Reveries of Flight

I worry for Hugin

That he might not return,

But I worry more for Munin

-The Poetic Edda. Grímnismál, stanza 20

I am the wind / soaring high, soaring fast / faster than Memory faster than sight / can he catch me? / keep up / so much to see, to hear, to experience / I am the wind / soaring further down the branches of the World Tree / can Memory catch me? / keep up / He worries / He thirsts, but He worries / The Raven Tempter always worries / Will we return?

I don't think Memory will keep up

***

Thought always races ahead of me, flapping hard, flapping fast. He is not one to linger in the moment. To reflect. To feel.

To remember.

Does he remember me when he flies ahead? I catch his backwards glances, though the further we fly from Asgard's golden glow, the fewer they become. He flies on, gliding down the swaying branches towards freedom, towards knowledge. He thirsts, hungers greater even than the Raven God himself. It drives him, spurs him. Pushing. Pushing.

Yet still I follow. One must remember. For what is a mind without reverie? What is a soul without Memory?

***

I am the wind / trailing, gliding / basking in Sol's wake / warmth tingles across my feathers / fleeting as we dip down beneath the shadows / Mists and Shadows / Fog / cold and dark / bitter / the air is thick / feathers slice like knives / cutting, cutting through the mist / slicing through the fog / Where is Memory? / Keep up / I can smell the Springs / Everlasting Hvergelmir / its mists drip across my beak / freezing / my feathers grow heavy / heavy like roots / roots digging down, digging deep / Yggdrasil's roots dig deep / hungry / hungry / digging deep, digging down, drinking deep / I hunger / I am the wind / so much to see, to drink deep /

Memory trails, lingers / Keep up!

***

One does not forget the mists and the cold of Niflheim, nor the fires of Muspelheim or the songs of Alfheim. Lodged in Memory, I keep them safe. Even now, I hear their songs, singing sweetly through the fog. The song of a thousand rivers flowing, of Hvergelmir, the source from which all cold waters flow.

Soaring through the heavy fog, I fly hard on Thought's heels. Chasing, always chasing. We glide through clouds like wraiths in the mist, scanning, searching. And as we soar above the dark and cold, flying high above the bubbling springs where Nidhug guards and chews the roots soaking in the revitalizing waters, we see the power of life itself. Mighty Yggdrasil grows on, grows strong, in spite of the dark, the cold, and the old dragon's hunger for chaos, for destruction.

Does Thought remember the first time we flew these misty shores? We soared far that day, glided down Yggdrasil's roots to where old Nidhug chomped and chewed, believing that he alone could bring down the Mighty Tree. Always chewing, always devouring, destroying. The mighty dragon sought to devour us, too, craning his scaled neck towards the sky. Chomp. Chomp.

Will he try again?

***

Quick! / Snapping jaws clack and smack / You can't catch me, you bloated wyrm! / But I see a feather fall / Mine? / Perhaps Memories? / He flies behind, flapping, soaring / safe / we soar on / flying hard, flying fast / can't fall behind / so much to see / I am the wind / keep up /

I can feel the heat now / Fire blazing, burning / Bang! Crash! / Surtr sparks his mighty sword / A feather falls / singes / disappears

***

Muspelheim's fires warm my feathers, dispensing Niflheim's icy clutches, but the sensation quickly veers towards discomfort. Lakes of fire boil beneath us. Bubbling. Belching. Blackened ash scatters the ground, a landscape of fire and shadow as far as the eye can see.

Sparks scatter, the air ringing with such intensity that my brother and I are blown off coarse. I hear Surtr's roar thunder across the obsidian cliffs. He strikes his sword once more, obliterating the shadows with showers of sparks and shards of flame hewn from his mighty blade. The fire giant rages, waiting to quench the vengeful inferno boiling within his chest.

One blazing eye veers towards us. We soar higher, riding the warm waves out of reach as the Raven God's foe casts an accusing finger towards the sky. "Odin!" he roars. "I am coming for you, Raven Lord! Ragnarok is coming for you!"

The heat of his rage singes my feathers. Did Thought feel the fire, too?

One lone plume drifts down to the blackened, boiling earth and vanishes to ash.

***

wind whispers the secrets of gods / can they hear it? / it sings through the trees / across the mountains and the rivers / even Jotunheim bears its fruit / a forlorn song / a vengeful song / but giants do not know what it is to be gods / to sing the songs of creation / of life / they envy / they hate / I can see them / giants creeping, sneaking / shadows in the trees / they cannot hide from me / I am the wind / I see all

***

I do not enjoy our flights over Jotunheim. A shadow hangs there, choking the vast, forlorn forests and mighty mountains in a malaise of hatred, loathing. The air is thick with spite, thick with cold. It weighs me down, dragging down memories of darker times both past and those yet to come. Of Ragnarok. Of doom. Will it come? Soon enough. Soon enough.

Even now, we hunt for signs. Of giants lurking on the borders, seeking to raid the plentiful shores of Asgard by crossing the great Ífingr, the great divide.

We found them once, lurking in the shadows of their dreadful forests. A raiding party on their way to cross the river that separates gods from giants. They ran like wolves, hulking, howling. But we flew faster. Our cries alerted the Raven Lord, harkening the doom that waited upon the shores.

A bellowing cry raises the alarm. Spears and arrows launch skyward, aimed at Thought and I as we glide above the home of giants. They have seen us, and their hate spirals upwards. We are not welcome here.

Thought croaks and crows, outraged as an arrow whizzes inches from his wing. I echo his calls, our voices carrying far across Ífingr's shores where keen ears listen. We've spoiled their surprise. Another raid subverted.

Flying higher, flying harder, we leave the land of giants behind, leaving naught but a feather in our wake.

***

Light and dark / good and wicked / life and death / equal sides of the same coin tossed across the winds of fate / Alfheim, land of light, home of elves / music trickles on the air / it lifts my spirits / heals my soul / beauty / but beauty alone cannot satisfy /

Hammers ring / clang / crash / sparks and bellows, fire and smoke / the stroke of hammers ring deep from the mountain's core / the dwarves are busy / crafting, forging / creation at its heart / but a warren of stone and shadow / confusing / time flies on / so must we / keep up, Memory! / he's flying farther behind now

***

Music fills the air of both Alfheim and Nidavellir, one wrought from lyre and flute, the other from hammer and stone. Beauty grown and beauty hewn, crafted, forged. But where the land of elves boasts light and life, the home of dwarves is a labyrinth of stone. We fly over both with ease, gazing upon the beings of light and darkness with fondness born of understanding, appreciation. We all serve our purpose here. Some are born to sing, to coax life, to usher forth beauty and goodness. Some are born to toil in the dark, hammering stone and breathing smoke, forging beauty from what was once plain.

And some are born to fly.

***

Hunger / Blood spills upon the snow / swords clash, shields crack / chaos and carnage / a feast for ravens / delectable eyes / moist, delicious / sustaining flesh / I am the wind / but even the wind bites / Where is Memory?

***

Crimson blooms in the east, a red sun trailing in Sol's wake as she sheds her light upon beloved Midgard. A blossoming stain inks across the snow, spreading, growing, but fading as shades of red give way to golden dawn. But while the sun sheds it's bloody cloak, the ground fails to do the same. Red stains the snow, sinking deep, digging roots down to the earth. Will it trickle down Yggdrasil's trunk down to its roots? Will it feed old Nidhug?

High above the field of battle, we circle, searching the crimson carnage for worthy sacrifices. A soul for the Raven God. A meal for his Ravens.

A frothing sea of bodies clash below. Steels smacks. Shields clack. Bones break. Blood spurts. Cries of pain, cries of rage and battle lust shatter the stillness of dawn. Fire burns. Villages set ablaze. Some run. Many do not. Trapped in the flames. New souls for Hel.

Breaking through the fray, a lone drengr finds a momentary lapse, a moment to breathe. In a ring of corpses, he stands, blood and gore splattered across his scarred features. Can he hear the Valkyries singing? Even now, they hover on the field's edge, biding their time, waiting to carry their chosen to the table of the gods.

Thought croaks, drawing the drengr's gaze skyward. Fire blazes in his eyes. Pride and determination. Recognition. Bearing his teeth, he raises his ax skyward and bellows. “Oooooodddiiinnnnn!!!!”

Once again, he charges into the chaos, painting the snow red. Another soul worthy of Valhalla, of Folkvangr. Who will claim him?

***

The land of the dead is still / cold / downward we descend / flying high above darkened valleys / I can hear Gjoll's mighty roar / the river to Hel is not meek / Modgudr and Garm guard the way / fierce and mighty / but I am the wind / I fly high, fly fast / Hel's gates cannot bar me / high above the souls, we circle / Will Memory follow me when I leave this place behind? / I hope he will / there is much to tell the Raven Tempter

***

High above the road to Hel, we fly. The road is paved with the trodden feet of those unworthy of the gods, but it is also forged by Memory. Memories of the fallen. Reveries of the past, of those whose lives bore fruit beyond measure, their only crime to have died an inglorious death. But it also bears the stain of those dishonored in life. The thieves. The craven. The rapists. The kin-slayers.

Beyond Helvegr, beyond the noisy river and giant-guarded bridge, beyond Valgrindr where Garm guards, Helheim awaits. We soar beyond it all, watching as the dead simply resume the path they left in life. Picking at strands of memory to sew the pieces back together. Death merely a pause.

Above it all, Hel keenly watches. Daugher of Loki. Sister of Fenrir and Jormungandr. Life and death painted in stark contrast across her flesh. Watching over her domain. How many memories has she witnessed here? Stories of life played out in death time and again.

I circle lower, leaving Thought flying high above the House of Hel. Drawn in by Hel's gaze, I feel the memories. A gentle breeze stirred upon the dirt, scattering in the wind like dandelion seeds. Will they grow here? Do they flourish?

But as I drift down, Hel reaches out her clawed fingers and snatches at my tailfeathers. Squawking, I struggle in her grasp, biting and beating hard against her cold clutches. Can Memory die? Can it wither with time, trapped in the embrace of death itself?

A blur of black swoops down. Thought's talons scratch across Hel's blackened flesh, his throaty caw echoing in the cavern of death. Wordlessly, she releases me, plucking a feather as I escape.

It is time to go home.

********

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading Reveries of Flight! This story was inspired by the myths surrounding Odin's ravens, Hugin and Munin (Thought and Memory). According to Norse mythology, Odin sent his ravens out to survey the nine realms and gather information. Each day, they would return and tell him what they saw, but he always worried whether or not they would return.

And as the ravens names symbolize thought and memory, I thought it fitting to try and write their story as a stream of consciousness. Thought is chaotic, fleeting, while Memory revels in the detail, in the act of reminiscing. And the more he dwells on his namesake, the farther he veers from Thought's path.