A Meditation on Ragnarok

Can a prison of earth hold a god? Can an oath, sworn at the height of fevers, at the onset of blindness?

As Northerner, as god, my Oath binds all, down to the atoms that participate in your becoming, in your being, and in your undoing.  I am the Wyrd where all threads cross, within you and without.  I am the pathway; folding and unfolding. I am the crossroads to which all paths lead.  The density of all matter held in a single planck, poised on the threshold.  

"Out of the darkness, out of the ice and the fire, I was formed.  Out of the darkness, out of the ice and the fire, I have formed you." Kinship.  Blood?  Choice?  No matter.  The threads cross, the Oath binds and the Wild Hunt rides, until the stars blink out and the Universe goes cold; from darkness to light and back again. 
 

It knows no mercy - none granted, none expected. No need of grace, it does what it is.  Folds and unfolds. Spirals outward, then in - the center will not hold. The primal scream of Yggdrasil becoming, echoes still on its path to unbecoming.

The Storm King on the machair,  dancing to the beat the Old One set when first she spoke, the Giantess who Strides the Worlds. "Do no harm to my herds. Take no more than they can give." Wild Hunt energies enter form and depart, cycling through - fauna, flora, bedrock or the great waters.  Matter becomes form; form becomes matter. The Great Wheel turns.  

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What is death but a question of form?   A boundary releasing.  Orgasmic as all releases must be.  Energies held for the space of a single breath.  Shorter even, held for the  moment that is not a moment, the half-beat of a memory, exploding outward and turning inward, fading even as it forms.  

Hear them, their croaking call, raven black across the deep of the Dark.  The Memory of a Universe dreaming Itself into Being.  They are the horn.  Can you hear them?  They are calling you.

Your gods will not shield you; impotent before it.  The Hunt does not bend its knee. Not to the gods,  The Hunt is First.  It is Oldest.  It is Formless. It is Void.  It is the Binding and the Unbinding.

Hear them, the drone, the harmonics. No male, no female, no human, no fauna, no flora.  Energy dancing with darkness, given form;  matter hungers to know itself. To taste the speed of light flickering upon its lips through the darkness. Will o’ the wisp on the moorland, follow us at your peril.  Deep waters running cold, running cold, running cold.

Take your rings. Take your rituals, your dogmas and your discipline.  We will have no dealings with such things.  We are the Wild Ones, the Unbound.  Outside time, outside space.  We are hunters. We hunt. 

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Signatures. Signifiers. Energy dancing with the matter of darkness.  Hear them, the beat and drone.  Heartbeat, motherbeat, knocking, knocking, it knocks for your gods.  It is matter, dark and hidden, holding all together.  ​

Who holds the threads? No one. Everyone. No One. 

What is this gods’ justice, of which you speak?  In the end, the Hunt is all there is.  For your gods' powers, contained within the boundaries of Sol, burn, burn, burn. 

Billions of years Sol has held, but with every heartbeat he is diminished.  A god of golden glory who shrinks with every solar storm or flare.  A god who can do no other but burn for it is his Essence.  Until he is once again enfolded, through redness, into the nova flare of Death. We do not need a prison to hold your gods because the Dance, She will eat you all.  

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So, Yes. 

Burn yourself out. 

Become the ash in the void.

We are the gleam in the deep, deep earth.  Eyeless. What need have we for eyes in the darkness from which all comes and to which all returns.  The Wheel turns.

There is no throne we cannot reach, no god we cannot swallow.  No washing of hands in this holy well for she rises,  thrice widdershins round the well, she spills, spills, spills her powers - down the valley, destruction and life, the same breath of creativity, of generative death. 

Ragnarok.  You will not dam these waters, there will be no priest holding chalices to dispense his power.  What the gods have bound will be unbound.  It is the path of the Great Wheel.  It is the Dance.

There is a debt that is owed and the Well is much diminished.

Shallow are the waters left for the hanging men and hanging women who seek wisdom at her roots.  Dance on the edge SisterBrother, and in that open sharpness find your bleeding heart. 

Dripping to the beat, beat, beat of the Bound One, his breath whuffs upon your cheek.

[UNEDITED, (C) June 7, 2023]