Frigg’s circling ceased as she swept into the Estonian parking lot once more,
A swirl of wing catching up her feathers in her cape,
The argent gaze gleaming on the ravens gathered there.
‘Should my husband not be told of this, I must consult with him myself,’
“Swans of blood and war, who have you seen who mourns the green,
Recalls the time before the endless grey and mists?”
She called, the rustling of the myriad feathers stilling as she spoke.
“But two, Queen of Aesir and Asynjur,”
Came a chorus as the cawing rippled to the edge of the ravens arrayed on the concrete,
“All but two, Fensalir’s Lady.”
“Tell me their names, that I can cure this curse,
Or brand one on them, should they be themselves the bandits.”
Her hand rested on the hilt of the sword, swathed in the folds of her tunic,
Resting expectantly within the crimson fabric, watching for the moment of use.
“Elon Musk and Grimes—her true name we know not—they reside
Across the ocean, westward, on the island found by Leif,
By another ocean vaster, warmer, than this side around.”
The argent turned iron, sparking on the stone with which it mingled.
“Do you know the way by which to find these two?”
“We can guide you, Queen of Falcon-Form, as is our duty.”
“Within a day I shall return with my husband ‘neath my shadow,
Gather more about the Musk and Grimes,
And forget not where to share your news.”
The ravens swept about her, calling and stumbling in their rush,
The northerly hush about them whispering greater cold and fading sense.
Frigg’s neck drew straight as its whispers spilled into her ears,
Her fingers brushing ‘gainst the torc
As feathers overtook her skin.
“For victory’s sake, Njord, have you not attended
To the weather, as is your wont and duty?”
The raven-lord rebuked, his words rolling as the foam
Upon the prow-land cascades onto shore,
The tongue-waves striking shame in the weather-Vanr’s chest.
“Though I have gathered up the flocks of sheep which graze on Ymir’s skull,
They escape my herding and grow bloated from
The rising stench of decay without new life’s delightful smothering.”
“My wife sent word of northerly swellings, swelling ever stronger,
How can you claim to be a true friend of the Aesir
When mere sheep can best you at your duty?”
Njord’s head hung drearily, the vows and blood within them
Hanging o’er his fair head as the beating wings of a harassing bird.
“I have stumbled in my keeping of our brotherhood, Hanged-Tyr,
And I shall make amends howe’er I may,
You need only state the price of regaining your kind’s full trust.”
Odin’s hand rested on the Vanr’s shoulders, broader than his own,
But which curved inward, a bow of bone poised for Odin’s placement
Of the word-tipped arrow for action,
A bow held taut between his grizzled hands.
And Frigg’s admonition reverberated in his ice-born skull.
“Firstly, I forgive your failing, Njord, for you have proved a faithful friend
In all the years before, and let us share Idunn’s apples as the evening settles in.
The warriors flock into the hall, but let us save an hour or two
For companionship between us two.”
“And secondly, Odin, friend?”
“Send out the sheep to seek a man or more who wander with aim in their step and eyes,
I trust that you can wrangle them in that respect.”
“My herding calls shall contain the force of your command, my friend,”
Njord answered, lifting up his fair head, bow still taut
Between those All-father hands, the arrow notched and ready.
“I send my care and ravens’ sight with you, brother-through-battle,”
Odin smiled, letting loose the arrow with a pat of Njord’s strong shoulder.
Erstwhile, on the mass of earth which Frigg and her husbands’ swans haunted,
Elon meddled with a modularity many hairs above his knowledge,
The knowledge of those he employed, as well,
The insufficient imitators, translators, encapsulators spread about by ‘Neuralink,’
Forming an army, waging war upon the minds and wallets of men.
The seahorses whimpered, ceased their circling of the whey,
The hair implanted prying in most unwantedly,
Misfiring all about, a sapling boy with a bow planted in a battle,
Before he knew well how to notch and aim.
And so, the seahorse maimed, the grasp on past realities of self
And the world without grew limp, the reins slipping from it.
Odin’s gift in Munin’s vein, set within the ring of Frigg’s making
Sunk tarnished, impurities sketched in by a man-made hair,
Hair sketched up and formulated by a man who lacked much of his own head’s hair.
Ironic, is it not? And keening iron must find the head of the man behind it.