Alfather, my old friend, hail to you on this winter day.
I give thanks for your blessing, I give thanks for toil.
For it is in respite we can count the fruits of our labor.
We sit in Asgard as the spring draws long days afresh
from the frost, and petals are already blooming. I hail
your patronage, all the tricks of poetry and magic you
have gifted me, and we talk long over spiced mead of
the duty of kings, and how in the death of your son,
you found renewal, a new purpose, but above all,
peace – losing the greatest thing you had meant that
there was nothing left to give, a twisted freedom that.
Hela will not let you in to her table Hunger, where
Balder feasts with Nanna and grandchildren that you
will never know, but there is a kind of surrender in
making peace with death, Grimnaldi, and you have a
bet with the Norns – who will go first? Necessity or Need.
You call yourself Masked King to me, Hooded Ruler,
for a regent wears many faces – Wanderer, Warrior,
Sage and Spearman. On Mani’s day, I knitted myself
a cloak of Ansuz, powered by your witchlight, and I
have slept under its protection ever since, rest I have
never tasted – a galdr you burned on my bones in
beautiful blue fire, your cloak over my shoulders,
for we are both insomniacs, to musing you succumb.
All your epithets and epigraphs penned to death, you
simply listen to your skald, who will tell her own tales
in time, and the crops send out taproots, and Freyr
courts Maiden Spring – your Wild Hunt rests, and it
is a time of frith – you were never good at peace in your
young days, but sweet Frigga taught you the value of
patience – not in this life, but perhaps a next one, you
will see your son again, and sweet grandbabes will
greet Old Man North, and ride pony on his lap, at last.