by Poppet
Pulling the remnants of his meal toward him he lifts the spoon and swallows the tepid morsel, indicating I must do the same.
Sighing heavily I drop my bag on the floor and exchange it for my spoon, scooping up stew and nibbling on it.
It's still delicious even half cold.
“Good,” he nods. “Now everywhere you go with the Jötunn we call the chef the same name. We call him Andhrímnir, or just Andi for short. It is respect because he re-enacts keeping the gods alive by feeding us our daily meals. We are still gods Emma, even if the world would refuse to believe we exist. One look at me and you cannot deny that I am not a human man. I am different, my eye alone is proof. We are different, and proud to be because we are one unit; we work as one, we live as one, we share as one.”
I could listen to him talk all night. His personality is coming through now and it's mesmerizing to watch him tell his story with his face lighting up with lore.
“What is Sayrimner?” I ask, just so he'll keep talking while I dutifully finish my supper.
“It is a mythical beast which the chef kills every night to feed the gods and warriors, and then in the morning he resurrects him. It's very symbolic of us, as a people. At night we may be weary and broken but come morning we will rise strong as ever and ready to die another day.”
“If it's mythical why then do you say we are eating it?”
“Have you ever seen a golden apple?” he counters.
“No, because they don't exist. It's an old Greek story of men with their dicks out trying to prove they're better than everyone else.”
He taps my wine glass with the handle of his spoon, “Then pray tell wise woman what it is in your chalice?”
“No, fucking, way!”
“Yes way, Emma. We hide our treasures from the greedy because they do not honor the ancestors.”
“Are you saying I'm eating a mythical beast for dinner?”
“No, you're not, because the Harii are now vegetarians the way they were in many previous ages.”
“What's a hurri?” I ask, curiously taking another sip of my exalted apple juice.
“The raven clan are harii. It's the old norse term for warrior in black. The humans believed we painted ourselves black and attacked like ghosts in the night purely because they cannot imagine that we control the shadows around us. We lay siege at nightfall so we go undetected, the shadows and shade are our ally thanks to our firstmother. They likened us to phantoms, they often thought we were dead. How very wrong they were.”
“So we're like scary motherfuckers or something?” I grin.
“Our wars are not theirs until they make it ours. There is no secret we cannot know thanks to Odin's gift of foresight, and there is nothing which can cause us alarm. We are fearless which is why your state of mind concerns me. It's most unnatural for a harii to lose the courage in their heart. When your light goes out the Valkyries take you away so you may rest in the arms of the forever.”
“You sound all new age with your inner light analogy,” I smile, trying to lighten the severity of his words.
He sits back, fiddling with the drinking vessel in his hands, “Emma, why do you think we need shadows to hide us? We shine more brightly than the sun. We are giants first, we are all Jötunn. We are split into sects as warriors and ours is harii, the Raven clan. But our ancestor Skaði was known as the shining bride of the gods. The jötnar share this characteristic with her and we are known as the beautiful shining ones. But all of our kin are fighters. We are fierce and fearless even if the planet pretends we are mythical because we do not allow them to witness us. Why do you think the Wild Hunt was considered the amusement of fairies? But we are not glowing faeries, we are the biggest men on this planet with knowledge and power the puny humans couldn't possibly wield or comprehend. When I say you are shining it's because in your eyes it is waiting to birth, all it requires is happiness in your heart.”
I don't know what to say. Have I truly never ever been happy? Then how will I know it when I am?
He reaches out to hold my hand in his, “My eye shines for you. I will guide you until you find your way. Now drink your læraðr juice. It heals in more ways than one. We drink it for mental courage while it keeps our bodies forever young. It's the libation of eternal life. With that in your body you'll quickly forget your woes and remember how powerful you truly are, like when you were a child who knew that anything was possible and the world was a pearl of possibilities waiting for you to string onto your necklace and own. This world is ours, Emma.”
I leave my hand in his because it's doing crazy good things to my mood, picking up my drink with motivation and having a decent swig.
“It really is magic?” I smile, putting my glass back on the table.
“It is arcana, I mentioned that previously. Arcana, by definition, is a secret and powerful remedy. It's a great rune of nature, our secret.”
“And what is a rune exactly? I thought is was just a bunch of wooden discs with carvings on them,” I pry.
“A rune is a secret. We are the masters of runes, we keep many of them well hidden and safe. Ourselves included.”
“But you invented them right?”
He blinks as if pondering how to explain it to me, the scope clearly overwhelming as he simplifies it for me. “Emma, in a nutshell everyone wants to talk to god. In archaic eras the gods found a way to guide a shaman by imparting meaning to oracles, little fragments of bone carved with sigils and symbols. The spirit guides the hand, fate is a close dancer who likes to hold tight while she does the tango, so every reading is more or less accurate. For some folk the runes became the oracle, for others it became cards, the druids used lots and runes, and even the god of Israel gave his followers divination tools. He gave them dice and gems, known as the Urim and Thummim. But divination was once an accepted way to get guidance after the gods left the material plane to coexist in a spiritual state of longevity. Matter resists longevity, it goes against the cycles and balance of the planet and dimension.”
“You didn't answer my question,” I smile slyly.
He's a wily one.
“Odin is credited with creating runes, yes,” he nods. “It's written in the Hávamál where Odin said, I can so carve and color the runes, that the man walks and talks with me. But still you must remember it is a means to gain insight, it's a way to access the gods whispers. We don't need it because we have the Odin eye and the Book of Shadows.”
It suddenly occurs to me that the games we play without thought once had occult significance. Gambling with dice, playing cards, even checkers could have been started as a form of 'throwing bones'. It's pretty heavy that we've trivialized occult guidance. Maybe we need it on a subconscious level and reenact ritual because our souls remember it in our cellular memory banks?
He's smiling at me again, watching my mind tick over. His right eye is so gorgeous. It's the perfect shade of mallard green. I wish both his eyes were identical so I could lose myself in their tranquility.
His expression is serious when he faces me with his full attention, “Be careful how you treat your heart, Em. It's the only one you've got. If you want it to beat in ecstasy instead of fear then you have to give it a chance to heal, by feeding it love.”
“Yeah well, great words never helped anyone when they don't know how to implement the wisdom,” I bite back, withdrawing my hand from his.
“Make your heart a better place. It's simple. The change starts with you and self pity never healed a single thing. Don't run away again, face me with the courage of a harii.”
“Fine,” I grumble, looking back into my almost depleted refreshment.
“My heart's a place worth living in. It's a better place than the other chambers you cowered inside,” he murmurs seductively.
It snaps my focus back on his enigmatic face, with my chest warming at his magnificent essence again. “What?”
“Guy's heart didn't have the chambers ours do. It wasn't big enough to love you the way you warrant. You
haven't known love until you've felt it in the safety of an entire society all wanting you to be happy, who would die to protect you, who keep a safe haven where no one can demand your time, your tears, or capture you into servitude for a measly wage. Here you are free, and those who love you will keep you free,” he says.
“I don't really understand. One second I think you're being all romantic and the next you generalize and dilute it. It's confusing.”
“How did the giants happen to come into being?”
“Don't change the fucking subject!”
Ignoring my outburst he continues in his calm bone bending baritone, “When two enormous forces meet, that is the birth of Ymir. You and me, Emma. You were unresisting when I brought you home but the longer you are here and the more courage you drink and eat, the deep well of your soul is birthing before my eyes. You challenge me, argue, shout, you have come back to life in a matter of hours. And I admit it, yes, I loathed that weasel you bedded because in the book of life it is writ you are my own Skaði. This attraction is abnormal because we are not human, we are mighties. But even a god must woo and seduce his goddess if he expects to trust her to have his back in a fight.”
“The book of life?” I ask.
Are you seducing me? You have a weird way of doing it then.
“Your blood went into the book of life. It was Odin's. It cannot lie, and in it we are destined.” He blinks, as if catching himself, pushing his chair away and standing to tower over me, “Come elskling, let's go sit at the fire.”
He holds his arm out for me to step inside his hold and I am drawn against my will again, forced out of my chair and into the fabulous possessiveness of a man clearly on a mission.
“What is elskling?”
“Darling, it means darling, or more precisely, little love. Next to me you are a little love,” he says affectionately, walking me away from his bonding meal to the fireplace I saw before.
I could get lost here. I am perhaps already lost here. The mystery shadow warrior has power I doubt I can resist for long.
And it's freaking awesome.
Chapter 9
Emma:
He forces me to flop with him onto the caramel-leather couch in front of the hearth, stretching out his long legs and leaving his arm around my shoulders.
Jeez, for a lanky dude that shirt sure is hiding some hard muscle, it's like trying to rest against a headstone.
Apprehension clenches my insides at the thought of this turning into the next phase of seducing Emma. Hell, we have nothing but the drowsy glow of embers and the sporadic lick of blue flame along the ridge of the wood to illuminate the room. This is make out territory.
“Tell me another story,” I beg, if only to postpone the inevitable.
Unlatching his arm he twists to face me, lifting his leg to sit comfortably with his knee touching my thigh, “You like stories?”
Giving a wry grin, I mumble, “I didn't get enough as a child, what can I say?”
Holding my hand, turning it over to vacantly examine the mark, he says so softly that it comes out as a lover's ode, “We sing stories. We seldom tell them the way you'd expect. We may be giants but skald hearts beat our blood.”
Oh my god, could this get any more romantic? If he sings to me I think I'm going to fall so hard for him I'll have a dented face.
He glances at me, releasing my hand and standing, moving into the darkness, coming back a second later with a mandolin in his hand.
Aw! That's perfect! So old and bardic.
Sitting facing me he averts his glance to the strings, plucking a medieval sounding tune, singing to me;
“The maneating giant
what an ogre he was
He preyed on humans
right to his last
With his heart in his heel
he was easy to fell
Young Tlingit warrior fooled him
but there's much more to tell
With his last words
a curse he did say
He'd never stop eating humans
not even on his dying day
The ash of his body
burned black in the fire
Swarmed as mosquitoes
and his slayer did devour.”
He mutes the vibrato of the strings, looking shyly up at me with a faint smile tuning his mouth falcate.
Sitting forward, my hands clasped in restrained excitement, I beseech him, “Another one!”
“You sure? I'm no bard and don't do the calling justice.”
“Please?” I wheedle, desperate to hear that incredible voice caress my blood with the magic of his timbre in song. He sings like he was born to serenade.
“Okay...” He clears his throat, skewering the shadows in the corners of the cavern with concentration. Clearly deciding on a new tune he focuses on the strings again, holding the instrument with the lightest fingers.
“Old father Odin owned the trinity
Three purses, for him, you, and me
One for the moon, the stars, the sun
Odin's daughter grew pregnant with a son
Raven she'd swallowed from the well of water
Didn't know He was in her belly, not a daughter
Raven needed the sun, stars and moon, free
And found a cunning way for this to be
Odin loved his grandson far more than his treasure
Babe cried for the stars, his tears without measure
Gifted the purse, Raven opened and set free every star
Up the chimney they escaped to sparkle from afar
Cleverer than Old Odin, Raven wailed for the next
Bawling until grandfather gave the moon to his chest
With Odin's back turned Raven rolled the moon out the door
Then pointed for the sun purse, wailing for the final adore
Old Man grandfather resisted as long as he could
Finally giving in after shutting chimney and wood
Raven waited until all were asleep
Changed back into bird and out the window did creep
With the sun in his beak he brought it to his clan to reveal
No more could the greedy own the light, for he did it steal
Freeing us all from the god's enforced dark he freed it to fly
The sun escaped to light the sky, this is Raven's lullaby.”
“Oh my god! What an awesome story!” I whisper, grinning like a child rapt in the imagination of a forgotten past.
He nods at me as if in reverent acknowledgment, putting the mandolin aside. “These are T'ach'aa stories that belong to the Tlingit in this region. They are stories they tell their children so they'll never forget the evil giants, why we still kill mosquitoes, and how once the light was a commodity the gods thought they could own. Stealing light from anyone is a spiritual offense, it's that simple. But then again mosquito clouds look like shadows swarming, the giant became shadow and killed the man who tried to kill him.”
His left eye is phosphorescent in the dark and it's strangely comforting seeing that inner light now. Wow! The Raven clan rock!
“Did Odin really keep the stars and stuff tied up?” I ask, my body still vibrating from his voice as if I'm a resonating pitch fork.
“The Tlingit call him Old Man. It fits any demographic as the first father of people. The gods had ego issues, that's no secret in any ancient lore. Raven's quest is to outwit all foe who wish to inflict misery. We keep to ourselves now because mankind has become as black as the dark the gods forced on them.”
“They're not so bad–”
“Yes they are. They pollute, they judge, the world is a slave to money and the entire concept of money lending started with a church born organization. The people on this planet willingly choose subservience and misery over freedom because they adhere to rituals and organizations that do not serve humanity, but serve spiritual superstition and a lifetime of slavery. They are primitive, still. They were free and through religious wars became enslaved rather than d
ie. Raven would rather die than be enslaved.”
He reaches across to rub my thigh, “Never forget you are harii. Never give in, never give up, and never ever give your enemies your devotion. Mankind has been a slave for so long they no longer see the cage. It's unnatural to rise in the dark of winter to go to an office to breathe collective lurgy, to abandon children to strangers to teach and daycare, just for coin. Hibernation is natural. There is a season for work and a season for rest, now mankind never knows rest.”
Desperate to veer off this controversial topic I cover the hand on my thigh, loving the way it completely diverts his attention, “Sing me one more.”
He stares at my hand for an eternity, finally raising it up and kissing the back of it, “Your wish, how can I resist?”
Lifting the instrument back onto his lap, he smiles at me as if he has a secret, “Pay attention, this is how Odin lost his eye, the real story not the bullshit one.”
The tune Macala plays is woeful, sad, and melancholy. It fills my bones with intrepid truth.
“At the roots of mighty Yddragsil where sky and ocean meet
Raven told Odin of the hidden well of foresight's greet
The fountain's treasure was guarded well by giant Mimer
Odin could not rest until wisdom's font was his to savor
Sipping wisdom every morning giant Mimer was wisest of all
Odin loathed his adversary should own the drink of his thrall
Staff in hand, broad hat on his head, Odin wore a striped cloak
Sneaking to the grotto in night's cover to beg a drink as if lost and broke
Mimer's beard was white with age, nodding off often did this sage
Odin jolted the man awake, demanding a sip for thirst's slake
Too wise to be fooled by Odin's disguise, the master of Æsir then offered coin
Barter ensued as Father Odin's lust to know all consumed even his loin
Mimer's anger rose high, the giants came first before the gods ran riot
