Post by Crow • ᚴᚱᚬᚴᛦ on Apr 26, 2024 10:13:32 GMT
Long ago, a king went out sailing with a few of his best men to raid and plunder in foreign lands. They were the most fearsome reavers of the North and would have won many riches in their adventures, but as Fate would have it, the royal longship got caught in a raging sea-storm, which sent it beached on a windless island, barren save for a handful of trees.
The king bade his men give advice on what they can do to get back out to sea. Among his retinue was a hero of great accomplishment, a deadly warrior and a silver-tongued skáld, and the king’s sworn brother. He suggested that they seek counsel from the gods, who had surely put them here.
As Chance would have it, the ship’s helmsman was the son of a vǫlva. He always carried on his person a bag of oracle bones — small pieces of animal bones with runes carved upon them, a gift from his late mother.
So the helmsman drew a circle in the sand and casted the bones into the air. And he did it again. And again. And again. Yet each time, the bones fell in the same way within the circle and the runes read the same, which the helmsman interpreted with a trembling voice: the king must be sacrificed to the Valfather if they wished to leave this island alive.
The king was deeply disturbed by this. “Let us not be hasty,” he said. “There is still plenty of food and fresh water on the ship. We should retire for the night and think things over.”
“Our lord is right, there is little sense in not waiting another day,” the skáld said. “Helmsman, away with those wretched bones. Let us pray that inspiration strikes one of us in his sleep.”
That night, the poet-warrior’s sleep was disturbed by an ill-shaped shadow moving outside his tent. Silently, he draws his sword from under his pillow and crept out the tent.
He was surprised to find an old man, dressed in a dark hooded robe and holding a walking staff, sitting upon a rock on the beach, watching the moonlit waves come and go. When the skáld approached, the old man turned and gave him a one-eyed smile. Saying nothing, the old man offered something in his hand to the warrior: a single reed-stalk.
In that moment, the warrior was awoken by the light of the rising sun, a reed-stalk laying on his palm.
That morning, he went to his king with happy news. “My liege, I believe that the Wanderer asks only for a symbolic sacrifice.”
After hearing the tale of his dream, the king agreed to go along with his sworn brother’s idea, albeit with a little reluctance. They slaughtered the calf that they had brought with them on the ship, feasted on its meat, and afterwards the skáld took its soft entrails and fashioned a noose out of it.
Then he had the king stand on a rock beneath a low-hanging branch of a tree and tied the guts to the branch, before looping the noose around the king’s neck.
Finally, the skáld stepped a few paces away and, pinching the reed-stalk between two fingers, aimed it at the king. He spoke the hallowed words of offering.
“Nú gef ek þik Óðni.”
And then he threw the reed at the king like it was a spear.
But the thing that struck the king was indeed a spear, piercing into his chest. The soft entrails around his neck turned into a strong withy, and the low branch it was tied to rose and rose as the tree grew taller and taller. The king kicked his legs with wild desperation as breath was choked from his throat and blood drowned his lungs.
As the king gurgled and trembled one last time, a strong gust of wind blew from behind the trees, billowing life into the stranded longship’s sail.
The Northmen looked up to the heavens in wonder, but the skáld was still staring in horror at the evil he had done, the corpse of his brother and king. Just then, he saw a raven perched on the tree where it hung. The raven looked straight at him, cawed once, and fluttered away. The warrior knew then that his time would soon come.
The king bade his men give advice on what they can do to get back out to sea. Among his retinue was a hero of great accomplishment, a deadly warrior and a silver-tongued skáld, and the king’s sworn brother. He suggested that they seek counsel from the gods, who had surely put them here.
As Chance would have it, the ship’s helmsman was the son of a vǫlva. He always carried on his person a bag of oracle bones — small pieces of animal bones with runes carved upon them, a gift from his late mother.
So the helmsman drew a circle in the sand and casted the bones into the air. And he did it again. And again. And again. Yet each time, the bones fell in the same way within the circle and the runes read the same, which the helmsman interpreted with a trembling voice: the king must be sacrificed to the Valfather if they wished to leave this island alive.
The king was deeply disturbed by this. “Let us not be hasty,” he said. “There is still plenty of food and fresh water on the ship. We should retire for the night and think things over.”
“Our lord is right, there is little sense in not waiting another day,” the skáld said. “Helmsman, away with those wretched bones. Let us pray that inspiration strikes one of us in his sleep.”
That night, the poet-warrior’s sleep was disturbed by an ill-shaped shadow moving outside his tent. Silently, he draws his sword from under his pillow and crept out the tent.
He was surprised to find an old man, dressed in a dark hooded robe and holding a walking staff, sitting upon a rock on the beach, watching the moonlit waves come and go. When the skáld approached, the old man turned and gave him a one-eyed smile. Saying nothing, the old man offered something in his hand to the warrior: a single reed-stalk.
In that moment, the warrior was awoken by the light of the rising sun, a reed-stalk laying on his palm.
That morning, he went to his king with happy news. “My liege, I believe that the Wanderer asks only for a symbolic sacrifice.”
After hearing the tale of his dream, the king agreed to go along with his sworn brother’s idea, albeit with a little reluctance. They slaughtered the calf that they had brought with them on the ship, feasted on its meat, and afterwards the skáld took its soft entrails and fashioned a noose out of it.
Then he had the king stand on a rock beneath a low-hanging branch of a tree and tied the guts to the branch, before looping the noose around the king’s neck.
Finally, the skáld stepped a few paces away and, pinching the reed-stalk between two fingers, aimed it at the king. He spoke the hallowed words of offering.
“Nú gef ek þik Óðni.”
And then he threw the reed at the king like it was a spear.
But the thing that struck the king was indeed a spear, piercing into his chest. The soft entrails around his neck turned into a strong withy, and the low branch it was tied to rose and rose as the tree grew taller and taller. The king kicked his legs with wild desperation as breath was choked from his throat and blood drowned his lungs.
As the king gurgled and trembled one last time, a strong gust of wind blew from behind the trees, billowing life into the stranded longship’s sail.
The Northmen looked up to the heavens in wonder, but the skáld was still staring in horror at the evil he had done, the corpse of his brother and king. Just then, he saw a raven perched on the tree where it hung. The raven looked straight at him, cawed once, and fluttered away. The warrior knew then that his time would soon come.