The spear, the fire

and the cup,

all different,

conjoined … they make a whole.

 

This is their mystery.

 

From my vantage point,

an age away,

I saw the young Gods

emerge from the mist;

faces set, purpose fixed,

they loped like wolves

across the frozen land.

 

Aurgelmir was sleeping

—nothing unusual there—

and as they approached

he stirred, snorted,

and then, slept on.

 

Hauling themselves up

onto the giant’s shoulder

two of the brothers

began to slash and hack

at his neck.

 

In no time they were covered with gore,

but their efforts

only served to waken him.

 

He tried to roar

and stagger to his feet,

but the third god,

having listened carefully,

plunged his whip-sharp sword

into the Old Man’s chest

and pierced his heart.

 

A single drop

of crimson blood

leapt up to speck his cheek,

to mar his impassivity.

 

Ve speaks.

 

(His hair is the colour of blood and fire,

his heavily freckled face bronze.

All that he wears is scarlet;

in fact everything about him is red,

everything except his eyes which sparkle

like emerald fires.)

 

In a way,

I mourn the Old Man,

but it was no life.

 

He slept and ate,

farted and snored—

a belch was

as good as it got.

 

They won’t have it,

but in murder

we made him new;

there must be movement,

change,

creation as a vortex

not a stagnant pool.

 

In death, Aurgelmir

gave rise to worlds,

to a Universe

of possibilities.

 

Yes, I mourn him,

but I am not much given

to regret.

 

Odin speaks.

 

(His hair, once gold,

is now the colour of iron,

his single remaining eye

is blue and piercing—

the empty socket is covered

with a plain patch

of black leather.)

 

It was never

in my nature

to slip through time,

an unmarked figment

of Ymir’s torpid dreaming.

 

Mine, rather,

to shape worlds ,

to father and foster

Gods and men.

 

To hold in my hands

life and death,

glory, honour,

torment and triumph.

 

Even Gods

grow older and wiser;

now I wander

and scheme

as, then, I soared

and struck

like an eagle.

 

Vili speaks.

 

(He is pale,

hair almost white,

eyes grey but not cold;

he is clearly a thinker.)

 

I have little to say.

 

Usually so different,

my brothers appeared alike

as they chopped

at the Old Man.

 

There was blood everywhere.

I thought a moment,

found the soft spot,

plunged in my sword

to still his rumbling heart.

 

That is all.