#faewords

day three. | together. (*upg disclaimer: these writings will be & are based solely in my own personal experiences with odin, loki and the work we’ve done together).

WE MAKE GREAT MAGIC TOGETHER YOU AND I.

it is supposed to be a conversation

BLOOD SPEAKS BRIGHTER THAN THE DEAD. A CONVERSATION CAN ONLY BE HAD WITH BONES.

do you have any intention of stopping

THERE ARE NO BREAKS ON THIS CAR

okay.

day two. | how? (*upg disclaimer: these writings will be & are based solely in my own personal experiences with odin, loki and the work we’ve done together).

ix.

Footsteps in the wildwood. The ichor drips from the antler. A crackle. A bone on the floor, engraved. There is food for the carrion, now -- one of them does not yet have a name. There are two, at the end of the path in the darkness. Mirror images, red-head green eyes, tongues lolling. Brothers-in-the-readings. Kennings made of birch and oak, and blood, and guts. The Wildwood unable to find its own shape or form. A deer in the limelight, like a doe in the headlights. Only the blood on the asphalt doesn’t come from the uprooted ribcage: it comes from the Carnonos, it comes from the karnon, from the hurnaz, from the *ḱerh₂-, bare bones spelunked from dying floors of greenery. When the horn dies, it must first shed its skin, and when the skin is shedded it is a bloody tendril on the fur, the train of a veil made of dying gone things. No cycle is complete without its catastrophic end: so the hunt goes, so the darkness speaks.

There are two at the end of the path where first there was one, double-faced, at the end of the path, at the end of the way. One hidden behind the mask of the other. 

day one. | who?  (*upg disclaimer: these writings will be & are based solely in my own personal experiences with odin, loki and the work we’ve done together).

He sits in a room at the end of the hallway. When one finds it, it’s dirty, warm, humid. There is a derelict neon sign, so flickering we think it’s broken. There won’t be an answer about that, tonight. The answer’s in the wood and in the concrete walls.

“You’re late,” he says, and does not look up from whatever he’s reading. If time cracks slightly under the weight of those words, it’s imperceptible: it lingers. Above us, in the rafters, there’s laughter, laughter and a trickle of liquid gold. I glance up, and see a ribcage cracked open. They hung it from the ceiling, upside down, the split lips bleeding ichor. When the eyes meet the eyes, they’re raven-black, all encompassing, full with a mirth that breaks the world. 

“Don’t mind her, they’re resting.” the wretch at the table says. When It spits Its own eye, he does it into a bucket by her feet. Twin earrings glisten for a moment, their beaks stained with blood and the guts of the dead. We stare back at the orbital cavities, five of them total: one in his skull, the other four in empty raven’s heads. 

Sacrifice, Eternal Darkness Bleeds New Dark Ash to Ash the Dust that Comes at dawn and Chooses (Quiet Starling, Empty Mother) My Heart as its new Home

See, Arisen in Might Ascend Become From the boiling Seas Henceforth

Like burning Like loving Like lust,  Like Gold that Drips from hands Whose names we have forgotten.

I carry my Dead in my palms On my shoulders On my arms

(I carry my Dead inside me.)

Or else we would be

And when she looks up, the pale orc’s blood on her hands and between her teeth and on her face and an oaken branch still clenched so hard her knuckles are white she realises they have won, they have won even though her eyes are full with tears and it is difficult to breathe.

And when she looks up there is bloody, weeping quiet on the battlefield, and then someone is calling her name. Queen, they are hailing her, Queen. They are bowing, in the stillness of air that follows the war. The dwarves around her are bowing.

She looks up to Dwalin, for guidance, standing tired and alone in the midst of praise, but Dwalin has sunk to her knees too, and Balin with her, and Dis knows her grip on the sword has faltered.

Melhekhinh they are calling.

She is wearing black and golds and silvers- the Orocarni princess bethroed to the crown prince of Erebor is a quiet one, it seems, her lashes hiding secrets and sand from the East. Until she smiles, her dark eyes shining with untold mischief, and a whirlwind seems to ruffle her thoughts for eternity.