are gentle, and the warped tree
Blooms now and blossoms,
Whose shining leaves, are like a lantern,
Twinkling in the twilight.
Its rooting tendrils, tie the nine homes,
With Fate’s silken fetters.
Take my staff, and now stand,
Laughs the rod-lender.
Then I began to be fertile, and wise to be, and waxed and had me well.
A word from a word sought a word for me, a work from a work sought a work from me.
Now tell me, pray: what fearst thou, prince?
Quoth the covered one.
I fear death, I fear doom,
I fear my final fall.
But thou needst fear not; now it is pleasant;
Thou shalt yet live long.
But still thou waverst, weak in thy heart.
Wherefore worriest thou?
I worry, for I face a war,
Sudden and severe.
I weep, for on furious weapons,
My father faced his end.
But I am faint, and frail in fighting,
And feeble and forceless.
How shall I prince my father’s prize,
And guard his hard-won gates?
But thou art wise, to know thy weakness,
Thy frailty and thy fears.
Thou shalt soon king, thy father’s kingdom,
And gild thine own gates.
Thou canst wonder, if thou be worthy,
To lead thy land.
But worth is made: sometimes won with might,
Sometimes earned with effort.
What shall be thy word, when thou wakest,
King of thy country?
What shall be thy work, when thou wardest
The fruits of thy father?
Caw the ravens: two they come
From otherworldly eyrie.
Long have they gazed, upon the Middlegard,
From its hostile heavens.
Now hither they fare, ancient informants,
Of mighty minds.
The prince’s shoulder, one perches on,
And silently says:
Remember the words, of Memory,
Aide to the One-Eyed.
I bear a message, from the mindful fount,
To proclaim thy course.
Know that today, thou hast been doomed,
By others’ actions.
Thou hast on loan, to repay later,
Thy life and thy love.
Thou art a piece, in Fate’s puzzle,
But not lost nor led astray.
I gather knowledge, and I give it now:
Thy courage shall carve thy way.
Runes shalt thou find, and deciphered staves,
Very stout staves, very stiff staves,
Which the great sage painted,
And the great gods crafted,
And Hroptr raised among them.
~Ah-ah, ah-aah… Ah-ah, a-ah-aah…~
He wakes suddenly, in a warm room,
In clean clothing.
No spot of damp, nor cold nor death,
Upon his confused figure.
For what was brought him, on the raven’s breath,
He recalls but few quotes.
He has been deemed, he has been doomed,
But he lives yet unlost.
Then his window, wide and silent,
Is pelted with pebbles.
Sneaking in his garden, a foreign girl,
Worriedly awaits him.
— — —
In the garden they stroll, and talk about the fleeting dreams they had in days of old.
Warm sunlight gleams in golden beams through oak and birch and pine, as streamlets murmur cold.
An old regret of mine was that I had let down the name Father for me designed.
‘A warrior of awe,’ he proclaimed, when I inquired once, perhaps when I was nine.
He was just like the sun to the good folk of the dale’s realm. I feared to be the one
To take his place at the dale’s helm, so timid and so shy, but alas! I’m his son.
And when I saw him die, I feared, so much, I could not stand. I feared for my own life,
I feared for the folk in this land, I feared that I should fail, and lead this dale to strife.
-And yet thou hast not failed, she says with gladness in her eyes, thou hast well kept this dale.
A small sadness in her heart lies, thou hast not run to war, and we are whole and hale.
-Indeed, no war, no more. I have seen enough for one life. The sorrow in her core
Surges; but she knows how to hide. -Indeed, so have I too. My war scars are yet sore.
But he senses her mood, and draws her to his loving arms. They are the two Fate-doomed,
But in each other’s arms, no harm can quail their tranquil hearts, high waters to go through.
Their doom would come in parts. The first child, with platinum hair, and a cold, fearsome art.
The next, a light against despair, one night was stricken by her sister’s wayward dart.
But how knew they to fly toward the hidden vale of stones, in that disquiet night?
For he learnt, in a dream unknown the stavely written things, and their ancient insight.
But how knew they to sing the secret tune to call the rocks who cured the winter sting?
For she oft heard, a sea across, the song of earth and troll, from northern glaciers ring.
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Queendom of the Crocus 