Gunnlod Speaks
I am She.
I am the ruby-tressed daughter of Suttung, reared in His rocky fortress in the dusty brown hills of Jotunheim.
I am the One with fire in Her veins, venom in Her gaze, and a throat full of song.
I am the child of an Earth-Goddess, murdered in My father’s bed because She strayed from His harsh embraces (though We speak of this not); I know the secrets buried deep within stones, and whispered by tree branches, and hidden in the shadow cast by the smallest green growing thing.
I am She.
I am the guardian of the famous mead—and more. With My own hands I drained the life’s blood of Kvasir--emissary of the Aesir, slain by My father’s servants. It is I who blended that dark blood with honey, herbs and magics to brew a drink unequaled.
I was fostered at the court of Surt; I have sat at table with the Black Lord; I have learned His enchantments.
I know the ways of bees and the mysteries of honey, the hidden properties of leaf, root, and flower. Poison and intoxication, harm and healing alike are tools in My hands. The mead sings in My blood, and it answers to She who brewed it.
I am She.
I am the Beloved of Odin, the etin-maid He sought and wooed, the wife He took before My father’s court, with the mead as My dowry (though My father knew it not at the time).
I tasted the mead at Odin’s side, and kept a draught of it within Me to nourish the boy-child I carried in My womb from Our coupling.
I am the one they say Bolverk abandoned, leaving Me to weep as He flew back to Asgard with His stolen prize.
I am She.
I am the unwanted Goddess, the forsaken bride, the wronged queen. I am the keeper of Odin’s heart, but not His keys.
I gave birth to Bragi in the worlds below, His eyes bright as His father’s, His tongue carved with runes. Child of the Mead, I bore Him to the Tree and birthed Him among the dead, heir to all of their wisdom.
I am dragon-woman, shape-shifter, witch, watching over My hoard of forgotten dreams, counting every bitter tear and saving them in a crystal vial to make a potion against My enemies. I am kin to Loki, kin to Aegir, kin to Gerd—but among the Aesir I bear another name.
I am She.
I am mistress of Sokkvabek, the palace that lies beneath cool waves. I drink with the Lord of Asgard daily, telling tales and giving rede. I am the giver of good counsel and keeper of Odin’s secrets. I speak of the visions that fill My sight, and My foretellings are true.
I am the mother of poetry and keeper of lore; I am the one who can weave a tale so that even the Gods will stop what They are doing to listen, held captive by My voice.
Odin is the burden of My white arms; I am Frigga’s rival, the interloper, the foreigner in Asgard who sits at Odin’s side. I taught Odin the magic of My people as He lay clasped within My arms and between My thighs.
I am She.
I am the rallying cry of a thousand heresies, poison drunk in darkness, mead sipped in secret. I show the way; I unmask false prophecy; I dissolve illusion, favored weapon of My people.
I am bane to My enemies and gold to My friends. There are those who would love to see Me speared and burned in the High One’s hall, the blood of another witch spilled to soothe their wounded pride. The God of madness and ecstasy loves Me beyond all reason.
I am the flaming heart, the brimming mead horn, the ghost in the darkness—and I hold Odin’s vows even still, after all these years.
I am She.
I am sorrow redeemed, obsession vindicated, and the reward I got from Odin for the heart I gave Him, freely, was not as ill as many think.
I stand just beyond the threshold, robed in red and crowned with a golden serpent, His runes about My brow.
Still and silent, by His side I wait, for someday Midgard will see Me here, sitting in the place promised to Me. It is My mead that revives Odin’s warriors daily, that inspires His skalds, that binds the oaths of His people. I am the battle invitation, the golden draught, the speaker of mystery. It is My mead—wrought by My hands, charmed by My spells-- that will send the howling breath of madness through the battlefields above which We will ride, triumphant, as Our foes lie crushed and broken beneath Our feet.
I am She.
- Gunnlod-Hjarta
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