Sinric the Wanderer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thewidewideworld) wrote2016-11-18 06:37 pm
thewidewideworld) wrote2016-11-18 06:37 pm
Entry tags:
The Seer's Journey
I was walking through the marketplace of Dubrovnik on the western border of the Empire when I felt eyes on me.
I ran my hands over my shoulders, feeling the hum of magic that meant my cloak of unseen was still in place, and yet I knew I was being watched.
I walked down another street, pretending to be interested in a stall so I could look back.
There she was, bold as daylight in the middle of the street, watching me.
Our eyes met and I felt a bolt of... something. Not fear and not desire but an attraction.
Power. The power to be strong, to be without fear. To know what others cannot.
Something deep inside her called to me. And me to her. Something that was right. As it should be. As it was meant to be.
She gestured me to follow and turned away, not waiting to see if I followed.
And I did.
For I knew I could not have done otherwise.
She led me through the town, to the foot of the mountain. And there into a cave.
She lit no torch nor offered no light so I cast the charm of night-seeing and followed into the gloom.
We walked for what seemed an age until we came into an opening. The roof of the cave gave way to the roots of a great tree. In and around they wove – each as thick as my waist. There other women waited for me, seeming to know I would come.
“You are the seiðmaðr.” One of them stated, no question in her words. Her darkened eyes reminded me both of a hawk, and of Ragnar’s friend Floki. “You have come to be taught.”
“I am Sinric, the Wanderer.” I answered, feeling the words form without my thoughts. “And I have come to learn.”
“Then our wait has not been in vain.”
They undressed me, taking my things deep into the cave. They washed me, gave me strong drink and poured herbs into their fires, filling the air with acrid smoke.
And I began to dream.
In the place inside the earth, I learned the faces of their gods, of Ragnar’s gods, for the Vǫlva were of the Northern people though they were far from their lands.
But behind the faces of Odin and Freyja and Baldr and Loki, I saw other faces. Other gods. Other names. Things I knew the Vǫlva did not see. Truths deeper and darker than they knew.
I learned the ways of their magic – song magic, rune magic, blood magic. Sex magic.
I touched and was touched. But for all the acts of the flesh they performed, forbidden and illicit in their own lands, they knew less that I of the ways of pleasure. For what was there that could be done between people that I had not done? Or had not been done to me.
Binding their magic to the powers of pleasure I already possessed, I reached planes of pleasures and pains I never knew possible. Intoxicating highs that seemed to last for weeks and months. Till I no longer knew the seasons or year. Or myself.
There in the earth’s womb, my flesh was pierced and made whole again. Rune drawn under my skin to be seen only by those who knew how to read them.
But they spoke only the language of their own people, and what little Greek they needed to trade. Their story magic and rune magic and song magic were limited by their own tongues. Limited by the world they knew.
And I saw them then, for what they were. Displaced and bitter. Driven from their lands by a king who would not bow before them, who would not give them the respect they believed they were due. They craved and sought power - to make themselves strong, to take back what they believed they had lost.
And for all that I understood their desire to stand tall; I saw also that their vengeance would bring neither peace nor justice. Even if they took back their lands, they had lost their place amongst their people. Their desires were borne of spite and bile, and would poison all they touched. They had become the blight the king had driven them out for fear of.
They saw in me a blade – an edge that could be honed and turned against their enemy. And I was sad for them; for they had given me much, but I would and could never be the weapon they wanted of me.
I was free, and no man or woman would own me again.
Beneath the rising red moon, on the dusk of the longest night, they carried me out of the cave, to the base of the tree. There with phalluses of stone and wood and bone they took their pleasure of me. And I of them.
My seed was reaped of me in dance of flesh that seemed to last for days and yet ended before the moon let go of the horizon.
From each of them I drank a draft of strong wine; some spiced, some bitter, some sweet. Some thick with blood or seed or things unknown.
They took my arms and bound me amongst the branches, bare to the bitter cold but insensible to it. On my skin they drew the tree, inviting it into me. I felt the roots, the branches, the leaves enter me, become me.
And then they left me, believing my journey would bring them the power they so coveted.
Despite the cold, and insensate to the cords and ropes that bit into my flesh, I slept. Exhausted beyond endurance and bound to dreams more real than the waking world.
Centuries came and went; empires rose and fell with my breath, with each beat of my heart.
The stars turned in wheels of light, falling, dancing, burning.
I saw the great tapestry of the world. Threads of gold and silver, of hair and breath, of blood and sinew.
I saw the weaver and the great pattern.
I saw the three faced queen who spun and measured and cut.
I saw the tears and tangles, the gore that dripped from open wounds in the weave. The cries of a dying men. Dying in fire, in water, in venom.
I saw bright light shine thought the weave, leaving dancing patterns of love and promise. It was a healing light and I let shine on me, blinding me.
I saw everything and nothing. The beginning and the end.
And I wept.
On my skin the dove, the raven and the lark circled each other. Calling, crying, singing. They were the threads woven through me; through my heart, my blood, my soul. I saw the places they bound me to the tapestry, where the threads of my being crossed and knotted and bound to others.
I could tear them if I wished; tear myself free from fate and duty, from loss and sacrifice.
But I saw too where the tapestry would fray and mouldering and unravel without those knots. The deaths and destruction and despair.
I looked back, away from rotting tangle I would cause if I didn’t follow my path. Behind me I saw all the threads of the past – the line of my travels and the crossings of lives met, entwined and parted. It warmed me to see how the threads glowed, how warmth and good had come from those entangled encounters. Not all so, for there was blood in my path also. But little of it followed me far, staining my thread for only a small distance of passing.
I felt the three faced queen reach into me; drawing forth my heart strings, plucking out my hair, spinning the threads of my song. To make the cord of me for the weaver’s work.
I felt the other lives, the other threads I touch. In that moment I could see their paths; the patterns they would make, could make, had made.
All at once it was too much and I cried out, fighting the bonds that held me. Fighting to close my eyes, to block out all the futures, pasts and presents that assailed me. I felt my body again – my blood hot on my skin as the ropes scored deep, the rough bark of the tree as it abraded me, the bitter cold stealing the warmth of life from me.
I reached within, for the threads of the tattoo on my hip. I could use it, the power bound within those marks; to reach for them, to call to them. Across the worlds, across time. Across the whole weave of creation, I called.
I ran my hands over my shoulders, feeling the hum of magic that meant my cloak of unseen was still in place, and yet I knew I was being watched.
I walked down another street, pretending to be interested in a stall so I could look back.
There she was, bold as daylight in the middle of the street, watching me.
Our eyes met and I felt a bolt of... something. Not fear and not desire but an attraction.
Power. The power to be strong, to be without fear. To know what others cannot.
Something deep inside her called to me. And me to her. Something that was right. As it should be. As it was meant to be.
She gestured me to follow and turned away, not waiting to see if I followed.
And I did.
For I knew I could not have done otherwise.
She led me through the town, to the foot of the mountain. And there into a cave.
She lit no torch nor offered no light so I cast the charm of night-seeing and followed into the gloom.
We walked for what seemed an age until we came into an opening. The roof of the cave gave way to the roots of a great tree. In and around they wove – each as thick as my waist. There other women waited for me, seeming to know I would come.
“You are the seiðmaðr.” One of them stated, no question in her words. Her darkened eyes reminded me both of a hawk, and of Ragnar’s friend Floki. “You have come to be taught.”
“I am Sinric, the Wanderer.” I answered, feeling the words form without my thoughts. “And I have come to learn.”
“Then our wait has not been in vain.”
They undressed me, taking my things deep into the cave. They washed me, gave me strong drink and poured herbs into their fires, filling the air with acrid smoke.
And I began to dream.
In the place inside the earth, I learned the faces of their gods, of Ragnar’s gods, for the Vǫlva were of the Northern people though they were far from their lands.
But behind the faces of Odin and Freyja and Baldr and Loki, I saw other faces. Other gods. Other names. Things I knew the Vǫlva did not see. Truths deeper and darker than they knew.
I learned the ways of their magic – song magic, rune magic, blood magic. Sex magic.
I touched and was touched. But for all the acts of the flesh they performed, forbidden and illicit in their own lands, they knew less that I of the ways of pleasure. For what was there that could be done between people that I had not done? Or had not been done to me.
Binding their magic to the powers of pleasure I already possessed, I reached planes of pleasures and pains I never knew possible. Intoxicating highs that seemed to last for weeks and months. Till I no longer knew the seasons or year. Or myself.
There in the earth’s womb, my flesh was pierced and made whole again. Rune drawn under my skin to be seen only by those who knew how to read them.
But they spoke only the language of their own people, and what little Greek they needed to trade. Their story magic and rune magic and song magic were limited by their own tongues. Limited by the world they knew.
And I saw them then, for what they were. Displaced and bitter. Driven from their lands by a king who would not bow before them, who would not give them the respect they believed they were due. They craved and sought power - to make themselves strong, to take back what they believed they had lost.
And for all that I understood their desire to stand tall; I saw also that their vengeance would bring neither peace nor justice. Even if they took back their lands, they had lost their place amongst their people. Their desires were borne of spite and bile, and would poison all they touched. They had become the blight the king had driven them out for fear of.
They saw in me a blade – an edge that could be honed and turned against their enemy. And I was sad for them; for they had given me much, but I would and could never be the weapon they wanted of me.
I was free, and no man or woman would own me again.
Beneath the rising red moon, on the dusk of the longest night, they carried me out of the cave, to the base of the tree. There with phalluses of stone and wood and bone they took their pleasure of me. And I of them.
My seed was reaped of me in dance of flesh that seemed to last for days and yet ended before the moon let go of the horizon.
From each of them I drank a draft of strong wine; some spiced, some bitter, some sweet. Some thick with blood or seed or things unknown.
They took my arms and bound me amongst the branches, bare to the bitter cold but insensible to it. On my skin they drew the tree, inviting it into me. I felt the roots, the branches, the leaves enter me, become me.
And then they left me, believing my journey would bring them the power they so coveted.
Despite the cold, and insensate to the cords and ropes that bit into my flesh, I slept. Exhausted beyond endurance and bound to dreams more real than the waking world.
Centuries came and went; empires rose and fell with my breath, with each beat of my heart.
The stars turned in wheels of light, falling, dancing, burning.
I saw the great tapestry of the world. Threads of gold and silver, of hair and breath, of blood and sinew.
I saw the weaver and the great pattern.
I saw the three faced queen who spun and measured and cut.
I saw the tears and tangles, the gore that dripped from open wounds in the weave. The cries of a dying men. Dying in fire, in water, in venom.
I saw bright light shine thought the weave, leaving dancing patterns of love and promise. It was a healing light and I let shine on me, blinding me.
I saw everything and nothing. The beginning and the end.
And I wept.
On my skin the dove, the raven and the lark circled each other. Calling, crying, singing. They were the threads woven through me; through my heart, my blood, my soul. I saw the places they bound me to the tapestry, where the threads of my being crossed and knotted and bound to others.
I could tear them if I wished; tear myself free from fate and duty, from loss and sacrifice.
But I saw too where the tapestry would fray and mouldering and unravel without those knots. The deaths and destruction and despair.
I looked back, away from rotting tangle I would cause if I didn’t follow my path. Behind me I saw all the threads of the past – the line of my travels and the crossings of lives met, entwined and parted. It warmed me to see how the threads glowed, how warmth and good had come from those entangled encounters. Not all so, for there was blood in my path also. But little of it followed me far, staining my thread for only a small distance of passing.
I felt the three faced queen reach into me; drawing forth my heart strings, plucking out my hair, spinning the threads of my song. To make the cord of me for the weaver’s work.
I felt the other lives, the other threads I touch. In that moment I could see their paths; the patterns they would make, could make, had made.
All at once it was too much and I cried out, fighting the bonds that held me. Fighting to close my eyes, to block out all the futures, pasts and presents that assailed me. I felt my body again – my blood hot on my skin as the ropes scored deep, the rough bark of the tree as it abraded me, the bitter cold stealing the warmth of life from me.
I reached within, for the threads of the tattoo on my hip. I could use it, the power bound within those marks; to reach for them, to call to them. Across the worlds, across time. Across the whole weave of creation, I called.