#seiðmaðr

[hecatesdelights]

Odin, god of War, Poetry, Magic and Knowledge

[kira-bitz]

This commission was requested by: @parasaurking95 .

Thank you very much for your patience in the delivering of this commission. I'm glad you liked the result 💖!

Context: This is an OT3 Monster AU created by Parasaurking95 where our protagonists belong to different species of monsters:

First there is Jack, he is a Roman Catholic vampire. He doesn't enjoy being a vampire, and he prays almost excessively for God to keep him from hurting anyone. Also, the sun doesn't kill him, but rather weakens him by taking away all of his vampiric abilities, turning him into an ordinary human being (with fangs).

Then there is Hiccup, who is a Lycan, i.e. wolf-people who can transform at will during any lunar phase, keeping their human intelligence at their wolf form (unlike werewolves, who transform involuntarily and lose their self control). Also, he is a practicing Seiðmaðr - a Norse Wizard/Seer/Shaman.

Lastly, we have Toothless, who is a Dragon-Shifter (a dragon that can take human form). He is still a Night Fury, but with a wider cultural background as a Sumerian Pagan. He can fluently speaks the ancient Sumerian language, and he practices some ancient Sumerian/modern Wiccan forms of Magic. He isn't as big on magic as Hiccup, but he does do some.

The three of them live together in a big recreational vehicle, and they're going on a road-trip across the United States.

Interesting premise, right?

I tell you people that I'm not currently making commissions, but this was an exception that I decided to take. I'll let you know with a post when I officially reopen my commissions 😊. Also, remember that the version with the original resolution belongs exclusively to the person who requested this commission.

[hermesserpent-stuff]

Okay so frost giants ideas!! I wanna first say oof mythogy im sorry but out the window we go. you were out the window as soon as I started writing Marvel.

But also playing around with mythos is classic myth-making that humans have been doing since forever. So if your here for accuracy. Im very sorry.

OnWARDSS

So in the fic Ive mentioned seidrmadur a few times. these are the magic users of Jotunheim. i took the word from norse: seiðmaðr which is basically sorta a wizard. These are smaller than other frost giant, shorter and lighter bones. They spend most of their time hidden from the outside world. deep deep beneath the surface they are able to sit in the branch of Yggdrasill that connects them to the other nine realms. They drink its sap and burn the bark to catch glimpses of the future, past and present. Their spells focus on strengthening, warmth, and fate. They can use it as a weapon, if they must but only through ice constructs. (as opposed to how we might see loki or Harry use magic which is to summon things or to create a variety of items.)

Magic on jontunheim focuses on surviving and preparing for war to return.

Strength spells are to keep buildings from crumbling, weapons from deteriorating and babes from dying too young.

warmth: to heat the forges when fuel is hard find in the frozen wastes. To warm food to make it taste better. To keep Jotun from freezing to death, as despite their resistance to the cold, much like any creature that lives in the snow, there is such a thing as too cold.

Fate: mostly omen reading and trying to convince the fates to be kinder. a slight nudge so that bad luck is not so bad.

While they are not warriors like the rest of the Jotun, what they do is valued. but not spoken of to outsiders. so there's a thought from those not from the realm that they look down on magic use much like the aesir do. And that there are none or few small frost giants

[hanielm-art]

Fiendish Familiar

.

The seiðmaðr was a male practitioner of witchcraft in Norse folklore. Compared to the völva, the Norse witch, there are few records of his practice. . Painting done for @drawtober 4th prompt.

[insaniary]

verses :

canon verse

this verse including the story elements such as plot, characters and their development — as well as dynamics — are canon-compliant to the shows ( the vampire diaries, the originals ) with the exception of legacies due to its inconsistencies and flawed sense of the universe it belongs to.

cured verse

this verse is canon ONLY from the vampire diaries through the originals up until the events of Give 'Em Hell, Kid ( the originals, season 3, episode 21 ) where kol accompanies vincent griffith to the ancestral plane on a mission to destroy the link between the living and spiritual realm.

in this verse, everything that occurred throughout both shows (with the exception of what follows after the aforementioned highlighted episode) is relived by kol mikaelson after he decides to stay with davina claire in the ancestral plane to sever the connection of the new orleans witches to their ancestors.

when the depot d'argent explodes in a bright white light, kol's spirit along with what is left of davina's shattered soul are thrown into the abyss. kol mikaelson wakes up on the night of October 21, 2010 in his coffin undaggered for the first time since 1914. knowing everything that is yet to unfold, kol does what he needs to in order to take down silas and prevent anyone from getting the cure. [ doc/tumblr link to a three-part drabble for this ]

as a result of changing the course of unfolding events, kol accidentally gets cured after his encounter with silas. a millennium's worth of dormant norse witch (seiðmaðr) magic comes back to him and threatens to destroy him and an entire island off the map. however, kol manages to keep it contained.

another important detail of this verse may include him having a son and a daughter down the line, though it will remain optional depending on the discussed or agreed-upon plot prior to writing.

so please, message me first before writing.

[imagine-loki]

Seiðmaðr

TITLE: Seiðmaðr

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: 1/? AUTHOR: goldtrimmedspectacle ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki is attacked and forgets his past. Now riddled with amnesia, Loki must decide whether to follow his mind and return his memories, or to follow his heart and find true happiness. RATING: PG13. Will go up in later chapters. NOTES/WARNINGS: Blood. Violence. Can be found on AO3.

When I was a child, I didn’t hear a single word you said The things I was afraid of, they were all confined beneath my bed But the years have been long, and you have taught me well to hide away The things that I believed in, you’ve taught me to call them all escapes - Dear Wormwood, The Oh Hellos

PROLOGUE

Sour.

Decay.

He felt it seeping through his lungs – bleeding into his veins.

The putrid taste of vomit and blood, the aftertaste of meat rolling over his tongue, the churning of acid in his stomach. It was an assault of pure agony on his organs - his throat swollen in anticipation, saliva and mud caking his lungs.

Bleary and weak.

Eyes unseeing but knowing.

There was copious amounts of red and black and green everywhere.

He couldn’t focus.

Couldn’t see.

He knew there were men dressed in armour. He could decipher the women wielding swords twice the length of their arms. He knew they would not move and would remain unseeing - blind to the world. Their bodies lay mutilated, torn like the trunk of a tree or the carcass of a boar, and their mouths hung open in silence.

A plea to Valhalla.

He tried to move and felt the ground crumble between his fingers, dirt gathering beneath his nails and coating his skin in a film of blood, sand and sweat. He felt his hands twitch uselessly, pain shuddering through his left arm and into his shoulder, the ligaments fraught and cut. A whine left his lips, dry and cracked, and licked the blood from his teeth, followed by a shudder that shook his frame. He eased into a position of defence, knees curled under his stomach and his arm shaking with effort. His stomach rolled at the movement and bile spilt onto the forest floor, the echoes of owls and cattle calls taunting his weakness.

He sobbed.

The pain racked his body and he buckled. The forest floor welcomed his return and greeted him with grazes on cheeks, bark and leaves entwining with his hair, and the calming sensation of dew-covered leaves.

He cried – his veins on fire.

The life in him dwindled as if his life source were ripped from his body - hot tongs tearing at his muscles and causing the skin to char and flake. There was no mercy, he understood. There was only pain and death, destroying him from inside until his heart stopped and the blood ran dry.

He lay silently, body shuddering and moving sporadically from the pain, his mind reacting to an attack that his conscious could not fight. He wished that the Valkyries of Valhalla would merely open their arms, welcoming him with kind words and promises of eternal pleasure in paradise. Instead, he remained on the ground, the pain slowly subsiding as leaves tangled in his hair and the grazes deepened on his cheeks, all whilst the sweet relief of silence encompassed his being.

Eyes open, the cloudy irises cleared to show eyes cut from jade. The variations of green ranged from freshly hatched emeralds to molten malachite and waxed alexandrite. But amongst the clutch of gemstones, his eyelids sat heavy with blood and bruised skin, the veins decorating his whites running deep like canals, wide like valleys.

The world seemed hyper-focused, disorientating and harsh. The forest’s trees were jarring and bright, sunlight streaming in from the foliage and causing the leaves to blur into a mass of golds, greens and scarlets. He tried to move again, taking care to not disturb the remaining bile in his stomach, and positioned himself in to a crouch – hands shading his eyes from the bright rays of Sóls’ sun. His legs shook, toes curling into the dirt and his muscles forced him to rise. The sway of his limbs, the jagged motions of his movement, all contributed to the shaking of his injured self.

Supporting his body against a tree, he looked at his body and injured arm. The limb hung loosely now, elbow twisted and completely shattered at the junction between forearm and humerus. His remaining bones lay intact, however encased in fabric unknown to himself. Silk lined his sleeves, encompassed his legs, but the fabric it was sewn into was itchy and well-worn. Its smell was a mixture of dust and rot, the fabric frayed at his ankles and the hem coming undone from a single string. His shoes were in a similar state, with the soles both having been torn off and allowing his feet to greet the sharp floor that nature had to offer. The only cloth not stained or damaged were his gloves, for they were tough leather.

These clothes, as customised as they appeared, were the garments of a working labourer and whilst the sole of his feet felt rough against the dirt, his body slender but armoured with muscle, his hands - though hidden under gloves - were smooth and untouched. Far too soft for the common worker.

A tear.

A strike of pain.

Agony tore at his brain.

Knees buckling, he did not fall to the ground but slid down onto his thighs, his calves scraping the ground roughly and tugging at healing wounds. The stinging pain distracted him from the shredding of his brain, the membranes snapping and realigning in a state of pain and insanity.

He could not cry out, could not weep.

His mind, though scattered and confused, felt whole and then scrambled all at once. It was a constant pattern, as if something was infiltrating his brain and cutting out important information with a blunt knife.

A flood of panic filled him, and a flame erupted from his palms, engulfing his arms in flickers of green and white, the pain flickering just like fire. He knew the flame would threaten to swallow him whole, to hide him away from this pain and he welcomed it. The warmth of this magic was a stark contrast to the tearing sensation of his body. His eyes closed, the fire encasing his shoulders and replacing the pain with the touch of a mother, a caress, a healing prayer. He could no longer feel the pain of his physical body and as the fire encased his face, the sensation of bruises reduced to mere marks, his mind at ease with this new encounter.

The magic faded and his head hit the tree ungracefully – heavily.

He felt drained and sluggish.

Another lurch of pain and his eyes widened, his body collapsing into ugly and hard hacks. Blood seeped from his mouth, the fluid running down his chin and along his jaw, encasing his throat like the veins of a leaf. He coughed and retched, the mixture of blood and mucus forming welts in his mouth that he spat to the ground. There was no pain to accompany the stream of blood but a case of heaviness in his chest.

His body felt weaker now and his skin had become paler, the veins in his arms shimmering with a wavering gleam that pulsed with his heart. The green in his veins left ridges in his skin, arms painted with moss and ferns, then it was gone and black swelled beneath his skin. The warmth and comfort was replaced with animosity and fear, his skin no longer decorated with nature but tattooed with burnt charcoal and poisoned daggers.

The black lingered and then faded back into the canvas that was his skin.

Another lurch from his chest and black water poured from his lips and nostrils. He could not resist the overwhelming choking sensation, drowning in the tainted liquid, and let it fall freely. Tears accompanied the burning sensation in his throat and his mind fell blank. Spluttering, the liquid fell to the ground and with it the crumpled leaves on the forest floor shrivelled. The decaying leaves fell into pieces, the skeleton of veins left behind, and he watched with wicked fascination.

He felt the warm magic meld into his tainted blood, destroying and harnessing with a cold vigorousness. A sudden flush made his cheeks swell with blood and sweat dripped from his brow, the water lessening and leaving drops on his chin. He was too weak to wipe them away.

He could see no good outcome for this situation.

The corpses scattered amongst him held no solution and he wondered, what was it like to greet death so quickly and violently. To have such a fast end that not even their companions would recall their passing.

The liquid rushed back faster now, his stomach recoiling at the decimation of his system and bile began to rise with the black intrusion. He could not refuse the vomiting spell that overwhelmed him, the forest floor tainted by this wickedness that possessed him.

He cried earnestly then, reduced to a snivelling child with a stomach bug.

His body fell onto its side, his conscious seemingly separated from his physical form and watching from afar. The pain that began to swell once more was the only link that bound both mind and body together in that instance.

A voice rang clear through the forest and he wailed, glad that the final omen of death had come to him. The black liquid had dried up once more but now tinted the blood that streamed from his nose and tongue, he closed his eyes as he painted the floor with his innards and waited for Hel’s gatekeepers to collect him.

The voice approached, accompanied by another, and he let himself spiral into dizziness.

He heard a gasp, the cling of metal on metal and with the will of his own spite, opened his eyes.

CHAPTER ONE

The stream bubbled sumptuously between your feet, your toes merging with the rushing sand and weeds - the sound of leaves and water drowning your senses. You watched, entranced, as the water twined between your calves and a school of fish swam by. The waters’ clear features gifted the sight of such beauty as the freshwater fish and weeds dancing as the bright rays of sunlight glimmered across the ripples of water that moved idly in your wake.

You smiled, eyes closed once more, and toes spread wide.

The grunting noise of two horses joined the cacophony of the forest, as did the grunting and groans of an impatient merchant.

“Bjarke, truly I mean no disrespect,” you turned, eyes open and gleaming with the reflection of the stream, “but if you keep eating our supplies in the manner of a bilgesnipe” - he grunted again - “I fear there will be no food left for our dinner tonight.”

The merchant sat obliviously on the bank, his red hair having grown untamed and bushy in his months away, and the bag of rations situated neatly between his thighs. His hands, though large and callous, were filled with thin cutlets of deer and elk - all being stuffed roughly into his mouth.

He muttered something between the bites, hands waving you off dismissively.

Both horses huffed at the movement, edging towards the water where you played, and eating the long grass that hung from the banks. You moved towards them, hands caressing their noses and rubbing their ears softly. Resting your forehead against the stoutest of the pair, the larger stallion made a noise of indignation and shoved his nose into your stomach. Your balance swayed, hands moving to grip the bridle that sat comfortably upon his head.

“Thank you, Raoul. Your assistance is a blessing in disguise, apparently,” you glared at him and moved to cup his jaw. Scratching his chin, the stallion nuzzled into your shoulder and pushed more of his weight onto your body, pleading for your forgiveness. Giggling wildly at his actions, Bjarke seemed to have finished his portion of the meat and sidled up to his own horse, rubbing down Stigr’s flanks as your attention remained enraptured by your own horse.

“The sun is at high noon,” Bjarke commented soundly and altered the saddle on Stigr’s back. “I believe we best start walking, otherwise it will be too dark to reach our destination by sunset,” he continued and bounced, swinging a leg up over his stallion’s back and settling comfortably in the saddle.

You sighed, knowing his words were true, and began to climb up the bank, Raoul nudging your back affectionately as you reached the grassed surface. Petting him absentmindedly, you wiped the moisture from your legs and rolled down your trousers, securing them with a pair of thick riding boots.

Satisfied and somewhat dry, you moved towards Raoul and mounted his back – glowering as Bjarke chuckled at your struggle and sprawling legs. You knew that Raoul’s stature was not very advantageous when it was compared with your own height, often leaving you disorientated and irate when climbing onto him without any leverage, but he would have no other rider than you. And with that fact alone, you were stuck with the great brown lug.

Nudging Raoul into a slow trot Bjarke followed you at a similar pace, one hand resting on Stigr’s neck whilst his right held a compass that led him into the thick forestry.

“We are to head south of due east. Our arrival shall be an hour before Sol sleeps so that we may set up camp.”

The leaves scattered across the trail helped smoothen the walk, your thighs tightening as Raoul walked over the stony surface.

“And we are to be safe?”

Bjarke nodded, hand tightening around the compass, and his other drifting towards the dagger strapped to his forearm. His dark eyes shifted then, scanning the surrounding area and setting both Stigr and Raoul on edge. You hushed the stallion, running a hand down his mane and settling into small, tight circles atop his shoulders.

“Despite the rise of bandits in these woods, I am sure that we will be safe for you have I, do you not?” Bjarke jested and sent a wink in your direction, his change in manner settling the two horses and your own nerves. “And we do not know whether the end of the war has lowered the numbers of such vagabonds – it could be there are none left,” he insisted.

The walk continued in silence, both Bjarke and yourself allowing nature to fill the lull of conversation. This companionable silence was welcomed amongst your pair, allowing daydreams and thoughts to fill your mind with questionable ideas and memories from faraway realms. It had only been little under a millennium since you had left Utangard, but the new surroundings and people had supported you in ways that had never occurred to you in your infancy.

The daydreams were cut short by Bjarke turning a sharp left, leading his horse down a winding trail and into the darker parts of Vanaheim’s forest. You followed, Raoul taking the lead and keeping a few steps behind Stigr. Bjarke seemed confident in his approach to the darkening woodland, leading you in a manner that was either reckless arrogance or skilful navigation. You could not distinguish between the two.

It was at least another hour by horseback when Stigr turned skittish, his head tossing and turning towards the west. His panicked actions were mildly shushed by Bjarke’s calm nature, a hand pressed into his stallion’s neck and whispering words in the language of old. You came to ride beside them as the destination neared, your eyes darting towards each noise as the forest quietened and animals became rare in appearance. The weight of your arrows lay like a warning upon your spine, the strapped bow rubbing into your skin and leaving marks upon the coarse skin. Bjarke seemed similar in cautiousness, the dagger on his forearm having been moved to his dominant hand whilst the other kept a firm grip on Stigr’s reins.

Bjarke increased the speed of Stigr’s trot as you neared the clearing within the forest, forgetting the source of your stallions’ wariness and welcoming the idea of a good meal and sleep after a seven-hour journey by horseback. The ill sensation of fear and cautiousness still remained despite Bjarke’s joy, the dread creeping further up your back and settling like a vacuum in your chest.

“Bjarke –”

“Do not fear, fauntkin,” he turned to you once more. His blade had returned to its sheath and Bjarke’s eyes glistened with warmth, his endearment blooming like a flower in your heart. “I shall protect thee with my bare hands and teeth, if it ensures your safety. You are what I protect and protect thee I shall – but only if you promise to make your rabbit stew when we settle,” he laughed. The crinkling skin around his eyes had your own lips upturning into a smile, laughter filling the surrounding silence and allowing some of your fear to diminish.

As your movements slowed, your chatter joining the noise of owls and young elks, it was the sudden stillness of Raoul and Stigr that made both Bjarke and you jerk in the saddles. Their worried whinnies, their shifting of hooves and slow reverse forced your heart to quicken. Bjarke remained steadfast in his approach and convinced Stigr to walk, albeit slower, in the direction of your camp destination.

It wasn’t noticeable at first, but your nose was suddenly overwhelmed when the scent of blood flooded your senses and Bjarke turned his face, hiding his nose under a handcloth kept in his sleeve. The overwhelming scent of rot and decay forced a gag from your throat, Raoul stepping back at your reaction, and you had to kick him once more to follow Bjarke. The reins slipped from your hands as he kept up with your companion, and you tugged the bow from your back, slotting it into an attack position with a hand on your arrows.

“We should turn back.”

The older man ignored your remark.

“Bjarke please – “

His movements stuttered to a halt and you were sure you had come to an agreement, but when your eyes turned from him to the trail ahead, you were sure the words were not the cause for his stop.

A man lay dead on the track, eyes vacant and sullen in the decrepit skin that was once a handsome face. His hair was cut and shaven in places, mouth gory and bloody with his front teeth having been torn from his gums and his back completely torn open. Bjarke cringed away as the ridges of a spine peaked from between the torn muscles.

Dark auburn eyes met your own, the vacant space a reflection of what he had seen during the war, and Bjarke murmured low and desperate, “We cannot turn back now,” then turned around and continued, regarding the man with a prayer and a sign of peace before stepping around him. You followed the merchant, uncomfortable with separating from him at the sign of such death and animosity in unfamiliar surroundings. You copied Bjarke and whispered a quick prayer, hoping your sign of peace would welcome him in Valhalla and glancing at the body once more.

Wait.

“Bjarke, stop. There is a trail.”

The large man slowed Stigr and faced your body, watching as your arm reached out and pointed at the crumpled leaves, dried smears of blood and torn mud that led beyond the trees. There were new fallen leaves that covered the trail and with the body at your feet, it occurred to you that this man had been alive no longer than two or three days prior.

You pulled the reins, Raoul turning at your request and walking towards the thick foliage. His hooves tread carefully as you lead him away from the path and towards the coiling pathway of the trees. There was no refusal as you began to lead away from the original trail, Bjarke having begun to follow Raoul and trusting your intuition as the dead man’s trail continued for a few metres.

Ducking under the branches of a vine tree, your blood ran cold at the massacre that lay await of your companions.

A group no larger than a dozen lay in a small indent within the vast forest – their clothes those of warriors, albeit altered differently than those common to Vanaheim. Bjarke gasped from behind you, his feet creating a small thump as he dismounted Stigr and stepped towards the fallen warriors. You copied his actions, keeping close to the other as your backs faced one another, eyes searching for any sign of attackers.

“Fauntkin, keep close and check for survivors – we should not believe that all were killed before we have checked every single warrior at our feet. Although be wary, we may not be alone,” Bjarke spoke, breaking the silence and patting Stigr. He walked closer to the nearest warrior and dropped to his knees, flipping the woman onto her back and searching for any sign of life. Your eyes watered as the woman stared blankly at the thick foliage above, mouth open and in the shape of a wail.

Silently, you followed Bjarke’s instructions and walked over to the nearest warrior – his eyes unseeing and white with fear. Whatever had attacked them had been vicious and quick, unmerciful and brutal. His chest had been shredded into pieces and organs had been torn by the ferocity forced onto his being.

The pattern continued, finding warriors either fully destroyed and ripped open or silent, no physical injury in sight except for the blood that seeped from their eyes, mouths and ears.

Near the back of the group your eyes fell on a man, hair strewn like a halo and matted with blood. Half of his hair had been cut, the chunks either ripped from his scalp or sliced by a blade, and one of his arms lay twisted in a way that was completely unnatural. His clothes were not like the rest of the group, but rather they were common in appearance and ragged. The only fabric untouched were his gloves, but they were covered in blood that appeared to have streamed from his nose and mouth.

Looking closely at this man, your eyes widened at the freshly fallen blood around him, lips shuddering with pained breathes and wheezes.

Odin’s beard.

“Bjarke, quickly! Bring Stigr and Raoul,” you yelled hurriedly, adrenaline fuelling your system as both knees collapsed and your hands pushed back the hair that fell over the man’s face. You scanned for the lifting of the man’s chest, watching as his chest shifted with laboured breathes. The breaths seemed to increase at your touch and switching from the man’s body to his face you almost screamed as the previously closed eyes stared at you and dilated.

“Valkyrie,” he choked, tears streaming down his cheeks and eyes wide, pleading as he wept openly at your touch. “I am sorry for my actions –“ he begged, words spluttered from between the bloody streams falling down his chin, “for I do not remember my sins but know I have committed them.”

“Shush, calm. I am here, I am here – do not fear,” you insisted and yelled for Bjarke once more as blood rushed from the man’s lips. “I am here – we will protect you. I have you,” you repeated in a mantra, the man weeping heavily as you crawled closer and wiped the tears from his face. He only wailed louder at your hands, the whites of his eyes reflecting his fear and regret from a life lived poorly.

The man babbled something unclear and frantic, his eyes wavering from your face onto a form behind you. He fell silent and wept harder now, clearly distraught and confused from the pain infiltrating his body as Bjarke looked at the injured man.

“Bjarke, we need to get him away from here – how far is it from here to the clearing?” The desperation lay thick in your words, the man sobbing louder. Bjarke swept in and cradled the man softly, his form long and lanky but not uneasy to carry. His arms cradled the man like a newborn, their injured arm draped securely over the man’s hollowed stomach.

“We must hurry, it is quicker on horseback, but I cannot run with him in my arms,” Bjarke explained, “So fauntkin, listen to my directions and get there quickly. When you find the clearing, create camp and find the healing herbs.” The steel resolve in his eyes was hard and concerned all at once, his grip tightening around the injured man’s arms. “I know it is not ideal, but I cannot fit him upon Stigr’s back. Would Raoul allow me to mount him and carry this man to safety?”

Pausing, you nodded and listened carefully as Bjarke explained the directions to your location. Grabbing both Stigr and Raoul’s reins, you gifted your companion the larger of the two stallions and begged Raoul to comply, the stallion having come to an understanding regarding the seriousness of the situation.

Nodding to Bjarke, you swung a leg over and settled onto Stigr’s back without a moment hesitation. Turning from your companion, who was easing himself onto Raoul with the warrior still in his grasp, Stigr began to move with a quick flick of your heels. The trees around you blurred as the trail returned and foliage grew slimmer in its coverage, the stallion at hand having made this journey many a time before. It was only a short while after when the clearing came into sight and you swung down from Stigr’s back, the horse panting at its fast pace.

With a quick kiss to his forehead and a stroke to his ears in thanks, you unbuckled the supplies from his back and allowed them to fall to the ground.

Scanning the series of woven mats, medical supplies and clothes, you gathered the thickest mat from the pile and laid it upon the ground near the centre of the clearing. Several blankets were used as a mattress and you offered fabric that was vaguely in the shape of a pillow. With another quick search through the supplies, you cursed that the food and water had been stowed upon Raoul’s back rather than Stigr’s. Instead, you took the herbs and medical supplies, stole a small bowl from one of the less used sacks upon the stallion and mushed the herbs into a thick paste with a pestle.

Forced to leave the paste beside the bed, you searched for rocks and quickly formed the base of a fire pit. As you began to stack sticks and twigs into an arch, Raoul came trotting up and Bjarke dismounted with the man still in his arms. With a sinking heart, you noted that the man was no longer sobbing and remained silent as Bjarke moved swiftly to the bed you had made.

“He is weak and passed out on our way here – I do not know whether he will wake.”

Your places swapped once the man was settled, Bjarke having taken the position of fire stoker whilst you had swapped into the role of a healer. As Bjarke began to stack the wood and ignite a flame, you grabbed the water canisters from Raoul’s back and ran a hand over his flank in thanks.

The man’s breath had lapsed into shallow breaths now, each shuddering and shallow but thankfully the blood had stopped pouring from his mouth and nose. You noted how his eyebrows were crinkled in pain though, mouth formed into a cringe and muscles tense as you unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it over his head. A whimper escaped his mouth as the sleeve caught his twisted arm and you whispered an apology before tugging the fabric completely off. Following closely after were his leather gloves, which were folded and left to his side. Inside there was a message embroidered in gold thread and you frowned, unsure what the message read.

Then came his trousers, fastened with a knot and several buttons in a horizontal line. The knot was tied tight and seemed to cut deep into the man’s skin, pushing into what was an empty stomach, and the buttons appeared loose on his hips. You tried to untie the string but when that did nothing, you resorted to cutting it with a blunt hunting knife and slid the fabric down his thighs and off his feet.

Scanning the man’s body, you cringed at the scars littered amongst the skin, all whilst the new cuts and wounds stood out against his pale complexion. None seemed to be bleeding anymore, although some looked in need of disinfectant and stitches. Running your fingers along the ridges of his ribs, the skin ripped and puckered, you winced at how frail the man looked amongst the layered sheets and battered elements.

Pouring water into a separate bowl you dipped a spare cloth into the liquid. Starting in small, circular motions you scrubbed the dirt from the man’s arms and followed the trail to his shoulders, taking consideration when it concerned his injured arm and allowed the disinfectant to seep into the deeper cuts marring his skin.

You paused when the man whimpered.

Returning to the task at hand, you refreshed the water and squeezed excess liquid from the cloth, running it down the man’s chest and his stomach. The disinfectant was once again poured into his wounds and left to fight the bacteria that may have taken residence in his body. The pattern followed until his legs and feet were clean, then copying your previous actions, you cleaned the blood and grime from the man’s face – marvelling at the quantity of blood that had coated his cheeks and chin.

Concerning his hair, you could do nothing but brush it back and tie it into a low ponytail.

Proud that at least he would be protected from further infection, you sought out the needle and thread – ensuring that both had been cleaned – and began to search for the deepest of his wounds. Luckily enough, you were glad there were only two wounds that required stitching: one on his upper ribs on the left-hand side and the other on the back of his right calve.

Taking care to ensure the thread would not snap or leave residue within the cuts, you sewed the skin together and whispered an apology when the man groaned in pain once more. He had lapsed back into silence by the time you had finished both wounds, rubbing the herbal paste over the cuts and covering them with the thick bandage at hand. This continued for the next few moments, rubbing the herbal dressing over the remainder of his cuts and grazed skin with the bandages following closely after.

Bjarke had finished the fire by the time your job had been done, and he had begun to dice the cutlets of meat into small chunks. You watched his sluggish movements, careful and exact as he cooked a broth fit for the two of you. His eyes met your own and smiled, his crowfeet deepening as the fire strengthened the warmth of his rounded features.

Turning back to the man at your disposal, you watched as he rasped out small breathes of air and his face contorted into pain and back to neutral comfort in a constant loop. Grabbing the water cannister from before, you knelt close to his face and tilted his head back, opening his airway further and poured small amounts of water down his throat – pausing every few seconds and starting again when you were sure he was capable of swallowing.

The process was slow but eventually, the whole cannister had been finished and you were happy to know that the man would awake less dehydrated than when he was found.

“Fauntkin, it is time you eat and nourish yourself. He shall not wake any time soon and it will do you no good worrying for the remaining hours we have.”

Bjarke cut into your moment of silence and waved for you to join him, broth now done and steaming from two wooden bowls in his palms. He gifted the smaller of the two into your hands, the heat warming your fingers as the broth filled your stomach and you settled onto the ground near the fire, watching Stigr and Raoul graze by a nearby oak – their saddles having been removed and hung onto its thick branches.

Your meal continued in silence and when both bowls of broth were finished, your eyes returned to the man sleeping, his body unmoving as deep breaths caused his ribs to rise and collapse. His mouth was open now, air moving easily into his lungs, and he remained silent to the world. No sound of pain or discomfort escaped his chapped lips.

Bjarke watched the man in a similar manner.

“Do you believe they were attacked by bandits or by dark elves?”

The question hung heavy in the comfortable silence.

“I do not know why dark elves would have travelled here,” Bjarke’s eyes darkened and he moved to collect the two bowls from beside the fire. “But I know for certain that those wounds were not of a common thief or bandit – they were cruel, and trophies were stolen from each man and women found at that camp. You can see it with how the man’s hair is cut – shorn down to his scalp on one side, but long and braided on the other.”

Both sets of eyes had turned to the man as he remained silent.

“He is lucky to have been found before his injuries caused him further harm. It is quite strange how he was the least injured of the group, however. His physical injuries are less critical than any of the other members of the group – and his clothes are a complete opposite to the armour that the soldiers adorned. It is quite strange, if I may say so. I am unsure if I trust him due to his peculiar circumstance. Who is to say that he was not one of the attackers and left behind by his companions?”

Bitterness hung on the edge of Bjarke’s tongue.

“We cannot know until he wakes, but I am sure he was not one of the attackers. His body is too frail and malnourished, almost like he had been starved prior to the attack. And you can tell that despite his clothes, there is something unnerving about the material inside of them – as silk is not awfully common among bandits and the poor.”

“You are quite right, and perhaps I am too quick to judge, but you cannot blame me for worrying over our safety in the hands of a complete stranger.”

Bjarke smiled and you grinned in return.

“His survival – do you believe he will wake?”

Bjarke regarded the man for a moment longer and turned to face you, eyes now blank as a hand settled on your knee. His smile did not reach his eyes and a sense of foreboding settled in your chest. He sighed and murmured something low and baritone, your head nodding along with his words and eventually, the two of you split and settled onto your own mats to rest.

Raoul made his way around the campsite, nuzzling your face once, and then returned back to were Stigr stood, sleeping. Bjarke had strapped their feeding bags on before dinner and you had taken them off just before bed.

With your eyes staring up at the stars, you wondered if the man was someone of importance to have been attacked so cruelly and violently. His lack of large wounds, unlike his companions, told a story that you could not understand in that moment of peace.

The man had been dressed in common clothes but beneath the worn fabric there were silks and embroidered fabric that were not the cloth of a working man, and his hair so long and free on one side had been encrusted with golden thread and beads (which you had removed and placed in a pocket within Stigr’s satchel). His gloves had also been embroidered with this thread in a language uncommon to most Vanir.

But, perhaps Bjarke was right? Perhaps the man was a bandit – left for dead by his own companions.

Turning onto your side, the dying fire lit up the man’s body and you stared. There was no significant sign of importance upon his body, his cheeks high and hollow, his nose long and regal. His hands were large but soft, having only the minimum amount of callouses on his fingertips and the top of his palm. His ears were also rounded, not pointed like those of the dark elves or their sister race. His face, however, was pointed and held nymph-like qualities, you noted, but were nothing unnatural or superficial.

He was merely a normal man.

Bjarke let out a loud snore and you turned to face the sky once more.

Perhaps tomorrow will offer the answers to all your questions?

You could only hope as the man slept silently by your side.

___

Fauntkin – Young child/one Bjarke – translation for bear, pronounced: Byarh-ke Stigr – translation for route, pronounced: Stig-er Raoul – translation for as wise as a wolf, pronounced: Rah-ool

[freyjuseggr]

i really love that my url has the connotations it does. sometimes i forget that being ergi is bad or whatever like im gay lmao

[thorraborinn]

I am begging heathens to understand that a 10th-century seiðmaðr and the heathen king who murdered him for doing seiðr probably had different beliefs about seiðr.

[pornosophical]

holy shit The Long Road just updated

I mean, not even. happened a few days ago? whatever, this was my formerly favorite HiJack fic until Wind and Skies replaced it

but THIS fic was the one that seamlessly drew connections between world building to great effect. having the Man in the Moon’s nickname Manny cross reference to Máni was just [chef’s kiss]. and the gender stuff! Seiðmaðr, völve and argr, oh my!

almost gives me hope for myself

[flashfuture]

Follow up questions because I’m a Nerd and I love learning: is there any evidence to suggest frequent inclusion of women in Scandinavian warfare? Or is finding something like women’s armor rare? Was there a standard definition of any queer terminology in any ancient civilization? Did any Norse culture ever find its way to the Middle East???

I feel a bit like an over eager student writing this but uh...I’m very curious. 👀👀

When talking about women in Scandinavia you run into people describing how it appeared these women would take on the role of men in the absence of men. But I think there is an issue in that we’re assuming the role of women in these societies would match the role of an Ancient Greek woman (which is a whole other thing but I digress)

They’ve found that some of the founding fathers of Iceland were women, thirteen of them to be exact. women could inherit land and money from their parents. Women could be involved in legal matters and hold official positions. 

There is lots of evidence that women were very frequently going raiding. They have been debating recently I believe if the term dregnr a young warrior really was only applied to men. Young women were described in the same vulgar terms as dominators and something we discuss in ancient Rome was the ideal of male “hardness” basically just being the top dog in the room. Women were the same in Ancient cultures if not expected to hold themselves differently but Skalds (the poets) describe the women just like the men. 

Another thing quite recently (1993 so really recent in terms of historical archives) is the idea of the surrogate son. Basically, if a man died with no son to inherit a surrogate son would be chosen over a daughter. It has recently been noted that they very well could have been describing the daughter as a surrogate son. Someone to take up that male role of head of the household. This suggests in the sagas we have noted women but there is also a possibility for women to be described with male traditional words because of the role they were playing. 

And we have found tons of armor that looks ceremonially and some battle worn for women yep. All women could fight though it was excepted they could defend themselves and their home front. Against potential attackers and wild animals. 

Plus in the 13th century, the Christians introduced the Law of Gulathing which were sets of rules for people to follow. Women were then banned from cutting their hair like men, dressing like men, or in general behaving like men. This suggests It was common enough for them to throw it in the laws that banned traditional things that Scandinavians did that did not fit the Christian narrative or way of life. 

-- This is gonna go under the cut for the rest cause wow I got long lol. 

Okay queer terminology. You’ll see lesbian which was women who fucks women. and you’ll see penetrator a lot. These were slave cultures also so the idea of sleeping with another citizen was defiling them you shouldn’t do it.

In Ancient Athens, you saw men preferred the company of men over women because they didn’t think women were of value they were only good for producing heirs. There was a thing called pederasty where a wealthy man in his 20s, the erastes, would court a young wealthy man from the ages of 13-19, the eromenos, and teach him and keep him as a lover. Their debate over Achillies and Patroclus for example wasn’t if they were sleeping together but who was fucking who really. Because Patroclus was older but Achillies was the hero so was he being emasculated or were they breaking the age rule? That was their debate cause these things mattered to them 

They were kinda the exception to the citizenship rule. The Spartans felt the pederastry was weird because it involved citizens but they were all in with the homo. Obviously, this was all very public and you’d be scorned if they thought you were being penetrated.  

All in all, being penetrated was something women and slaves did and the last thing you wanted to be was a woman.  

Another thing to consider was these cultures had a lot of problems with excess. So too much sex or food and in Rome you were a uh Cnidus? Idk I can only spell it in Greek which is staggeringly unhelpful but basically, you can’t control your urges. Based off that time someone tried to fuck a statue I think or something like that

The Norse had a similar word ergi which meant you had too much heterosexual sex actually, you were too promiscuous. In the 12th century we know in Iceland homosexual acts like sodomy were banned under Christian canon (Thanks Richard I of England) so there is that. Pre-Christian influence there seemed to be no stigma around this minus don’t force yourself on your friends that’s rude but slaves were fair game. (I wrote a paper on the weird stereotypes of Vikings being the sexual aggressors when the literature of the time suggests the Lotharingians were way way more likely to commit those acts. At least according to French who were besieged constantly by everyone all the time.)

níð was an insult for the ancient norse which basically you had displayed unmanliness. Or you liked to take it up the ass to be plain about it. (Ancient people were vulgar as shit the Romans were obsessed with sexual threats to the point where its just in common day-to-day speech.) Ragr was a term that meant you were unmanly which is much more severe and you could like legally kill someone for saying that up till the 13th century. 

There is actually some debate that the concept of unmanly comes from making fun of the Germans. So like if you were Ancient Germanic or Ancient Brittania you were the savages of the day. Which is interesting when you consider the rhetoric those two countries put out. Like literally no one like the Germans or the Brits they thought they were filthy uncivilized and cowardly people. 

Also fun from the 7th to 10th century in Norse culture there were these figurines called gold foil couples. In it a couple would be portrayed which was a way of proclaiming themselves married before the gods. It was a very religious practice for them. There are figurines depicting people of the same sex in the gold foil figurines. 

Basically, we can thank Christianity for why we think the Vikings didn’t do homosexuality or homosexual acts. Because well they didn’t want them to starting in the 12th century again thanks Richard for having the worst break up with your boyfriend in the history of break ups. 

And onto gender which if you know Loki from Marvel him being genderfluid is based entirely on mythology and is common in Norse writings. Okay so essentially we think of seiðr or magic as something women do. And they did too. But men did practice it. This was seen as a third gender in Norse culture, the seiðmaðr a man who practices magic. Hence Loki moving between the three as he’s a known magic-user. There was also this concept of gender mixing, biological men buried in traditionally female clothing. But there is no way for us to know if that is this third gender or potentially they were more excepting of what we would call transgender. 

Because most of the writings we have come from the 13th century where Christianity really took over and just started making shit up. Like we have evidence they were trying to cover up things about Norse culture they didn’t like. So men who practiced seiðr were actually ergi and not a different gender, just an unmanly male. 

So yeah lol these were acts they did so verbs can be found really easily. But we have mostly Icelandic stuff cause Christians they did fucked up shit 

--

And the Vikings in the Middle East. They went all over. We have this assumption they were raiding whenever they went. Actually, the thing is they only raided northern Europe because they rightfully assumed those guys couldn’t fight back. 

But they had trading agreements easily with the Greeks, Persians, and Abbassids mostly. There is a woman from Sweden who was buried with a ring that was inscribed with “For/To Allah”

The Arabs had the term Rusiyyah to describe the Vikings because they came so often. They noted that the Rusiyyah were not good at practicing hygiene but also describe their bodies as being “in perfect form” They liked a good ripped viking and I can appreciate that. They were like “they’re filthy but damn are those rusiyyah built” 

Baghdad had the first real market place and they had paper from China so they were printing stuff into books which the Vikings found very interesting. There was so much international trade but the British and Germans who we mostly hear from now were so technologically unadvanced there was no way they could have participated with these other older cultures. 

There is money found sometimes that was certainly viking in nature. They didn’t really have money like the Arabs at the time preferring to trade in goods. So they offered furs and silks along with weapons and slaves. 

And it is possible that there was culture exchange as all cultures were being exchanged back then. We know some vikings converted to Islam as Arab writers commented that they missed pork dearly but were committed to the Path of Islam. 

The Slavs or Rus (Russians) of the time were also annoyed with these viking raiders because their shit would get stolen and then sold to Arabia where they’d have to buy it back usually. 

So yeah lots of trading going on. And many Vikings like I mentioned worked as bodyguards or mercenaries. We don’t know much of what the Vikings thought except that the writers in Arab noted they were very polite to their hosts if not aggressive with each other in a playful manner. 

Lol you really let my nerd pop off here. I’d have to do more research into the Norse effect on the Middle East though cause I only know about the other way around off the top of my head here. 

[heathird]

30 Days of Them

1. Introduce us to your God, but do not use Their name:

They are a Madman, a Magician, and a clever Trickster. They are a Lover, a Shaman, and a wily Shapeshifter. They are a Seiðmaðr, a Consort, and a Master of Boundaries. They are my heart's sweetest Friend...and I'm so glad that They found me ❤

[baisleyarts]

(seiðmaðr au)

20% Magic Man, 80% High as a kite

commission | twitter | ko-fi

[oneiriad]

Right, a Vikings / Mo Dao Zu Shi crossover scenario.

Well, there’s an obvious starting point in the Vikings character Yidu, the alleged princess who very conveniently somehow managed to bring mysterious drugs all the way from China to Norway as she was abducted and enslaved. (very credible story - not. Anyway).

(Please note: I stopped watching this show after season 4, because I had no interest in watching Vikings the Next Generation, and neither Rollo nor Lagertha nor Floki had felt like themselves for ages).

1. For the sake of the crossover, let’s pretend that her story is not just something she made up, and that she actually is a daughter of an Emperor. Let’s also, for the sake of the crossover, assume that said Emperor, upon learning that one of his daughters have been abducted in distant foreign parts, decides that this is an insult to the throne and cannot stand. And furthermore, let’s assume that this Emperor decides that clearly, the people best suited for travelling to distant and potentially dangerous parts of the world succesfully must be people who can fly on swords and do magic stunts.

2. One lovely morning an envoy from the Emperor arrives at the Cloud Recesses, bearing an Imperial Command to the Chief Cultivator (so very convenient of the cultivation sects to provide him with somebody specific to order around): the cultivation sects are to send a force to retrieve the lost princess Yidu, to bring her home safely where she can be put away in the comforting confines of a monastery.

3. The cultivation world sends some of their finest: Hanguang-Jun and the Yiling Laozu, the Ghost General and a couple of young Lan disciples. (All of them powerful - well, the younger Lans are going on an adventure for the experience and possibly a couple of other youngsters sneak along, because of course they do. WWX is torn between brimming with pride and yelling at Jin Ling, and then Jiang Cheng shows up and does yell at length, so the group ends up about twice as big as their journey begins.)

4. The bad guys have a head start, since Yidu had to travel some distance before getting abducted, and then the news had to travel back, so she’s already close to Scandinavia by the time the group heads out. As they use some fancy tracking talismans WWX is basically inventing as they go along, that means they’ve got a compass pointing in a North-Western direction. Aka they go overland, and probably north through parts of what is now Russia, before hitting the Caspian sea and following the Volga north and west. It’s neither the most hospitable nor the most civilized of routes, but, well - they encounter no trouble they cannot handle.

5. And then they finally arrive in Scandinavia, in Norway, to find the Emperor’s daughter a simple bed slave to some random petty chieftain who would not be considered a king back home, in a strange place where people can barely write and certainly not beautifully, where entire robes of silk will make people stop and gawk, and where the locals are - well, fairly tall (several taller than even NMJ ever was) and broad and lacking in many social graces. They don’t even worship the proper gods, just either a bunch of local petty deities that owe no allegiance to the Jade Emperor or some possibly-a-Buddha from the southern lands.

6. Anyway, let’s be honest: the characters of Vikings are fierce warriors and a serious military threat to a European late-iron-age/medieval battlefield. To a bunch of extremely powerful cultivators, including one who can literally make the dead stand up and fight for him? Yeah, no. I believe the term is curbstomp battle?

7. Before it gets that bad, Ragnar Lothbrok manages to shake off enough of his drugged haze to realize that these weird foreigners seem to be able to bring the dead back and to talk to them. Powerful sorcerers and seiðmaðrs, obviously, and not to be trifled with. Besides, it’s not like Yidu is someone he grows that attached to.

8. So, a bargain is offered: the cultivators can take Yidu, can take her medicines, can even take a nice big bunch of supplies and trade goods they’ve got lying around, and a nice ship as well. All they need to give him in return is Athelstan.

9. Very conveniently, the place he buried Athelstan? Actually a bit boggy. I mean, we’re not talking quite bog mummification, but for someone who has been dead for quite a while, there’s still enough left of Athelstan for Wei Wuxian to call him back, to make him rise from his grave and stand and “Wake up! Remember yourself!”

10. Ragnar getting followed around by a draugr does change quite a few things. Possibly the Paris conquest goes different, Possibly Ragnar just throws aside his position, grabs his undead boyfriend and goes off to see the world with him.

11. The cultivators, having achieved the first half of their mission - acquire Princess Yidu - proceed to get started on the second half, namely getting her home to her father. Which, having listened to her story, they decide to do by following a southern route, taking a ship west from Norway, down through Gibraltar, to Constantinople, and from there they journey through Muslim lands (with a stop in Baghdad) before following the Silk Road home.

12. Even for cultivators this is not a fast trip. A few years have gone by, who knows if the Emperor is even still Emperor. The Jiang Sect is still perfectly well behaved and have missed their sect leader, the Jin Sect needs some serious intimidation to remember that oh, yeah, that Jin Rulan fellow - handsome young man, and is that a lion skin he’s wearing these days? - is the sect leader, and hello sect leader Jin Rulan’s scary uncles.

13. As for Yidu? The new Emperor, her brother, is - less than thrilled to be reunited with his half-sister by a minor concubine, and she’s not even well-behaved enough to keep her mouth shut and be married off to some minor noble or something. So, I suspect she spends the rest of her life in some Buddhist monastery.

[illwynd]

Talk to me about those tentacles and tell me how fuck or die is doing XD (could've sworn I sent this half an hour ago so if it sends twice then oops)

(doesn’t look like it did!)

and lol ohh well ino i’ve mentioned the tentacles on here before, and i am really, really determined to finish that one up for spookyfic this year. it’s a truly goddamn weird idea and ilit. and i also don’t want to go into too much detail about it because i don’t want to give the game away. but well. it’s pre-canon, thor & co hear stories of a cave in nidavellir where there are said to be strange monsters. they go to investigate, with loki coming along begrudgingly.

The twist in Loki’s belly turns tighter as he lies down, spreading out his bedroll at the edge of their cluster and slipping into it. He lies on his back, arm folded behind his head, staring up at the stars high above. If he glances over, he can just see Thor’s golden hair spread out upon the pillow, and beyond him the silhouette of Hogun where he sits, his back to the dying embers to keep his vision in the dark, taking the first watch of the evening. 

Thor means to use this journey to prove himself above those who had made the attempt before him. Loki, on the other hand, will remain nothing more than Thor’s tagalong younger brother, the nuisance, the trickster, the seiðmaðr. And that has to be the reason he cannot stand the thought of it. He is tired, certainly, of being overlooked. Of not being wanted anywhere. Of not being appreciated. 

After a few restless minutes, he rolls so that he can simply stare at the faint glint of gold that is Thor’s hair upon his pillow, and he even lets himself sink down enough into the relaxation of sleep that he does not make excuses for it.

Thor made him come along on this journey in the first place. It wasn’t his fault he was here, on the edge of sleep, or that he just happened to be turned now to lie in the direction of the fire’s last glow. 

So clearly there is lots of angst. And tentacles.

And for the fuck or die /o\ i haven’t written much new for it in a while, but i am determined because the first couple chapters that i have are too good to never get finished. just the whole idea of loki getting banished to jotunheim, instead of sentenced to life in the dungeons, after the events of avengers 1, and how that would fuck him up? too delicious. and that of course is not even getting into the eventual Situation around the actual fuck or die part of the plot lol.

But so here’s a bit when Loki has become convinced that Odin is going to have him executed:

When the chains pulled taut behind him he stopped. They were there. And the throne room was fuller than before.  

In the little crowd there were several mages Loki recognized. A few men of Odin’s court. Frigga. Thor. Odin himself. All waiting with somber faces as if someone were already dead. 

Loki doubted he could have spoken had he tried. Fortunately, that was not expected of him. 

“Loki.” Odin said from his seat upon the throne. “Loki Laufeyson.” 

A jolt of shuddering horror went through him at the use of that name, but he did not allow himself to show any sign. 

“For one month we have heard your arguments as to why you believe you are not to be held responsible for the deaths of innocents that were caused by your admitted actions. For one month we gave you ample opportunity to make your case. But you have managed only to convince us of your lack of remorse for anything you have done, and have left us with the belief that we would be safer allowing a viper to live under our beds than allowing you to remain among us.”

Loki felt his heart pounding in his chest. He did not wish to meet Odin’s gaze in that moment and he could not look at Frigga, and Thor… Thor was there, watching with what he probably thought was a stoic look, and Loki would once have teased him for that and told him he looked more like he was trying to swallow a goldfish whole…

Loki looked away quickly, eyes dropping to the floor. Well. At least Thor had come to see him die, even if he could not be bothered with the one he insisted was his brother for the entire month before.

When he managed to breathe past the tension in his throat Loki realized he had entirely missed the last few words from Odin’s mouth. 

“--though your crimes upon Midgard were severe, you are too dangerous to be loose among mortals, so your sentence will be carried out upon the realm that gave you birth and which you later attempted to utterly destroy. You are thus sentenced to banishment in Jotunheim for the entire span of your life.”

Now Loki couldn’t help but stare at the Allfather, his mouth gaping open. 

“What?”

Poor Loki XD this whole fic, if i can manage to finish it, is gonna be such a journey for him.

[iamanartichoke]

magic headcanons in the sanctuary ‘verse

Or, I have come to a point in my fic where I needed to stop and write down the rules I’ve found myself establishing for How Magic Works. 

Disclaimer: This is not an exhaustive list, as I assume Loki has magic and abilities that have not yet been explored in canon; therefore, some of these headcanons may be subject to change. They also may be subject to change depending on if I change my mind, cause sometimes it be like that. 

Note: “Canon” refers to MCU canon. I understand that Loki may have more abilities in the comics but that incarnation of Loki isn’t pertinent to my fic portrayal. 

Cut for length.

1. Canon Abilities 

superhuman strength, durability, speed, stamina

cold immunity 

regenerative healing factor, longevity of life 

master sorcerer: illusion manipulation, presence concealment, shapeshifting, mental manipulation, conjuration, telekinesis 

other skills: genius level intellect, master tactician, expert combatant, mastery of spear and knife, expert piloting and marksmanship skills.  (Source.) 

2. Canon Abilities not included in Wiki

Teleportation.      -  Loki knows how to get from one realm to another without using the Bifrost. In TDW, he pilots through a portal; in Thor 1, however, he’s shown to simply appear and disappear              from places without a ship or any other devices. I interpret this as his being able to go back and forth between places with teleportation magic, similar to Dr. Strange’s portals (Loki’s portals are visible only to Loki). 

Invisibility.        - When Loki visits Thor in Thor 1, he’s invisible to everyone except Thor. I interpret this as Loki having the ability to cloak himself when needed, hiding himself either entirely or just from certain people.        - It’s also canon that Loki knows how to cloak himself from Heimdall’s gaze. 

Ability to handle infinity stones.      - Phyiscally, Loki can pick up the tesseract with his bare hands, store it in his pocket dimension, and use it as a teleportation device.      - It’s canonically stated in Avengers 1 that Loki has been taught the power of the tesseract. Loki also sent the reality stone away at the end of TDW, implying that not only does he have knowledge of/understand what the stones are and how they work, he also knows they are too dangerous not to be separated at all times. 

3. Magic and Asgard: My Interpretations of Canon (Plus Shit I Just Made Up) 

Asgardians as a race are all capable of magic.       - Thor 1 establishes that magic and science are one and the same (Thor, Thor 1).       - Additionally, “ Asgard is millennia beyond you in our pursuit of science and knowledge” (Lady Sif, Agents of Shield).       - Therefore, I interpret that scientific magic is something all Asgardians have access to and know how to use. 

There are two types of magic: scientific magic and gifted magic.        - Scientific magic is more technological, used for things like engineering, medicine, transportation, etc. This level of scientific development is such the norm in Asgardian society that most don’t even consider it magic at all. One doesn’t need any magical talent to use magical technology.        - Gifted magic, on the other hand, is more like an internal energy; Asgardians are born with it (so are Jotuns; it’s like how both species are very long-lived) and are capable of developing it (though many don’t).        - Those who choose to harness and practice the art of magic are the sorcerers (or seiðmaðrs, or witches, if you like). They are mostly women and their brand of magic includes spellcraft, illusions and trickery, transmutation, telekinesis, etc. Gifted magic is the type of magic that is generally scorned by the warriors when practiced by men.        - Loki explains it like this: “Magic was an inherent ability in Asgardians, interwoven so closely with their scientific developments that sometimes it was hard to distinguish the two. That said, it took hard work and great skill to become a seiðmaðr. Practiced by many, but mastered by few, his mother used to tell him. It was like dancing; anyone could move to the rhythm of a song, but dedication, practice, and a natural, ingrained talent were necessary to make it an art” (Sea, Ch. 9).       - This is why it’s possible for Dagny to have the potential to learn and become a sorcerer herself. In short, it’s not like the Force, where only certain people are capable of it. It’s more varied than that. 

Some Asgardians have very unique magic that cannot be learned.      - Some sorcerers are also “seers,” who have the ability to see into the future. Frigga has this ability, and Thor has the potential for this ability (as shown via his dreams of Ragnarok and the infinity stones; I think he thinks those prophecies were tied to Ragnarok, and doesn’t realize it’s a power he specifically can develop).       - Loki, notably, does not have this ability and makes it a point to say so, which is the basis of my interpretation that this particular skill is innate in some and not others, and can’t be learned.       - Heimdall, of course, has the ability to see all of the universe at all times. This is his gift from the norns, and cannot be learned.       - Thor’s lightning powers and ability to control the storms were also a gift from the norns (not to Thor specifically, but to the firstborn son of Odin). It can’t be learned or transferred; it exists solely in Thor.       - Finally, there is the Odinforce, which is strictly a tool of the kings of Asgard. When it gets low, it must be replenished by the Odinsleep. (Source.) My interpretation is that the Odinforce is the most powerful magic that exists, second only to the power of the norns.      - In later chapters of Sea, I plan to explore how Thor now also has access to the Odinforce, but he doesn’t realize it yet. 

4. Loki’s Seiðr

Loki’s magic is tangible energy.       - The more developed the sorcerer, the more tangible that internal energy becomes. I imagine Loki’s seiðr, at this point, to be so developed that it’s like a chemical. It rests in his core and flows through his veins; it’s an intrinsic, physical part of him, like a limb or an organ or blood.         - Like any energy source, the magic can become depleted. If Loki overexerts himself (usually by pushing himself to his limits or attempting a spell that requires a lot of magic), not only does his magic become inaccessible while it “recharges,” but because his magic is physically a part of him, being without it makes him terribly ill. He experiences symptoms such as nausea, exhaustion, headaches, etc. His mother referred to this condition as being “spell sick.”         - When he is spell sick, he can’t do advanced magic at all. He may be able to muster up enough energy for rudimentary spells, at the risk of making himself even sicker.       - Being spell sick does not affect his natural enhanced abilities, such as his strength or durability.

Loki’s magic responds to extreme emotions.        -   In TDW, after finding out about Frigga’s death, Loki clenches his fists and everything in his cell goes telekinetically flying. I interpret this as his telekinesis going haywire as a result of his extreme distress.       -  Likewise, when his emotions are beyond his control, the magic lashes out because Loki is no longer capable of controlling that energy. This is why lights and machinery shattered when he had a panic attack, and why little mage lights appeared everywhere when he was having sex with Brunnhilde (bc it was a particularly emotional encounter).        -  Extreme emotion can also fuel Loki’s magic. Spells and abilities can be performed at a more powerful level when Loki channels things like rage, grief, elation, etc into it. 

Some magic is visible to everyone; some is only visible to Loki.        - Some magic, of course, can be seen as it’s being performed. Mage lights, electricity, fire and ice magic, and so on - these are all things that everyone can see.        - Other magic is, again, energy - it flows, it ebbs, it gets tangled up, it hovers in the air. This type of magic exists on a level that can’t be seen except by those who know where it is. Loki, of course, knows where it is. He can also “pull” magic out of a bespelled object. In Sea, Dr. Strange enchanted a bracelet to bind Loki’s magic; Loki was able to visibly pull the magic from the bracelet in order to access it and set about dismantling it. He likened it to unraveling a ball of yarn. 

Miscellaneous.         - Some magic can be performed without a thought, like telekinesis or conjuring; other magic requires incantations and/or physical objects to work. The more advanced the spell, the more complicated the process.          - Loki has a veritable treasure trove of magical components, such as potions, charmed objects, spellbooks, and so on. He has several pocket dimensions and has been squirreling things away for years. A lot of his resources were lost on Asgard, but Loki has plenty more than anyone realizes hidden away. 

I’m pretty sure this is everything I’ve come up with so far, but I might make this its own page on my blog so I can add to it later. 

[imagine-loki]

seiðmaðr

TITLE: seiðmaðr

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: 5/? AUTHOR: goldtrimmedspectacle ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki is attacked and forgets his past. Now riddled with amnesia, Loki must decide whether to follow his mind and return his memories, or to follow his heart and find true happiness. RATING: PG13. Will go up in later chapters. NOTES/WARNINGS: Blood. Can be found on AO3.

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It took forever and a day for the canyon’s and coasts to erode away By the weight of the ocean’s cyclical motion they swayed And though the eons may pass as slow as the sands of an hourglass Every grain that we’ve counted claims that even the mountains can change - New River, The Oh Hellos

CHAPTER FIVE

It was early morning when your small party left the campsite and started back on their journey.

  Bjarke was well-awake by the time all materials had been packed and both horses saddled up. Very little could be said for yourself and Ormr in similar regard.

  It was amusing to see the contrast between the burly man and the slight form of Ormr, whose eyes were droopy from lack of sleep and his lips curled into a scowl. You were in a slightly better state, having grown used to the early rising time from such an extensive past of travelling, but you were still yawning by the time Ormr and yourself had climbed upon Raoul’s back.

  The road into town was long but easy when compared to the rocky trails you had travelled previously.

  Ormr was chewing on another piece of bark as the trail converged onto the main road, his stomach still relatively sensitive from yesterday, and you helped yourself to a slice of meat that was packed in a bag on Raoul’s side. Bjarke seemed to have a similar thought, gripping a package filled with different meats from Asgard – sent by a dear friend of his that owned a poultry farm. There appeared to be a truce between him and Ormr, as Bjarke offered the frail man a few slices, who scoffed them down with little prompting.

  Note to self, you thought, get that man on a proper diet at the earliest means possible.

  It was lucky that your early start had meant the quick arrival into town. The road which led into the centre was relatively empty at such an early time in the morning. There were very few people, but even with the little congestion it still took an extra hour for the three of you to reach the outskirts of Sandnæs because Bjarke had taken it upon himself to greet every traveller that you passed, having lit up especially when he saw an older man with a thick black beard that rivalled his own. The intricate braids and ornaments, such as beads and engraved bronze, were particularly attractive to the eye and you smiled when the man stopped and waved at your small party.

  “Bjarke!”

  “Fenrir!”

  Bjarke jumped down from Stigr and the man in question did the same with his wagon, both men gripping each other in a passing bear hug before splitting and patting one anothers’ shoulders in a gesture that was only reserved for old friends.

  “How lucky it is that we caught you before departing,” Bjarke laughed and Fenrir joined in, slapping your friend on the back once more. They smiled a unanimous smile, features almost perfectly alike despite the dark wrinkles that adorned Fenrir’s sunken features.

  “So, it appears Bjarke knows this man,” Ormr murmured in your ear and settled a hand onto your hip, balancing himself as he shifted forward, still wary of his arm. “And if I am not incorrect, they are related?”

  You hummed.

  “Half-brothers, the two,” you explained as Bjarke and Fenrir chatted amicably. “Same father, different mothers. Fenrir’s mother passed away when he was just a babe, around one-hundred years or so, and it was perhaps another three-hundred years before his father remarried. Another twenty for Bjarke to be born. There’s four of them – three brothers and one sister.”

  Ormr nodded in return, curiosity sated.

  “Forewarning,” you kicked Raoul into a trot as Bjarke climbed back onto Stigr, “We may be greeted by an overly zealous family of redheads once we are stationed.”

  Ormr made a noise of annoyance and you huffed a chuckle, unsurprised.

  “Oh yes, I did seem to leave out the detail that this is Bjarke’s hometown, didn’t I?”

  He pinched your side.

  You smacked his hand in turn and focused on steering Raoul as Sandnæs began to peak over the horizon. The walk into town was swifter after Bjarke’s abrupt stop –

“It was not abrupt! I was surprised to see my brother travelling at this time in the morning, and it would have been rude if I hadn’t stopped to say hello. You know that, Jorunn.”

Ormr made a noise that had you stifling a laugh.

  But the sounds of merchants chatting, ladies laughing and children playing in the streets were a wonderful welcome committee when your party finally entered the comfortable town of Sandnæs. And the smell of newly baked bread, the sound of a vendor playing his fiddle on the side of the road and a mother chiding her child over a small fall, all made you nostalgic from previous visits to Bjarke’s home.

  The cobblestoned roads were wide enough for your horses to slip past the oncoming carts, and any passing pedestrians were kind enough to pause in their promenade, allowing the horses to keep their pace without any means of stopping.

  Ormr had also remained oddly silent once entering the comforting town environment, his hand having grown slack and legs sitting relaxed behind your thighs. It was unsurprising that when you glimpsed back the man was distracted by the passing shops - especially those with herbs, books and meat installed in the front windows.

  “Found anything you recognise?”

  His eyes squinted at a nearby bookstall.

  “No.”

  Unconcerned by the lack of memory, you smiled and patted his leg.

  “No worries. We will get you to a healer soon and after that perhaps we could go browse the shops and get you some properly fitted clothes, as well as anything else you will need for the meantime.”

  Ormr shifted his leg and his hand gripped your hip as Raoul turned a corner, following closely behind an eager Stigr, who was growing faster and into a quick trot down the empty side road.

  “I haven’t any money, you realise.”

  You waved a hand.

  “Bjarke and I have been lucky recently, so for this time, it is on me. No charge or need for you to repay us. It is really just to ensure that you are warm and well before finding your way home. Also, so that you don’t look so odd-looking in those trousers. Grey is very much not your colour.”

  The teasing lilt in your tone did not go unnoticed.

  “Odd-looking, you say?” Ormr rasped into your ear, “Oh, little one. You are wandering a dangerous path. I would be wary of your future words.”

  You laughed and nudged Raoul to keep up with Stigr.

  “Shut it, oddball. I’m sure with the proper cloth you would look very dashing,” you exclaimed with an exaggerated eyeroll, “for a miscreant, that is.”

  “A miscreant, you say? Dear healer, you barely know me.”

  You smirked and nudged the man behind you.

  “And what does that say about you, sir? The fact I can dub you such a title with a mere few days under our belts.”

  Ormr laughed, his voice thick and lavish.

  It was shocking what a few days of proper care and water had done for his vocal cords.

  “It very much means I am not a sir.”

  Your party stopped only moments later outside a familiar townhouse. Stigr made a sharp whiney when the door opened and outpoured a number of men and women, as well as a few small children who wrapped their small arms around Bjarke’s hands, arms and legs.

  It was entertaining to watch the large man lift them all with ease and swing the larger boys from their position on his biceps.

  Lifting yourself off Raoul, you gave Ormr a passing glance, assuring him you would be right back and welcomed a group of small children as they excitedly tackled you. Their chattering was eager and they pawed at you like puppies, all pleading for your attention and tales of your adventures.

  The group of small children calmed once Bjarke collected them into his arms with an excited squeeze. And the well-wishes of his aunts, uncles and other relatives were returned with equal enthusiasm on your behalf, a few extra hugs given for some of your friends amongst the large family.

  “Fauntkin, it appears I may have been captured,” the older man spoke with a huffed chuckle as another swarm of children hung from his neck and shoulders. A baby had somehow found themselves settled in the crook of his arm.

  You smiled, “I suppose you are incapable of travelling with us to the healers then, dear bear?”

  He gave you a sheepish look as another relative whisked round and kissed his cheek in greeting.

  “Jorunn, you are not staying?”

  You turned towards the familiar voice and smiled, welcoming the ever-lovely Valencia into your arms, whose motherly prowess never failed to make you comply with her demands.

  “I am afraid not,” you sighed heavily, enjoying the smile that adorned your friend’s features. “Whilst I will not tear dear Bjarke from the arms of his children, I have plans of another kind that I must return too.”

  The tall woman glanced between you and Ormr, who sat on Raoul, watching Bjarke stumble around with all the children still swinging from his arms. His eyes seemed to glaze over the reunion, not particularly fussed despite the shrieks of excitement coming from the infants.

  “My dear, have you finally found yourself a kærasti,” Valencia teased and fluttered her eyelashes at you in a flirtatious manner. Her blonde hair did little to prevent her teasing, letting it fall in front of her face and allowing the woman to fake an ever-masculine flick of her bangs.

  “Alas, my friend. I must disappoint you once more,” you laughed with a light smack aimed at her arm. “But Ormr is very much not my kærasti – he is merely a traveller that Bjarke and I found on our way back into your lovely arms.”

  Valencia let out an exaggerated groan.

  “Dúllan mín, when will you find a man for me to tease you with?”

  You smiled and smacked her once more.

  “I am not yet two-thousand, Val. I barely scrape one-thousand-and-five-hundred at best! Besides, men are not my priority in this line of work, and you know this.”

  Your friend groaned again.

  “Yes, I have come to realise this from our fiftieth conversation along these lines, but it will never stop me from hoping for you to arrive with a dashing man by your side! None of my girls are old enough for men, and you are my only hope in practising my scare tactics before they grow too interested.”

  “Alas, it appears that you may have to wait a little longer then,” you smiled warmly and hugged her once more, bidding goodbye as another group of relatives seemed to round onto Bjarke and yourself.

  “Don’t you forget to return for dinner, dúllan mín! I have much to discuss with you further,“ Valencia yelled as you walked away, gifting you a glare and knowing full well that you would return if only to prevent her undying wrath. With a snort, you nodded a confirmation to the strong-headed woman and gave a few of the children a gentle pet on their heads. Winking at Bjarke, you clambered back onto Raoul and settled in front of Ormr, the man sliding his hand back onto your hip and waving silently at Bjarke, who did the same.

  Valencia sent you a look as Ormr shifted into a more comfortable position for the ride.

  Drawing away from the loud family atmosphere, you were surprised to find how Ormr’s drawl was a stark contrast to the hyperactive chatter and yelling of Bjarke’s family, drawing your eyes away from the taunting look of Valencia’s.

  “That was… exhausting to watch.”

  You laughed.

  “Imagine actually interacting with the Danrsons and dottirs,” you sighed and steered Raoul back towards the outskirts of Sandnæs. “They are a very… eager family – very loud and happy to be alive, more so.”

  Ormr paused.

  “They were all children and relatives of one man?”

  You cackled at the horror ingrained in his words, as though terrified at the idea that one spawn could create such an endless line of child after child.

  His tongue may have been barbed days before, but the man at your back was far more of an open book than he wished.

  “Indeed,” you wheezed and gathered a breath, “they are all relatives of Bjarke and his father. A lot of those children were his nieces and nephews, and the few who knew me were Bjarke’s own children. He visits them as often as he can in this line of work.”

  Ormr shifted behind you.

  “And the woman you were talking to?”

  “A dear friend. Valencia is her name and Bjarke’s wife.”

  “That is terrifying.”

  You laughed, “What, being married to Bjarke or the number of children?”

  “Both.”

  “Next time, I’ll be sure to introduce you then.”

  He pinched you again.

  “Pain.”

  “Endearing.”

  “An annoyance.”

  “A delight.”

  “That is completely debatable, dear healer, and you know it,” Ormr jested and nudged Raoul with his own feet, increasing the horse’s pace down the increasingly busy streets.

  “I assure you. It is not a debatable factor but a fact. I am the most delightful person one could know,” you nodded and smiled as Ormr pinched your side once more.

  Slowing Raoul back into a slow trot, you took to steering him between the carts and busy merchants, slowing near the busy streets of the town centre. The healers were a mere few feet away and you knew it was better for Raoul to be left in the temporary care of a stable boy than traipsed around town without much need.

  It was with your prior memory of the surrounding areas that you lead Raoul into a nearby stable, which he was taken in and cared for by a few ingots. The horse seemed to glare at you as Ormr slid off his back and was directed into one of the stalls.

  You winced and waved at the gloomy stallion before exiting back onto the busy street as it struck eight thirty.

  Gifting Ormr your arm, you were unsurprised that the injured man passed up the opportunity of extra support despite his healing wounds. His hands did trail to grip your arm as the crowds grew busy in the central streets, however, when you were almost separated from the injured man.

  His eyes never seemed to stray from the passing shops as you directed him through the busy streets and the on-growing crowds. It got to the point where Ormr’s eyes were enraptured by a bound leather book, the second one in that specific shop, that you linked arms with the spindly man and tugged him in the direction of the healers.

  You tutted as Ormr’s attention was withdrawn from the interesting books and leather copies, trailing beside you with a slight gate to his step. He sent you an unimpressed look, which you returned with equal force, and the man rolled his eyes at you. You scowled as he looked you dead in the eye, a smirk on his lips, and dug his heels into the pavement, letting you tug at him futilely.

  By Odin, this man.

  “Move, you oaf.”

  “I shan’t.”

  His smirk widened and mischief gleamed in his eyes.

  “You are an utter pain, you realise?”

  “I’d rather call myself a delight.”

  You groaned and the man in question chuckled, allowing for you to drag him across the road and into the healers’ ward and shop. His eyes gleamed as the bell chimed with greeting at your entrance and immediately Ormr was scanning the walls and shelves for different herbs and potions that were stacked in jars and varied bottles.

  “Do not break anything.”

  He smirked at you.

  “Not on purpose at least.”

  An older woman walked out from behind a curtain attached to the wall.

  “Hello, how may I be of service?”

  You gave Ormr one last withering glare and moved over to the counter. Leaning forward, you smiled politely, “Hello. I’m hoping that my companion could possibly see a healer at the best time available - specifically today if possible?”

  You glanced over at Ormr as he pulled a book out from the collection stuffed into an overly crammed bookshelf.

  “My travelling companion and I came across this man a few days ago – he’s heavily wounded on the chest and his arm is broken. He also has no memory from prior the incident, and with this amnesia, he’s having spouts of nausea with black bile.”

  The woman’s face remained neutral, a frown coating her features at the mention of bile, and nodded.

  “Anything else?”

  “His hair. The side which is short seems to have been pulled and ripped from his scalp,” you explained with a wince and the woman nodded once more. “He seems malnourished but otherwise, there is nothing else.”

  The woman smiled and waved a hand at Ormr, who was drawn from the books he had gathered. The man walked over, his hand out for a handshake.

  “Hello, sir. My name is Kari,” she took his hand and shook it politely. Her words faltered when Ormr bowed and placed a kiss upon the back of her hand.

  “Hello Kari,” he smiled sweetly, “are you my healer?”

  The older woman was ripped from her stupor and smiled brightly, obviously charmed by Ormr despite his injured appearance, and nodded. “Yes sir, I will be your healer today and if you and your companion would follow me, I can have you healed right now. That is if it fits you.”

  “Very much so, and I cannot express my gratitude enough for your help,” Ormr expressed and smiled brightly at the smaller woman. “My arm has been causing me far too much pain these past few days and I really hope that it can be fixed soon,” he relayed to the woman, whose eyes softened at his gentle tone.

  “Of course, sir. I will do my best – I don’t wish for you to suffer any longer than you have. Just give me a moment and then I’ll come collect you,” she assured him and rushed back behind the curtain.

  You looked at Ormr, whose features had settled back into a look of neutralism and verged on bored disdain.

  “Want to explain your sudden princely act, good sir?”

  Ormr smirked and shifted his broken arm. The sling which held it up was growing loose from the early rising time and long journey that Bjarke had inflicted upon the man and yourself.

  “Nothing too extreme. A mere useful tactic in getting things done quicker and more efficiently, wouldn’t you say?” He grinned at you, eyes sparkling with delight and something darker, more sinister.

  Unsure how to respond, the healer returned once more and opened the curtain for Ormr and yourself to slip past. The blush on her cheeks did not go unnoticed as Ormr slid past, a courteous smile trained on his lips, and you almost laughed at how Kari flushed a darker shade of pink.

  Once settled, she had you sit down on a wooden chair to the side of the small healing room and forced Ormr to sit on an elevated bed inside the ward. The man sat without protest and pulled the sling over his head, gritting his teeth as Kari gently lifted his arm and stroked over the ridges and scars that dotted his skin.

  Her eyebrows furrowed.

  The healer assisted with ridding Ormr of his shirt and had him sit up straight, her hands skimming over the bandages that you had reapplied earlier that day. There was little talk as she unravelled them and skimmed over the stitches and healing wounds, searching for any puckering or discharge that could reveal an infection. It was with ease that she washed off the paste and took an alcohol-soaked rag, rinsing the skin of any dirt that had gathered overnight, and removed any larger specks with tweezers to prevent their entrance int Ormr’s wounds.

  “I can fix your arm,” she spoke and her voice filled the empty room with trepidation, “however I fear that the bones may have already begun to realign themselves in the wrong position.”

  Ormr frowned and winced as Kari squeezed gently around his elbow.

  “I am sure I can handle the pain.”

  The older woman looked at him and shook her head, a small smile gracing her features.

  “Of course you can, ást. My question is, will you allow me to use seiðr to fix it or would you prefer a more natural and herbal approach?” She questioned whilst pushing Ormr to lie upon his back, who tensed up and glanced at you. His eyes were still lidded, giving the impression of a relaxed façade, but his pupils were small and his expression fell into unease.

  You joined his side.

  “Seiðr would be more preferable,” you voiced and stood beside the injured man, “as it will allow for the bones to break and realign at once. Then Kari can charge healing magic into your skeletal system and have them fuse into their prior state.”

  You winced.

  “It will hurt though.”

  Ormr met your eyes, his pupils scanning your own, and nodded.

  “Yes, seiðr please.”

  Kari smiled gently and gifted Ormr a piece of thick leather to bite upon. He grimaced and let the leather sit between his teeth as Kari untwined the cloth around his arm, tracing the veins that aligned his pale skin, which made Ormr twitch. Her hands, though wrinkled, were gentle and cool against his elbow and you watched as the common glow of seiðr flooded from her palms and into his skin.

  The grunt Ormr let out made you flinch. The skin around his elbow had grown taut and you could visibly see the bones shifting between his muscles.

  You sympathised with the man, his eyes scrunched shut and his back arching at the pain.

  The seiðr that flowed from the healer pulled and pulsed through Ormr’s skin and you watched as the bones shifted. It began to slowly diminish over time and the glow vanished as Kari pulled away, leaving Ormr panting and sweat rolling down his face.

  He sluggishly complied when you pulled the leather from between his teeth and helped Ormr rise from his lying position, watching as he balanced with both arms.

  Ormr leant against your torso as the pain seeped the man of his energy.

  “Here. Have him drink this.”

  Kari handed you a cup filled with floral tea, the smell overpowering and almost repulsive, which you forced down Ormr’s throat as he was shifted by your hands and their movements. The thick gulps made you rub his back softly, and once the tea was finished, you gifted it back to Kari and gave Ormr a moment to breathe.

  The man sighed and his eyes fluttered open.

  “That was mildly unpleasant.”

  You snorted.

  “I imagine so.” You squeezed his ribs and shifted away from his weight. “Want to try flexing your arm?”

  Ormr searched the room for a moment, his eyes still bleary and mildly confused, before lifting his previously injured arm and flexing the fingers. There was no sign of pain from the man as he twisted the limb around, shifting his muscles and tensing them once then twice.

  “Much better. Thank you, Kari.”

  The older woman smiled and wiped the sweat away from his upper brow with a wet cloth.

  “My pleasure.” She patted his cheek sweetly. “However, I don’t believe we are done yet.”

  Ormr grimaced but lowered his head in acceptance. Kari smiled and traced her hands over the man’s shoulders, lifting her palms when she felt Ormr tense up from her touch. Her hands raised to rest on his temple, lifting Ormr’s head, and their eyes met.

  “You have amnesia, am I wrong?”

  “You are right.”

  Kari hummed and drummed her fingers lightly over Ormr’s forehead, “Do you give me permission to try and align your thoughts and memories?” She tucked the few strands of loose hair behind his ear and smiled reassuringly.

  “I assure you that this will not hurt.”

  Ormr raised an eyebrow.

  “I would hope not, but please. Go ahead.” He closed his eyes and allowed the weight of his head to fall into her palms. The healer softened her touch at the sign of trust and gave you a reassuring nod at Ormr’s acceptance.

  The seiðr gleamed from Kari’s hands once more and you studied Ormr’s features as it leaked into his skin, causing the pale details of his face to glean an iridescent yellow. The gleam seemed to seep deeper into his skin as time passed and you could see the nerves within his system alight with the glow of Kari’s seiðr. His nervous system appeared to pulse with energy and life as Kari pushed more seiðr into his conscious and began shifting between the memories.

  You sat silently as Kari worked her seiðr through Ormr’s mind, watching both her and Ormr with odd fascination. Despite her earlier claims, you were unsure if Ormr could not feel the seiðr, his face scrunched up with pain and sweat beginning to role down his face.

  Your eyes widened and a sense of panic filled the air as Ormr retched and black bile spilt from his lips. His skin paled as the yellow seiðr was replaced by black liquid and shimmers of green. Glass shards seemed to split through his skin and shattered ice tumbled from his lips. The blood that seeped from his lips fell upon his chest and narrowly missed his healing wounds.

  Kari ripped her hands away as Ormr begin to visibly shake and more bile spilt from his lips, his eyes opening and tearing up with panic and pain. The bile began to grow thicker and ran from his nose as he shook, grabbing your arm as the sound of hissing filled the room and the bile fell onto Ormr’s bed sheets, tearing the fabric’s seams apart.

  Kari’s hands raised to her mouth in horror at the scene and she took a shaky step back.

  “Black bile.”

  The healer moved quickly, pulling Ormr forward so that the bile would seep onto the floor rather than onto his own body and the bed lining. Her hands ran over his face and seiðr flooded Ormr’s chest, causing it to light up as the magic passed through his veins and blood.

  Kari withdrew swiftly and hurried to a shelf to her left, scanning the vials and bottles. Her words came out mumbled and frantic as she muttered, ‘purple, purple, red leaves’ repeatedly and pulled the first vial that matched her description from the tall shelf.

  The vial was large and indeed, held a thick purple liquid that smelled pungent when she tore off the cap.

  Kari forced your hands to grip Ormr’s face and to tilt his head back. She quickly copied your actions and braced Ormr’s neck with one hand, the other pouring the potion through Ormr’s nostril and allowing the liquid to travel through his nasal cavity and down his throat.

  There was a moment where Kari watched as the bile continued to spill from Ormr’s lips and then it stopped. The remaining black ooze that lay on his chest seeped off his pale skin and hit the ground in small droplets, creating a hiss as they hit the wooden panelling.

  You helped prop Ormr up as the remaining bile dripped down your companion’s chin and his body shuddered violently. The man gripped your hand fiercely, too shaken and riddled with pain to consider his actions.

  “Hold him still. I need to put him under.”

  You glanced between Ormr and Kari, unsure whether to follow her instructions or to simply gift the shaken man the comfort that he desired.

  You followed Kari’s demands and allowed for her to grip Ormr’s head and the man promptly passed out.

  The shaking stopped.

  His breathing eased.

  You lowered Ormr onto the bed and pulled him onto his side, ensuring that if he had any further fits at least he could not choke.

  Kari grabbed a cloth soaked in water from a nearby bowl and wiped away any bile residue on Ormr’s body. The cloth hissed at the contact with the bile but seemed to work enough to remove any traces from Ormr’s chest and face.

  You sat silently, gripping the man’s hand as Kari finished her work in silence.

  “Poison.”

  You glanced up from Ormr’s shrunken face.

  “Strong poison. A lot of strong poison in this man’s system,” the healer muttered and settled the cloth and water onto the floor besides Ormr’s bed. “A lot of exotic strong poison – basically lethal if it weren’t for his seiðr,” she murmured to herself and laid a gentle hand upon Ormr’s wrist.

  “Very lucky. Very, very lucky.”

  “Seiðr?”

  Kari looked up from studying Ormr and frowned at your interruption. Her eyes fluttered between Ormr and yourself, grimacing as she patted his arm pityingly.

  “The man you found is not that of common heritage, ást,” her voice lay thick with worry, “nor have you arrived with him in the best state. It is lucky that you brought him to a healer’s, otherwise, I am unsure whether he would have survived another fortnight without care.”

  “Another fortnight?”

  Kari hummed.

  “The black bile he has been secreting – it is not a common ailment for those of non-seiðr lineage, but is not common for those within a seiðr lineage either, therefore, it is damaging and rare. Not a natural ailment, rest-assured, but often self-inflicted or a rare death-sentence for those with magic.”

  “He is a seiðmaðr?” You asked and looked at the shaking man within your grasp. Even when he was trembling and looking worse for wear, you had to agree there was still something ethereal about him.

  “Yes. Very powerful. Very, very powerful,” the healer murmured and studied Ormr’s features closely, dismissing your curiosity for her own. “Uncommon upon Vanaheimr, but common in other realms such as Midgard and Jötunheimr – there are distinct features which lead me to believe that he may not be in his natural form. A buzz of seiðr encasing his entire being.”

  Ormr whimpered softly in his sleep and the hand in your grasp tightened upon your fingers.

  “Also, something else, but I cannot tell. Something unnatural to those of common background, rest assured.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  Kari stayed silent for a moment.

  “I cannot say, ást. He is injured beyond my aid, poisoned by that of a völva’s curse or death-sentence. Whoever inflicted these injuries upon him did not want the man to live much longer than he already has, but I cannot tell what heritage he possesses beyond that of the seiðr he carries. Even then there is a mixture of techniques and practices that appear to range from Asgardian to Jötunn. It is difficult to decipher.”

  “And what of his memories? What caused such a reaction to your seiðr?”

  The healer lifted her hand from Ormr’s body and settled it upon her hip.

  “Your companion, whether he realises it or not, has encased his mind in seiðr. Due to the mixed heritage or perhaps the skills this man possesses, I cannot understand nor align the type of seiðr with my own knowledge. However, I can assure you that his memories are not present as of currently, granted, but they are there. And they are protected by a shield of seiðr I cannot penetrate – nor would I believe anyone in this town could dismantle without great fear of worsening your companion’s state.”

  “Whoever poisoned him, the man knew what was coming and has obliterated any chance of the poison reaching his mind and therefore, saving his life and memories. It appears that any overlap of his past or search for his memories causes the poison to spike, which his system knows to secrete naturally, and therefore causes the man to release it in the easiest manner – vomiting.”

  “It is actually incredibly brilliant, but very difficult to study and fix. The poison can be drawn out through careful concentration but only by someone of equal or more power than this man possesses, for the wall he has built is harsh and unforgiving in its manner of protection and pain.”

  “But it can be fixed?”

  The healer bit her lip and nodded.

  “Yes, it can be fixed. But not here – not now. I can give him remedies and potions that can push off the inevitable and the deterioration of this man’s system, but I cannot expel it. There have been very few cases of such ailments, but I have records of what can be used to lengthen his life, however, without the right strength and power, the destruction of his memories and death are inevitable.”

  You gripped at the slack hand within your palm, feeling a heavy bout of sympathy for a man riddled with so much pain and trial. He could not remember his family or past without the poison destroying his body.

  “And where could we find someone who could dispel the poison and seiðr?”

  Kari glanced at your joined hands.

  “Ást, this man is a stranger to you, is he not?” You nodded. “Then I am unsure whether I should recite such information to you, especially as I am unsure whether you would assist the man or merely prevent him.”

  She had a point, you noted, but the sting of her words caused you to bristle.

  “My companion and I are experienced travellers – a goldsmith and a merchant to sell his wares. We travel many realms and planes. If Ormr was to have a companion to deliver him to the appropriate healers, then I would bet that Bjarke and I are better than none.”

  There was a heavy sense of distrust in the air as the healer allowed her eyes to bore into your own. The swirls of magic seemed to gift her with rich hazel pupils that glistened with shocks of gold and black.

  She relented.

  “There are healers north of here – well versed in blood magic and seiðr. They are your best bet for the poison. Whether they could expel the seiðr on your companion’s mind, I cannot confirm, however.”

  You nodded and moved Ormr’s hand to lay upon his stomach.

  “But if the poison is fully removed, then there would be no concern when it came to returning Ormr’s memories?”

  “Indeed, his memories would be easy to harness without any worry for his physical health.”

  You rose from the man’s side and tucked a stray strand of hair back into Ormr’s loose ponytail. His breathing had deepened and all signs of illness had passed, leaving the man in an eased sleep.

  “Your companion should stay here for the remainder of the day and perhaps overnight. It would be best for his wounds to heal and so that I may make the solution that would counteract the poison for the meantime,” Kari voiced and joined your side, “I will move him into a more private room for time being.”

  “You’re right,” you accepted the truth in the healer’s words. “It is a wise choice, but would you be against my presence also? My other companion is currently reuniting with his family and I don’t wish to ruin the reunion with such dismal news.”

  “You may. It could be a while before he wakes up – so perhaps you should grab some food from town and hopefully, by the time you return, your companion will have awoken. And I imagine he will be very pleased by the presence of food after expelling so much waste.”

  Shaking hands with Kari, you thanked her graciously and squeezed Ormr’s arm once more. The slumbering man remained still and you pulled away.

  Leaving the healing ward, you slipped a few ingots into Kari’s hands and promised to return in no less than three hours. The healer smiled gently at you and walked you out into the front of the shop, where two younger healers appeared to have started the working day by restocking potions in the glass cabinet and shelves.

  “Thank you once more, Kari. I am most grateful for your help.”

  The older woman waved a hand in passing.

  “It is my job, krútt. Now go fetch yourself some food and I’ll see you at lunch.”

  You nodded your head in thanks and walked out, hoping that with any luck, Ormr would be well and safe when he awoke.

____

Ást– translation for love, pronounced:as-t Kærasti - translation for darling/loved one/boyfriend, pronounced: ky-ras-tee Seiðmaðr– translation for sorcerer, pronounced: say-der-mah-der Krútt - translation for sweetiblueutie, pronounced: kyer-root Dúllan mín - translation for sweetie, pronounced: du-lan mean