#the night norse

[marril96]

Dead Boy Detectives 1.01 | The Case of Crystal Palace

[mischievousdog]

Heir of Fenrir

[ilikebooksmoviesseriesandanime]

Yes

[broomsick]

I often see people lamenting how difficult it is to research norse myth. No story seems quite consistent through time and space, no interpretation is exactly the same, no pre-Christian group even believed in exactly the same way… Would it not be easier if nordic religions came in one, monolithic package— all fossilized together into a single block? But one comes to realize that they don’t, and it’s proof of their wonderfully diverse nature. Oral tradition in Scandinavia, dating back long before the Viking Age and surviving into the christianization period, was unbelievably alive and organic. And taking it all in is a joy in and of itself— not necessarily seeking to acquire a single answer to every question we as heathens find ourselves pondering, but rather, appreciating the myths for what they were: ever-evolving, ever-shapeshifting.

[robocop1906]

St Patrick's Day - a very very bizarre celebration indeed. A British and Roman priest who attempted to annihilate the Druids, conducted exorcisms to banish the great Irish faery deity Aine, who told lies about the faery, who claimed he threw Pagan women who would not convert into the ocean and they became mermaids, who "drove out the snakes" (the Pagan ways) and attempted to turn the great bright god Lugh into Lugh-chromain (Little stooping Lugh) which would become "lephrecaun". I adore the Irish. I revere Ireland. I have that old blood singing within my veins. But this day is a day to celebrate the survival of the Old Ways despite what this "Saint" represented and the cruel action he took. Today, I wear the green, for the fae, for the Old Ways, for the shining ones and the deep love of the land. Blessings to you all my friends. A blessing on the survival of the old ways, and of the Truth emerging from the distortions of history.

🇮🇪☘️🍀💚☘️🍀🇮🇪

[illustratus]

Nótt riding Hrímfaxi by Peter Nicolai Arbo

[lasagras]

All right, so we've seen this post by @fuckyeahcoffeeandequality

And they're absolutely correct. Some people actually say that Lofn and other goddesses are just different names or aspects of Frigg and/or Freyja, but I am wary of these claims since there are very few sources for norse mythology and there could be many reasons why there is much less written about the goddesses than the gods. But that's just me, and I am by no means an expert in the field. Snorri's Edda does say that Lofn unites those for whom marrige is forbidden, though, and that sounds pretty gay.

A little digression, bear with me I promise I have a point. Lavender has been used as a symbol for homosexuality and queerness for quite some time, and the colour purple even longer. "The Lavender Scare", "Lavender Menace" and "lavender marrige" are all terms and names from queer history, and the colour and the flower came to be empowering for queer people.

WELL

In Icelandic, the name for lavender is 'lofnarblóm', literally translated as 'the flower of Lofn'. The plant is not native to the island and the word seems to be quite recent (the first written example of it I can find is from 1986), in all the other nordic languages they call it some sort of variation of lavendel, except for Faroese, where it appears to be called 'bath plant' (I'm so sorry, I don't speak Faroese). There are a few other words that start with lofnar-, most likely as a reference to the goddess, but most of them seem to be rather old and/or uncommon. I have no idea why 'lofnarblóm' was chosen as a translation for lavender. Knowing icelandic history, the queer connotation was probably not on purpose, but I can't help but get excited about the connection.

TL;DR: Lavender (aka the gay flower) is named after Lofn (aka the gay goddess in norse mythology) in icelandic

[coyote-sings]

It's Mother's Night.

Usually on this day I make a post celebrating my Disir - ancestors and mothers and grandmothers and aunts. I thank Frigga. It started a few years ago when I was pregnant - something I never thought I could be.

And then my baby was stillborn. And I continued celebrating Mother's Night, but this time I thanked Frigga for welcoming my baby boy into her halls, hoping that one day I might meet him. And so it went.

This year, I for whatever reason, ran across a Mother's Night post on another platform that mentioned Sigyn - Loki's wife. It talked how she is a mother who is worth mentioning, as her children are driven mad and slain for their father's misdeeds, and how she mourns her sons. How she is considered a goddess of compassion for the grieving.

I had never considered this. But for some reason, it brought me to tears tonight.

I have always had trouble finding information re: the Norse pantheon and their views on stillborn or miscarried babies. I found one or two sources that were probably UPG regarding them going to Frigga's hall, warmed there at her hearth by the mothers who have gone before me, and obviously I've clung to it. I never considered working with other gods who have lost children in general, who might not be at first glance someone considered for a mother/parent type.

I think I need to start an altar piece for Sigyn and Loki.

(edit: it shouldn't need to be said but Nazi/far right/tradwife/quiverfull type folks aren't welcome on my posts. You'll be blocked. Thanks.)

[helgahaze]

Nine Nights of Odin: The Hanged Man Lessons

Yggdrasil by Finnur Magnússon. The Public Domain Review (Public Domain)

«I know that I hung on a windy tree nine long nights, wounded with a spear, dedicated to Odin, myself to myself, on that tree of which no man knows from where its roots run».

—The Poetic Edda, Hávamál (Sayings of the High One), 138

According to Norse Mythology, Odin performed a self-sacrifice, hanging for nine nights on the World Tree Yggdrasil, pierced by a spear, to gain knowledge of the runes. Each night corresponds to one of Nine Worlds. Each world reviled its wisdom and secrets to Odin.

These nine nights commence on April 22 and culminate with Walpurgis Night on April 30 – May 1.

The same motif is woven into the 12 Major Arcana card – The Hanged Man.

The Hanged Man—“Pam-A” tarot card from the Rider–Waite Tarot deck, 1910. Public domain.

Keywords of the 12th Arcana: Initiation, sacrifice, moment of uncertainty, change of perspective.

The Hanged Man represents a person undergoing initiation. They hang to prepare for transition to another state, relinquishing control to feel the greater power of the world while demonstrating resilience and adaptability.

In everyday life, this state can be likened to being in limbo. If you find yourself in such a state, the following spread may assist you. Even Odin was’t alone during his quest for wisdom, so some support is always valuable.

«What is Ragnar doing sitting on the hillside? He’s preparing himself»

…

«What are you preparing for? What do you mean? I’ve watched you. You are about to do something. You have made yourself very strong».

— Vikings series

[amphibifish]

heimdallr painting for my friend !!!! i finally got the scanning feature on my printer to work ^_^ bonus photo to try n show off the metallic glittery paint i used

[windsweptinred]

"Lady of Infinite Stars,

and of the Infinite Space between them;

of Everything, of Nothing,

of the Nothing that is All."

[broomsick]

Hail Óðinn, who guides on their journeys all those who dare to explore!

[queenlucythevaliant]

Northern Lights

.

I heard a voice that cried, “Balder the Beautiful is dead, is dead!” 

.

Who knows what to call the lonely exhilaration of gazing out into a bright Northern sky? Who can name it? 

Jill could.

It was the same feeling that came to her at the teetering edge of a cliff at the end of the world. The same feeling as when she said her goodbyes to Puddleglum and Scrubb before they freed the prince. It was the same feeling that engulfed her now, sitting in the professor’s library with a volume of poetry before her. 

.

The wild northern wastes were well named: utterly wild, perfectly desolate, and terribly Northern. 

It was lonely there and often cold, but the sky was an endless whorl of gales and gray clouds. The stones were indigo under the pale winter sunlight, and at sunset they glowed a soft gold, as though lit from within. The gorges and moors lay before her, and Jill loved them for their vastness and their distance. Little grew in that country, but that which did was full of vigor. The grass was short and coarse. Every tree was victorious. 

On a still, deep breathing winter night, Jill lay on her back beneath a covering sky. It seemed beautiful to her, rich and strong and glorious. Her eyes drank in the breadth of it until her tears began to blind her. Yet even then, she still couldn’t look away.

She felt bigger here in the wastes, like the landscape. Stronger, wider. The further she walked, the more she felt herself stretch out. One of these days, maybe, she would catch hold of herself at the edge and tug, and Jill Pole would open up clear as the Northern sky. 

.

And through the misty air passed the mournful cry of sunward sailing cranes.

.

The thing that surprised Jill most about the battle with the serpent was this: there wasn’t any yelling. Always, it seemed, whenever she read stories about people fighting with swords, the combatants would let loose some guttural yell before their blows fell. They would scream and writhe in pain as they died. They would shout instructions to their fellows, “Look out!” or “Hit him there!” But the whole affair with the serpent passed with very little noise. 

The poison-green coil constricted around the prince; he raised his arms and got clear, struck the serpent hard, and then Scrubb and Puddleglum dispatched the creature with heavy, hacking blows. The monster died writhing, but not screaming. And then it was over. 

The thing that surprised Jill most about the moments before battle was, of course, the noise. She could hear her own heartbeat in her ears. She couldn’t stop listening to her own breathing. Every footstep rang out like a gong, and any words exchanged rang with a kind of finality that made them sound louder than anything. 

“You are of high courage,” Rilian told her when it was over. 

Yet the thing in Jill’s chest just then didn’t feel like courage. It was a deep breath, a plunge, and a release. It was loud and quiet all at once, till she was standing, blinking in the night air as snowballs whizzed round her, and maybe that was something like courage after all. 

.

And now, there was a stirring in her chest as she reread the words on the page. Sing no more / O ye bards of the North / Of Vikings and of Jarls! / Of the days of the Eld / preserve the freedom only / nor the deeds of blood! 

She thought of grief. Of freedom. 

The lonely ache in her belly grew stronger. She felt herself uplifted into the huge regions of sky that were just beyond those cliffs, weightless as the breath beneath her buoyed her up, further, further…

.

When she saw Caspian up close, Jill thought that he looked like the sort of person who was meant to live in a castle. A silly thought, perhaps, since she knew he was a king– only she wasn’t thinking of Cair Paravel. No, Jill was picturing the ruins of an old British castle she’d visited once on holiday. She still remembered how the stonework had loomed over her, all towering arches and crumbling walls. That was where Caspian seemed to belong. He had an air of ancient tragedy about him. 

When Rilian disappeared, all things had wept but one. The serpent coiled beneath the earth and flicked its forked tongue, spewing poison. 

Now, the king half rose to bless his son. He whispered a few words as he caressed Rilian’s cheek, words meant only for those beloved ears. Jill saw Caspian’s lips move and wondered what a man like that could possibly say, when time ran so short. 

.

They laid him in his ship, with horse and harness, as on a funeral pyre. Odin placed a ring upon his finger, and whispered in his ear.

.

Jill furtively took Myths of the Northmen and held it up to the professor with a question in her eyes. She was still shy around him and Miss Plummer, though she wished she wasn’t. 

“Would you like to take that with you?”

“...Please.”

.

It takes a certain kind of person to be exhilarated by the heights. You’ve got to love vastness more than you fear falling. 

.

They walked to the train station with an autumn wind blowing hard, and though Jill couldn’t fathom why, she turned and saw Lucy grinning, fierce and joyful– grinning and reaching a hand out towards her friend.

Jill reached back and grabbed it. “What will you do, once we’re back in Narnia?” she asked. 

The wind blew harder. The feeling of anticipation grew and grew, until it felt so big that she couldn’t dream of containing it. And there was Lucy, holding Jill’s hand and laughing like it was easy.

.

Preserve the freedom only, not the deeds of blood!

.

The second time Jill went to Narnia, she found herself not at its edge, but at its end. 

The thing about the Norse apocalypse is: it feels believable. It doesn’t reach beyond earth’s horizon to pull down hope beyond hope. It’s only the kind of courage that hopeless humans have: you are going to die, so you might as well die bravely. 

They found the last king of Narnia bound to a tree. His eyes were faintly red from crying, and his wrists and ankles red from the coarseness of his fetters. 

In the Norse myths, Loki broke free of his fetters at the end of the world. He escaped to the helm of a ship made from the fingernails of the dead.

The last king of Narnia fell forward onto the ground when Eustace cut his bonds. Jill crouched down beside him and watched as he rubbed feeling back into his legs. He wasn’t so much older than her, she thought. Jill was sixteen years old; the last king of Narnia could not be older than twenty-two. 

In the myths, the gods were ancient, hewn from the bodies of giants old as the earth. 

Jill put out a hand and helped the last king of Narnia to his feet. Not for the last time, she shivered. Something deep inside her (deeper than her chest, than her heart, than the marrow of her bones, deep as her soul, deeper) was singing an elegy and she didn’t know why, or how, or where it had come from. The king clutching her hand, who could have been her older brother, would have no heir.

Yet when he asked, “Will you come with me?” Jill could only smile. 

“Of course,” she said. “It’s you we’ve come to help.”

.

And the voice forever cried, "Balder the Beautiful is dead, is dead!"

.

“This really is Narnia at last,” murmured Jill. The springtime wood had little in common with the wintry lands she had traveled the last time she was here– but it awakened the same feelings of Northernness in her chest. 

Their party may as well have been the only people in the world, for how isolated their little wooden path seemed. Yet it wasn’t lonely, really, cocooned in all that green with the wind in the leaves and the primroses nodding and blue of the sky peeking through above. 

Jewel told stories about what ordinary life was like when there was peace here. As he spoke, Jill could almost hear the trees' voices speaking out of the living past, whispering, stay, stay. She was caught up to a great height, looking down across a rich, lovely plain full of woods and waters and cornfields, which spread away and away till it got thin and misty from distance. 

“Oh Jewel–” Jill said with a dreamy sigh, “wouldn’t it be lovely if Narnia just went on and on– like what you say it has been?”

She needn’t be a queen, as Susan and Lucy had been, but Jill would’ve liked to stay. She would've liked it all to stay, if it could. She might have been a woodmaid in a place like this: with the turn of the seasons, the swaying trees, swords into plowshares. Oh, if only she could stay!

Ahead, the last king of Narnia was softly singing a marching song. Jill tilted her head back and let warm shafts of sun caress her face. 

.

I saw the pallid corpse of the dead sun borne through the Northern sky.

.

“So,” said the last king of Narnia, “Narnia is no more.”

He tried to send them back. Jill shook her head. It was very loud and very quiet. “No, no, no, we won’t. I don’t care what you say. We’re going to stick by you whatever happens, aren’t we Eustace?”

They couldn’t go back anyway. Neither would they flee, not south across the mountains nor North into the great wide wastes. No, they would stay. They slept in a holly grove on the edge of ruin, waiting for the bonfires to light.

Jill slept fitfully, but in between she dreamed. She was high up in the air, buffeted by clouds and pierced by shafts of silver sunlight. 

.

They all died, in the myths. Jill knew that. It seemed beautiful and brave when she read it in her book, tucked away safe in the Professor’s library. It was terrifying now– and yet it was beautiful and brave still.

The dogs came bounding up, every one of them, running up to the king and his men with their tails wagging. One of them leapt at Jill and licked her face, tongue roughly lapping up the sweat and tears that had dried on her cheeks. 

“Show us how to help, show us how, how, how!” the dogs were barking, almost ebullient in their enthusiasm. Jill bit back a sob. How lovely, she thought. How terribly beautiful. How dreadfully brave. 

.

So perish the old Gods!

.

The white rock gleamed like a moon in the darkness when Jill finally reached it. She ran back to it alone, her hands shaking, while her friends stayed forward with their gleaming swords and Jewel’s indigo horn.

The while rock gleamed like the moon. Jill’s first shot flew wide and landed in the soft grass. But she had another arrow on her string the next instant. It was speed that mattered, not aim. Speed, and turning aside when she cried, so as not to drip tears on her bowstring.

The white rock gleamed. In the myths, a wolf devoured the moon. Peter’s wolf, slain many thousand years ago in this world, opened his jaw wide and darkness fell over everything.

Her next arrow found its mark. After that, she lost track. She pulled, and she prayed that her hands kept still another minute. 

The unique thing–maybe the appealing thing–about the Norse myths, was that they told men to serve gods who were admittedly fighting with their backs to the wall and would certainly be defeated in the end. Jill let loose another arrow, felt the white rock at her back, and she knew that the clawing fear–beauty–bravery deep in her gut was the same feeling that she felt on the heights. The same feeling, but a different face. You’ve got to love vastness more than you fear falling. 

.

“I feel in my bones,” said Poggin, “that we shall all, one by one, pass through that dark door before morning. I can think of a hundred deaths that I would rather have died.”

“It is indeed a grim door,” said Tirian. “It is more like a mouth.” 

“Oh, can’t we do anything to stop it,” said Jill. Better to be dashed to the ground than it was to be devoured. 

“Nay, fair friend,” said Jewel. “It may be for us the door to Aslan’s country and we sup at his table tonight.”

A hand tangled itself in her hair and started to pull. Jill braced herself hard, for a moment, until her strength gave out. She was standing on the edge of a high, Northern cliff. She took another step, and fell.

.

Perhaps when the moment comes, our bite will prove better than our howls. If not, we shall have to confess that two millennia of Christianity have not yet brought us to the level of the Stoics and Vikings. For the worst (according to the flesh) that a Christian need face is to die in Christ and rise in Christ; some were content to die, and not to rise, with Father Odin.

.

The world inside the stable was beautiful. It made Jill’s chest ache in all the loveliest ways. 

.

Build it again, O ye bards, fairer than before!

[katrinahays]

here is a list of books I love that everyone should read.

-The folk of the air series by Holly black (cruel prince, wicked king, etc).

-Six of crows duoligy/king of scars by Leigh Bardugo duoligy.

-Witch haven duoligy by Sasha Payton Smith.

-Nightworld series by L. J. Smith (unfinished series).

-The things she's seen by Ambelin and Ezekiel Kwaymullina.

-Nimona by N. D. Stevenson.

-Lore by Alexandra Bracken.

-Shamaborn series by Lori M. Lee.

-The secret circle series by L. J. Smith.

-Entertwined by Heather Dixon.

-The Guardians series by William Joyce.

-The Forbidden Game by L. J. Smith.

-King Nyx by Kirsten Bakis

-Any books by Flame Tree (mythology/history!!!).

I love all of these books so much, no matter what people say. if anyone wants to know about them, just lmk!

[sunscreenblowtorch]

i want to get a tattoo of all of my hyperfixations so that i can look back through my life and remember when i liked those things

[deathbydarkelves]

I may have mentioned kaldorei berserking in my AU in passing before, but here's a more in-depth post about it.

Very few kaldorei (like <5% of the population), depending on genetic chance and circumstance, can enter a berserking state like their troll cousins. It manifests differently in everyone. Some are lucid in this state, some aren't; some can enter it by choice, some can't. For some it lasts only minutes or until the perceived threat has disappeared. And an unlucky few will enter it only once in their lives, leaving it when the overwhelming stress on their body takes them to the grave.

In 'proper' kaldorei society, it's taboo in all its forms. Without a troll's regeneration, it's only a liability. You are to keep your head in combat, or you will get yourself or your allies killed.

Due to its similarity to the madness experienced by the first worgen, many believe it to be a sign of Goldrinn's displeasure. Him cursing the children of those who have offended him. Expecting parents may shower his shrines with gifts as a preventative measure, especially if one of their relatives has showed signs in the past. This belief is the origin of the condition's Darnassian name: Thor'drinn, or "wolf's fury." Those with thor'drinn are called "wolf-touched", though that's also used as a derogatory by more unpleasant types for anyone prone to violent outbursts, impulsivity, or just anyone they want to insult. "Are you wolf-touched, boy?", that sort of thing.

Usually this condition is noticed in childhood -- though plenty go years without knowing, only learning this about themselves the first time their lives are truly at risk -- and every self-respecting parent is expected to take extensive measures to keep their child from ever entering that state again. This, of course, means no one with thor'drinn who was raised this way knows how to manage it when it does happen again.

Tarinne is one of those people. She's only done it a few times in her life, and never intentionally. The most recent time was when she escaped the Alliance encampment in which she'd been imprisoned for ~2 weeks during the Third War.