People tell you that life goes on.
'Time heals all wounds.'
Even Time itself can't take the pain from these wounds as they heal, however.
It can't remove an infection festering.
It can't soothe your heart's frantic cascade of beats to the tempo of your heartbreak.
It can't remove the fact that these wounds occurred, to begin with.
And it can't... it doesn't take the memories from you. Not if you still want them.
I've always had a complicated relationship with the other gods and goddesses in my pantheon.
They have their jobs, I have mine. Simple enough, right?
Not exactly.
You see, everyone paints us all as brothers and sisters. Fathers, and mothers, and cousins and such.
And in a way, this is true. We have all become one huge, dysfunctional family.
But.. as far as blood goes? Ehhhh...
We weren't all born into some kind of a cosmic nursery, weaned off of starlight or some shit.
We all began the same as any other humans. Born in a shower of blood, screaming and pain.
Over the years, we each had our own form of an Awakening. A spark inside us, stoked and flared and fed to life, larger than life in some cases. Some strength of will that set us apart, that forced us down the paths to seek out knowledge. Love. Acceptance. Understanding.
....abilities.
We each paid our price for our entry into Godhood.
It requires a.. death of sorts. A letting go of who you once were, no matter the tears that might fall.
A willingness to walk away from all that was, in order to build a better future.
It was while I was young that I first met Odin. Perhaps 16, 17? A legal adult by the beliefs of our time, though a belief that is shunned by our modern culture.
I had.. taken up a friendship with a local alchemist, one minorly reknown for his abilities.
I didn't care at the time. I merely saw a healer willing to care for the sick and dying.
The other shit was just a lightshow, as far as I was concerned. Distracting from his purpose.
On one of our rare days away from the work grind, we had gone to visit a local watering hole that was common among our age group for being a meeting spot. On weekends, vendors would set up shop around the outskirts of the field we spent time in, hawking their wares. Hoping for a young one foolish enough to spend their week's pay on shiny trinkets or baubles.
I had been sitting in my Alchemist's lap on the riverbank, giggling and carrying on with him and other assorted friends. Enjoying a lazy Saturday out in the sun, with people close to me. A shift in the light overhead sent a glare of light into my vision, nearly blinding me. As I put up my hand to block out the glare, I saw a man standing underneath the shift in light. Hangers on standing at his sides, including what appeared to be a water mage and a blood witch, the later clinging on to his arm.
On second glance, the hangers on became familiar to me, acquaintances in an old, small village such as ours was common. Passersby in life lead in the same, or nearly the same pattern, tended to cross paths often. I raised a hand in greeting and gave a happy shout, motioning them over. The intense display of light eased as I did this, and the strange man came into view once more.
Long, ratty black hair teased out into gelled tendrils framing an overly pale and drawn face adorned with a medicine man's traditional facepaint. A Roman nose, too big eyes set behind a rounded pair of gold spectacles. An archer's bow for a mouth, set in firm lines when not stretched wide in a smile.
Heavy, dark cloak falling at his sides, riddled with chains and charms. Swooping, black trousers that swept the ground in wide pools of midnight fabric. A tight black tunic adorning his top half, adorned with spellwork and jagged runes of white, seemingly dripping ink down the front. Silver lacing his hands in delicate stone-laden rings, interweaving the face and ears in a random assortment of piercings. An eyebrow here, a pair of rings adorning the archer's bow in a style reminiscent of a snake's bite on the lower lip. Holes gouged into the ears, kept from healing by heavy circles of metal.
On and on my eyes trailed over his form, to the point of ridiculousness. I kept trying to drag my eyes away, to make my interest in the man less glaringly obvious, but to seemingly no avail. I ducked my head, shyly, continuing to watch the man through the curtain of then light brown hair that fell in waves in front of my face. Seeing him laugh and smile and move about, he seemed as light on his feet as a feather on the wind. Like no worries troubled his soul to weigh him down. As I observed the confidence coming off him in waves, I momentarily felt a pang of jealousy shoot through my heart.
My family had begun mutterings of preparing me for an apprenticeship under the village midwife. My kindness towards the younglings had been observed by the elders in the village, who wished to profit off of my natural inclination towards learning. My family, hoped to increase my marriagability and desirability. I, naturally, fought this path forward in life as most teenagers are wont to do. I wanted.. freedom. Travel. Seclusion. The ability to perform kindnesses on my own time.
To see a man, whose name I had overhead in a neighboring conversation to where I sat was Odin, dance and laugh and speak with the voice of singing angels.. made me mourn for a life I was sure I would never have. A freedom I fiercely desired for myself. A life that was my own.
Over the course of that day, and several other Saturdays to come, we ultimately wound up speaking in passing. Discussing music styles of nearby nations, the difference between male and female roles (and why they were bullshit), lightly telling anecdotes of our lives. Small talk, all of it. But at least once each meeting we would cross each other's paths, we would lock eyes and hold each other's gaze for several moments. No anger inherent, or lust, or even longing. Merely..
A mutual, recognized sadness emanating from our eyes, the windows to our souls. A brief time of sharing this sadness with each other, as if we were momentarily holding hands before dropping them.
Over time, I grew a distaste for the watering hole I had once frequented so much. Something about the people there seemed too desparate for belonging, something about the place turned.. stale. As if we were all being fed on by a bored monster that had grown bored with us. I visited less and less frequently, preferring to spend my time at one lover's side or another, or with my nose in a book. Studying magic, the healing arts, seeking out those from foreign lands to speak to me of their experiences, to learn of lives outside of the slow, domestic onward march I seemed doomed to.
Contact with Odin sputtered and faded that year, to only be revived once or twice a year for a handful of time, then to drop off entirely when I fled my village. Hell, technically even my homelands for a short time, though I did eventually return. I ran from the destiny that was allotted for me out of spite and a yearning for more. Always driven forward by the desire to save the lost, the suffering. The confused, the misbegotten, the confused and misunderstood. To seek out what felt to be my own kin, a family that felt truer to me than the blood of my mother's womb did. It took me many a year to understand my motivations, and even longer to understand how to help my newfound tribe.
Rumors of Odin's life filtered through the grapevine to find my ear occasionally. A similar path to my own, but on a much grander scale. Devil's deals for sacred knowledge, extended life. A death thrown in the mix for omniescence. Small acts of kindness to travelers on the road. A willingness to appear at the crossroads to those of his acquaintance that knew him well enough to know his true name. Plants growing to full grown height in the blink of an eye in his presence. Potions of mysterious makeup handed out to the children that came down with the winter's cough, for absolutely no charge.
I felt pride in my old friend (acquaintance?), but had long since given up hope of seeing him again. For, in his travels he had journeyed every direction of the compass. For me, I had gone north to hide in the seclusion of the snow, and later, south to hide in the darkness of the swamps. After the first few years of travelling, I had picked up the convenience of keeping your face hidden by a clock, your steps steady on a path, with head down. Invisibility, with no price except for your voice growing still.
It became increasingly difficult to even find me, for my birth name dropped by the wayside sometime around my 18th year. I began going by the name of 'Lady Hel' once I attained my first basic certifications in healing and letters, among a handful of "names on the road." Being known for, well, anything, chief among them where I came from, was not what I desired out of life. I preferred to help without being seen at all, if I'm being honest, as shady as that may seem now.
I made my own deals at the Crossroads, though I never crossed paths with the wise man I had once laughed with by the riverbank, never had to sell a piece of my heritage to a travelling merchant for food money under his watchful gaze. For this, I was grateful. I had crossed paths with enough of our youngling crew from the 'old days,' each of us who went on our own way to forge our futures. Each knew me differently, a different angle of light and shadow to my face each time. Gradually, the course of my studies had lead me down dark paths of rituals that, well.. left me half dead.
Without illusions, I had become a walking corpse animated by pure force of will, a soft light, and a kind heart. The physical body itself had attempted to rot away, to be halted roughly halfway through the process to create a duality of features that was quite.. jarring to view. For this reason, I kept my illusions varied, my manners of dress and face adornment and hairstyle endlessly varying. So that no one might recognize the kind, sweet girl I once was.. and recoil in fear at what I had become.
And one day, after more than tenscore years, I came upon a foreign town with a tavern of ill repute. Took employment, kept my head down as always, disguised myself as a simple wench with ordinary goals. I wanted.. a respite. From my constant wandering. From the string of broken hearts I had left in my wake, including my own. From the.. loneliness, and coldness of the night air while slumbering.
While working at this tavern, I took a side assignment to help the mother of a co-worker. Prune her bushes, tend her flowers, beat down her lawn in what ways I could. Bring life and hope back to her life, though I doubt she realized those were my intentions at the time. People so rarely saw through what I did back then, to see the softly glowing light behind my intentions. Too easily caught up by their own woes and worries, trials and tribulations. Their own sadness hidden behind reflected lies.
And while there.. I received a summons, written on plain parchment paper, in runes from my homeland. A simple request, from an old friend: "Won't you come visit me, after all this time?"
'Time heals all wounds.'
Even Time itself can't take the pain from these wounds as they heal, however.
It can't remove an infection festering.
It can't soothe your heart's frantic cascade of beats to the tempo of your heartbreak.
It can't remove the fact that these wounds occurred, to begin with.
And it can't... it doesn't take the memories from you. Not if you still want them.
I've always had a complicated relationship with the other gods and goddesses in my pantheon.
They have their jobs, I have mine. Simple enough, right?
Not exactly.
You see, everyone paints us all as brothers and sisters. Fathers, and mothers, and cousins and such.
And in a way, this is true. We have all become one huge, dysfunctional family.
But.. as far as blood goes? Ehhhh...
We weren't all born into some kind of a cosmic nursery, weaned off of starlight or some shit.
We all began the same as any other humans. Born in a shower of blood, screaming and pain.
Over the years, we each had our own form of an Awakening. A spark inside us, stoked and flared and fed to life, larger than life in some cases. Some strength of will that set us apart, that forced us down the paths to seek out knowledge. Love. Acceptance. Understanding.
....abilities.
We each paid our price for our entry into Godhood.
It requires a.. death of sorts. A letting go of who you once were, no matter the tears that might fall.
A willingness to walk away from all that was, in order to build a better future.
It was while I was young that I first met Odin. Perhaps 16, 17? A legal adult by the beliefs of our time, though a belief that is shunned by our modern culture.
I had.. taken up a friendship with a local alchemist, one minorly reknown for his abilities.
I didn't care at the time. I merely saw a healer willing to care for the sick and dying.
The other shit was just a lightshow, as far as I was concerned. Distracting from his purpose.
On one of our rare days away from the work grind, we had gone to visit a local watering hole that was common among our age group for being a meeting spot. On weekends, vendors would set up shop around the outskirts of the field we spent time in, hawking their wares. Hoping for a young one foolish enough to spend their week's pay on shiny trinkets or baubles.
I had been sitting in my Alchemist's lap on the riverbank, giggling and carrying on with him and other assorted friends. Enjoying a lazy Saturday out in the sun, with people close to me. A shift in the light overhead sent a glare of light into my vision, nearly blinding me. As I put up my hand to block out the glare, I saw a man standing underneath the shift in light. Hangers on standing at his sides, including what appeared to be a water mage and a blood witch, the later clinging on to his arm.
On second glance, the hangers on became familiar to me, acquaintances in an old, small village such as ours was common. Passersby in life lead in the same, or nearly the same pattern, tended to cross paths often. I raised a hand in greeting and gave a happy shout, motioning them over. The intense display of light eased as I did this, and the strange man came into view once more.
Long, ratty black hair teased out into gelled tendrils framing an overly pale and drawn face adorned with a medicine man's traditional facepaint. A Roman nose, too big eyes set behind a rounded pair of gold spectacles. An archer's bow for a mouth, set in firm lines when not stretched wide in a smile.
Heavy, dark cloak falling at his sides, riddled with chains and charms. Swooping, black trousers that swept the ground in wide pools of midnight fabric. A tight black tunic adorning his top half, adorned with spellwork and jagged runes of white, seemingly dripping ink down the front. Silver lacing his hands in delicate stone-laden rings, interweaving the face and ears in a random assortment of piercings. An eyebrow here, a pair of rings adorning the archer's bow in a style reminiscent of a snake's bite on the lower lip. Holes gouged into the ears, kept from healing by heavy circles of metal.
On and on my eyes trailed over his form, to the point of ridiculousness. I kept trying to drag my eyes away, to make my interest in the man less glaringly obvious, but to seemingly no avail. I ducked my head, shyly, continuing to watch the man through the curtain of then light brown hair that fell in waves in front of my face. Seeing him laugh and smile and move about, he seemed as light on his feet as a feather on the wind. Like no worries troubled his soul to weigh him down. As I observed the confidence coming off him in waves, I momentarily felt a pang of jealousy shoot through my heart.
My family had begun mutterings of preparing me for an apprenticeship under the village midwife. My kindness towards the younglings had been observed by the elders in the village, who wished to profit off of my natural inclination towards learning. My family, hoped to increase my marriagability and desirability. I, naturally, fought this path forward in life as most teenagers are wont to do. I wanted.. freedom. Travel. Seclusion. The ability to perform kindnesses on my own time.
To see a man, whose name I had overhead in a neighboring conversation to where I sat was Odin, dance and laugh and speak with the voice of singing angels.. made me mourn for a life I was sure I would never have. A freedom I fiercely desired for myself. A life that was my own.
Over the course of that day, and several other Saturdays to come, we ultimately wound up speaking in passing. Discussing music styles of nearby nations, the difference between male and female roles (and why they were bullshit), lightly telling anecdotes of our lives. Small talk, all of it. But at least once each meeting we would cross each other's paths, we would lock eyes and hold each other's gaze for several moments. No anger inherent, or lust, or even longing. Merely..
A mutual, recognized sadness emanating from our eyes, the windows to our souls. A brief time of sharing this sadness with each other, as if we were momentarily holding hands before dropping them.
Over time, I grew a distaste for the watering hole I had once frequented so much. Something about the people there seemed too desparate for belonging, something about the place turned.. stale. As if we were all being fed on by a bored monster that had grown bored with us. I visited less and less frequently, preferring to spend my time at one lover's side or another, or with my nose in a book. Studying magic, the healing arts, seeking out those from foreign lands to speak to me of their experiences, to learn of lives outside of the slow, domestic onward march I seemed doomed to.
Contact with Odin sputtered and faded that year, to only be revived once or twice a year for a handful of time, then to drop off entirely when I fled my village. Hell, technically even my homelands for a short time, though I did eventually return. I ran from the destiny that was allotted for me out of spite and a yearning for more. Always driven forward by the desire to save the lost, the suffering. The confused, the misbegotten, the confused and misunderstood. To seek out what felt to be my own kin, a family that felt truer to me than the blood of my mother's womb did. It took me many a year to understand my motivations, and even longer to understand how to help my newfound tribe.
Rumors of Odin's life filtered through the grapevine to find my ear occasionally. A similar path to my own, but on a much grander scale. Devil's deals for sacred knowledge, extended life. A death thrown in the mix for omniescence. Small acts of kindness to travelers on the road. A willingness to appear at the crossroads to those of his acquaintance that knew him well enough to know his true name. Plants growing to full grown height in the blink of an eye in his presence. Potions of mysterious makeup handed out to the children that came down with the winter's cough, for absolutely no charge.
I felt pride in my old friend (acquaintance?), but had long since given up hope of seeing him again. For, in his travels he had journeyed every direction of the compass. For me, I had gone north to hide in the seclusion of the snow, and later, south to hide in the darkness of the swamps. After the first few years of travelling, I had picked up the convenience of keeping your face hidden by a clock, your steps steady on a path, with head down. Invisibility, with no price except for your voice growing still.
It became increasingly difficult to even find me, for my birth name dropped by the wayside sometime around my 18th year. I began going by the name of 'Lady Hel' once I attained my first basic certifications in healing and letters, among a handful of "names on the road." Being known for, well, anything, chief among them where I came from, was not what I desired out of life. I preferred to help without being seen at all, if I'm being honest, as shady as that may seem now.
I made my own deals at the Crossroads, though I never crossed paths with the wise man I had once laughed with by the riverbank, never had to sell a piece of my heritage to a travelling merchant for food money under his watchful gaze. For this, I was grateful. I had crossed paths with enough of our youngling crew from the 'old days,' each of us who went on our own way to forge our futures. Each knew me differently, a different angle of light and shadow to my face each time. Gradually, the course of my studies had lead me down dark paths of rituals that, well.. left me half dead.
Without illusions, I had become a walking corpse animated by pure force of will, a soft light, and a kind heart. The physical body itself had attempted to rot away, to be halted roughly halfway through the process to create a duality of features that was quite.. jarring to view. For this reason, I kept my illusions varied, my manners of dress and face adornment and hairstyle endlessly varying. So that no one might recognize the kind, sweet girl I once was.. and recoil in fear at what I had become.
And one day, after more than tenscore years, I came upon a foreign town with a tavern of ill repute. Took employment, kept my head down as always, disguised myself as a simple wench with ordinary goals. I wanted.. a respite. From my constant wandering. From the string of broken hearts I had left in my wake, including my own. From the.. loneliness, and coldness of the night air while slumbering.
While working at this tavern, I took a side assignment to help the mother of a co-worker. Prune her bushes, tend her flowers, beat down her lawn in what ways I could. Bring life and hope back to her life, though I doubt she realized those were my intentions at the time. People so rarely saw through what I did back then, to see the softly glowing light behind my intentions. Too easily caught up by their own woes and worries, trials and tribulations. Their own sadness hidden behind reflected lies.
And while there.. I received a summons, written on plain parchment paper, in runes from my homeland. A simple request, from an old friend: "Won't you come visit me, after all this time?"
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