We are Like Stags

As she approaches the longhouse, she can feel his call pulsating in the earth — the vibrations of his musing push deeply under the frozen soil. His song and sound force roots beneath her feet, extending with such intent to reach and coil about the soul of their space and beat with relentless stomping — hooves hammering against the winter’s thickest ice.

Incantations and invocations. Music suspends in every corner; dripping from leaves and stems and breathing flurry and wonder into the settlement with its huts and straw roofs cast in sparkling snow, flashing light back to the sun in its celestial heaven.

Drawing nearer, she can feel his call shaking in the air — the exhalation of life in his lungs, pressed by his throat and fluttering on the inside of his cheeks; his tongue crafts words that deepen the colors of the season. Frost is indigo blue; evergreen needles sway on branches black as midnight — even the wind itself glows in shades of pink and yellow as blinding snow throws crystals down dirt paths and through cracks and dark doorways.

This is their world, patrolled by towering trees and ancient mountains, surrounded by forests and great streams. On the borders of the untamed landscape, even beasts come to hear the sounds contrived in reverence of earthly wonders and spiritual custom; the common language of song, conceived and honored by both great and lowly.

Just outside, she can feel his call pressing on her skin — his voice penetrates tissue and bone as his spirit battles to escape him on a ghostly mist that rises and expands, weaving a story of suffering and reverence for his yearning; a tale that only he can weave with a knitted brow and lyre cradled delicately in the crook of his arm.

Flame of the world, reach me
Bring heat to my bones, restore me
Find her eyes in my mind, deliver me

Shadow of the world, release me
Cast me not to your darkness, forgive me
Allow me gifts of her hugr, provide me

Winter comes as night, I am bound in curses and rags
Winter comes as night, I am haunted by whispers and seiðr
Winter comes as night, I am helpless in sorrow and fate

Snow of the world, cleanse me
Lift me high on your light, inspire me
Grant my ears her melodies, heighten me

Wind of the world, direct me
Carry me to golden shores, push me
Inspire my words to her lips, embolden me

Winter comes as night, I am bound in curses and rags
Winter comes as night, I am haunted by whispers and seiðr
Winter comes as night, I am helpless in sorrow and fate

I am as the wolf, prowling, crushing, singing
I am as the raven, watching, waiting, stealing
I am as the stag, galloping, bucking, charging

She-wolf, I lift my song for you, remember me
She-raven, I offer my ring to you, accept me
Hind, bind me with your gentle grace, tame me

Ravens gather, feasting their ears on his lullaby; a plea to the early winter to hold fast the nectar of summer with its dewy linens, plush lips, heady skins, and lustful cries. Unsettled and impatient, wings shake the sky as they scatter to the wind. Their sound echoes a rattle as though to declare her arrival in their shared space.

She halts at the entranceway of the great hall where he sits solitary and echoing with song. Her back she presses to the wooden timbers and her presence jingles in a mystic manner — tiny belt bells, silver, and glass tinkle; her boots sigh against the dirt, and breezes touch through her hair, casting the melody of her presence about their land. She can sense his chest heaving, his fingers tingling. The growing flurry of their closeness drives her heart like the moon pulling against the tide. These moments hang one over the other, as they invisibly connect, drawing them into a rhythmic dance.

In the silence, his voice lingers, but as it fades, so does the light. He is waiting, just outside of view, just a revolution away. The last red rays of the cold sky cast long fingers into the hall. She breathes deep on air so dense with frost and anticipation that it burns her lungs, but she has never felt so alive, so prepared to feel his eyes.

To forestall the winter night and gain the favor of the gods. Like a primal ritual. To stare and pace — challenge, charge, and thrash. Like stags.