Post by Crow • ᚴᚱᚬᚴᛦ on Apr 17, 2024 19:39:07 GMT
It has been a rather chaotic evening in the Witching Woods. Father Jonathan is still begging Thick Otso and Grampy Radley to stop eating the tiny mushroom men, Fela is yelling at Ned to put down the knife he stole from a pixie, and Aching Koldo is weeping in the corner as fungal growths continue to sprout on his fragile little body.
The Witching Court is as whimsical as a fey court ought to be, the boy thinks. He did not quite expect that their evening would end with human sacrifice.
A small, wizened old woman with a bun of white hair ambles slowly into the centre of the ritual circle, wading through the sea of mushroom men with the help of a walking stick. She looks far older than a human ought to be.
Ningke is the last piece needed to complete the Witching Woods’ underground fungal security system, and she had volunteered to die for it. To become one with the vast living being deep in the earth.
Ana seems very concerned. She asks Ningke a lot of questions to make sure that the sweet old woman knows what she has agreed to, what it will involve, and that she holds no ill intent against the Witching Court. Ningke answers them all with patience and joyous reassurance, a twinkle in her squinted eyes; she says she has lived for far too long by now, seen many grandchildren and great-grandchildren and great-great-great-grandchildren live and die, and it is time for her to fulfil the bargain she made with Queen Nicnevin many, many years ago.
The boy looks at Ningke full of respect in his eyes. There is great honour to be found in volunteering to be sacrificed. And Ana, satisfied that all is well, steps back to her place in the ritual circle.
The ritual begins with a nervous Eric reading out a chant in the secret tongue of the druids from a blank-paged tome. All whom are present are invited to give something to the ritual, to strengthen the magic.
The boy hesitates at first. He glances around the glade for an animal that would make a suitable death-offering — a horse, a cow, or even a chicken — but they’re in a forest, so of course there are none. Well, the gesture might be seen as odd in this part of the world anyway, he thinks to himself with a shrug.
So instead, he draws his knife, slices his right palm open, plucks a feather from Mute Zenith, and drags the feather across the gash. He steps forward to stand in front of Ningke and waves the crimson-stained feather up and down so that the ale of his veins rains gently on her face.
“Nú gefum vér þik jǫrðinni,” the boy intones in Giant. “Now we give you to the earth.”
Ningke is unflinching. The crow’s feet on the corner of her eyes become more pronounced as she gives him a big smile, beaming with motherly pride. It feels…strange. And warm in his chest.
After the boy returns to his place in the circle, Carnán approaches Ningke, singing a song in Giant, holding his sapphire-topped staff in one hand and a sharp piece of fossilised bark in the other. The tiny mushroom men sway to the rhythm of his song. The Silvanian priest casts some sort of spell, causing the earth under their feet to tremble, before plunging the bark into Ningke’s heart and twisting it.
It happened when someone important on the island died. A chieftain, the boy reckons, though his memory remains foggy as ever. This dead man had a large ship that he was to be burned in and many servants in his household.
One serving girl had volunteered to keep him company in death. In front of a modest crowd gathered on the beach, she went up to the longship where the chieftain laid, her cheeks flushed red as wine. The boy watched as the dead man’s kin lifted her up to the grey sky, to the swarm of black birds circling like a storm cloud overhead. Three times they lifted her, and each time she spoke above the whistling winds.
Lo, there do I see my father. Lo, there do I see my mother and my sisters and my brothers.
Lo, there do I see the line of my people, back to the beginning,
Lo, they do call to me. They bid me take my place among them, by the Valfather’s side.
After the third time, a man looped a noose around the girl’s white neck whilst an old woman slid a blade between her ribs. It wasn’t long until her body went limp, the boy remembers.
He also remembers a woman’s hand squeezing his shoulder tightly. A curtain of raven hair fell over her face as she turned away, unable to watch the scene before them.
By the end of the ritual, the only thing left of Ningke was her heart, lying still amongst the dust that was once her ancient body. The earth beneath shifts ever so slightly and opens up to swallow the heart, welcoming it into its embrace.
“Nú gefum vér þik jǫrðinni,” the boy repeats under his breath.
The heart disappears, and in its place, a vibrant blue mushroom begins to bloom.
The Witching Court is as whimsical as a fey court ought to be, the boy thinks. He did not quite expect that their evening would end with human sacrifice.
A small, wizened old woman with a bun of white hair ambles slowly into the centre of the ritual circle, wading through the sea of mushroom men with the help of a walking stick. She looks far older than a human ought to be.
Ningke is the last piece needed to complete the Witching Woods’ underground fungal security system, and she had volunteered to die for it. To become one with the vast living being deep in the earth.
Ana seems very concerned. She asks Ningke a lot of questions to make sure that the sweet old woman knows what she has agreed to, what it will involve, and that she holds no ill intent against the Witching Court. Ningke answers them all with patience and joyous reassurance, a twinkle in her squinted eyes; she says she has lived for far too long by now, seen many grandchildren and great-grandchildren and great-great-great-grandchildren live and die, and it is time for her to fulfil the bargain she made with Queen Nicnevin many, many years ago.
The boy looks at Ningke full of respect in his eyes. There is great honour to be found in volunteering to be sacrificed. And Ana, satisfied that all is well, steps back to her place in the ritual circle.
The ritual begins with a nervous Eric reading out a chant in the secret tongue of the druids from a blank-paged tome. All whom are present are invited to give something to the ritual, to strengthen the magic.
The boy hesitates at first. He glances around the glade for an animal that would make a suitable death-offering — a horse, a cow, or even a chicken — but they’re in a forest, so of course there are none. Well, the gesture might be seen as odd in this part of the world anyway, he thinks to himself with a shrug.
So instead, he draws his knife, slices his right palm open, plucks a feather from Mute Zenith, and drags the feather across the gash. He steps forward to stand in front of Ningke and waves the crimson-stained feather up and down so that the ale of his veins rains gently on her face.
“Nú gefum vér þik jǫrðinni,” the boy intones in Giant. “Now we give you to the earth.”
Ningke is unflinching. The crow’s feet on the corner of her eyes become more pronounced as she gives him a big smile, beaming with motherly pride. It feels…strange. And warm in his chest.
After the boy returns to his place in the circle, Carnán approaches Ningke, singing a song in Giant, holding his sapphire-topped staff in one hand and a sharp piece of fossilised bark in the other. The tiny mushroom men sway to the rhythm of his song. The Silvanian priest casts some sort of spell, causing the earth under their feet to tremble, before plunging the bark into Ningke’s heart and twisting it.
It happened when someone important on the island died. A chieftain, the boy reckons, though his memory remains foggy as ever. This dead man had a large ship that he was to be burned in and many servants in his household.
One serving girl had volunteered to keep him company in death. In front of a modest crowd gathered on the beach, she went up to the longship where the chieftain laid, her cheeks flushed red as wine. The boy watched as the dead man’s kin lifted her up to the grey sky, to the swarm of black birds circling like a storm cloud overhead. Three times they lifted her, and each time she spoke above the whistling winds.
Lo, there do I see my father. Lo, there do I see my mother and my sisters and my brothers.
Lo, there do I see the line of my people, back to the beginning,
Lo, they do call to me. They bid me take my place among them, by the Valfather’s side.
After the third time, a man looped a noose around the girl’s white neck whilst an old woman slid a blade between her ribs. It wasn’t long until her body went limp, the boy remembers.
He also remembers a woman’s hand squeezing his shoulder tightly. A curtain of raven hair fell over her face as she turned away, unable to watch the scene before them.
By the end of the ritual, the only thing left of Ningke was her heart, lying still amongst the dust that was once her ancient body. The earth beneath shifts ever so slightly and opens up to swallow the heart, welcoming it into its embrace.
“Nú gefum vér þik jǫrðinni,” the boy repeats under his breath.
The heart disappears, and in its place, a vibrant blue mushroom begins to bloom.