I am clearly not myself.

I have always prided myself on behaving with the utmost decorum befitting my station. Pragmatic to a fault, polite and congenial as a matter of course, stern when necessary. Courteous as warranted. Ruthlessly efficient always.

But this gratuitous display of affection. This inept outpouring of emotion. My judgement is questionable, my decisions tantamount to primitive instinct, sheer foolishness.

The way I responded to seeing Farrin, like some flaccid whelp. Her untimely death was unfortunate, but hardly anything I am responsible for; she knew full well what she was getting herself into. I’ll be damned if I’ll be plagued by feelings of guilt or remorse. Such nuisances are for the weak-minded.

Even worse, allowing that oaf Hildr to cut me to the quick. Over my sister. My goddamn sister. Would that she were alive or dead, naught in limbo, that she would no longer prove my Achilles heel.

Adding insult to injury, pounding on my bedroom door in a state of fright in the middle of the night. And I allowed her to sleep in my bed whilst I stood watch. Like some pathetic au pair.

I clearly cannot trust myself.

I must get back to the waking world. These past several months in the Dreamlands have addled my brain. It’s entirely possible I have a brain fever, and might have to subject myself to a bloodletting session to alleviate the condition.

I can find no other cause for my current affliction. My sanity has been tested several times since taking up this infernal quest, and it is entirely possible I have had it tested too severely. These insipid displays of compassion, concern, caring – reprehensible.

I clearly must get ahold of myself.

Perhaps I do require a holiday. An extended holiday. One I shan’t ever return from.

“My friends, the hour has come. Madness has overtaken this realm and grasped us all in its claws. And now we must drive it back under the rocks whence it came. Madness has had its day!”

I can’t get these memories out of my mind
And some kind of madness has started to evolve
I tried so hard to let you go
But some kind of madness is swallowing me whole

I have finally seen the light
And I have finally realized what you mean

And now I need to know – is this real
Or is it just madness keeping us afloat?
And when I look back at all the crazy fights
Like some kind of madness was taking control

And now I have finally seen the light
And I have finally realized what you need

But now I have finally seen the end
(finally seen the end)
And I’m not expecting you to care, no
(expecting you to care)
That I have finally seen the light
(finally seen the light)
And I have finally realized
(realized)
I need to love
I need to love

Yes I know I can be wrong
Maybe you’re too headstrong
Come to me, just in a dream
Come on and rescue me

Damn whelp.

Infernal imp. Impetuous knave. Imbecilic mongrel.

If ever there was a single reason, nay, one hundred reasons, one thousand even, for me to loath and despise my current predicament, then Vali shall be them all.

I despise that child and his naïve hubris. And his insipid sister.

“Friends don’t lie.” The brazen insinuation that these heathens are my friends. The simpletons are useful. That is all. They further my personal goals, and perhaps in some small way, I take a vested interest in their wellbeing insofar as they serve my purposes better. Simpletons tend to serve better when they believe their master benevolent.

“Maybe that’s why you’re so lonely.” The impetus of the child. I choose to be free from emotional entanglements. I care not for these temporary cohorts I have been forced to associate with. I need their skills to ensure my survival. And the thwarting of the Machiavellian plot that we have been entangled in. Nothing more.

They all now seem to find amusement and solace in the thought that I am lonely and emotionally bereft. They intend to see me court that uncouth female (ludicrous to the extreme that I would fawn over any such creature), and even become more temperate and congenial to the party. They wholly fail to comprehend etiquette and protocol.

Brilliant.

I shall play the part and ingratiate myself into their affections. If it makes me more endearing to them and captures their loyalty and devotion to my cause, so be it. It will ultimately serve my purpose in the end.

And I will see my purpose fulfilled in the end. Devil be damned, I’ll be free from these hellions.

Had I known what portent that fateful meeting with Basil had all those months and years ago, I would have ran like a bat out of hell.

I am Riven.

There are people in the world, who are just wrong, and then there are the masses of population that are right, or at the very least they lie in the veil of between. I on the other hand, do not belong to any group. I don’t exist. It’s not that I don’t have substance; I have a body like everyone else. I can feel the fire when it burns against my skin, the rain when it caresses my face and the breeze as it fingers my hair. I have all the senses that other people do. I am just empty, inside.

When Nuala was taken from me, from the moment her and I were torn apart, I knew subconsciously that I was not whole. A hole was torn in my soul. I simply cannot fill it. Love, hate, joy, sorrow, all runs through me like water through a sieve.

Have you heard of the illness hysteria siberiana?

Try to imagine this: You’re a farmer, living all alone on the Siberian tundra. Day after day you plow your fields. As far as the eye can see, nothing. To the north, the horizon, to the east, the horizon, to the south, to the west, more of the same. Every morning, when the sun rises in the east, you go out to work in your fields. When it’s directly overhead, you take a break for lunch. When it sinks in the west, you go home to sleep. And then one day, something inside you dies. Day after day you watch the sun rise in the east, pass across the sky, then sink in the west, and something breaks inside you and dies. You toss your plow aside and, your head completely empty of thought, begin walking toward the west. Heading toward a land that lies west of the sun. Like someone, possessed, you walk on, day after day, not eating or drinking, until you collapse on the ground and die.

That’s hysteria siberiana.

Grief…gives life a permanently provisional feeling. It doesn’t seem worth starting anything. I can’t settle down. I yawn, I fidget, I smoke too much. Up till this I always had too little time. Now there is nothing but time. Almost pure time, empty successiveness. And all I can do is plod forward as the long, endless ticking of the clock haunts my steps.

When I’ve lived a thousand years, I’ll have died centuries before.

Ragnarök

Fylliz fiǫrvi
feigra manna,
rýðr ragna siǫt  
rauðom dreyra.
Svǫrt verða sólskin  
of sumor eptir,
veðr ǫll válynd.  
Vitoð ér enn, eða hvat?

Brœðr muno beriaz  
ok at bǫnom verða
muno systrungar  
sifiom spilla.
Hart er í heimi,  
hórdómr mikill
skeggǫld, skálmǫld
skildir ro klofnir
vindǫld, vargǫld
áðr verǫld steypiz.
Mun engi maðr  
ǫðrom þyrma.

So spake the völva to Odin:

“It sates itself on the life-blood  
of fated men,
paints red the powers’ homes  
with crimson gore.
Black become the sun’s beams  
in the summers that follow,
weathers all treacherous.  
Do you still seek to know? And what?

Brothers will fight  
and kill each other,
sisters’ children  
will defile kinship.
It is harsh in the world,  
whoredom rife
an axe age, a sword age  
shields are riven
a wind age, a wolf age
before the world goes headlong.
No man will have  
mercy on another.”

It happened that I was traveling In Paris many years ago and had gone to see a show. A fire broke out backstage in the theater. The clown came out to inform the public. They thought it was a jest and applauded. He repeated his warning. They shouted even louder. So I think the world will come to an end amid the general applause from all the wits who believe that it is a joke. And they will laugh and fiddle while civilization burns.

We wrap up our violent and mysterious world in a pretense of understanding. We paper over the voids of our comprehension with science and religion, and make believe that order has been imposed. And, for the most of it, the fiction works. We skim across the surfaces, heedless of the depths below. Dragonflies flitting over a lake, miles deep, pursuing erratic paths to pointless ends. Until that moment when something from the cold unknown reaches up to take us.

The biggest lies we save for ourselves. We play a game in which we are gods, in which we make choices, and the current follows in our wake. We pretend a separation from the wild. Pretend that a man’s control runs deep, that civilization is more than a veneer, that reason will be our companion in dark places. In the vast expense of strange aeons, however, reason fails us.

Reason did not avail me when I made contact with the Great Race of Yith. Nor with my encounter with Nodens. It proved no bulwark in R’Lyeh when Cthulhu roused briefly from his slumber and The King in Yellow extinguished D.P. from existence. It aided me not in my trials in Antarctica or with my dealings at Red Sea. It did not save my sister. It did not save any of my companions.

I walk out in the gray light of the Dreamlands and I stand and see for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.

All is to me as if the world did cease to exist. The city’s monuments go unseen, its past unheard, and its culture slowly fading in the dismal sea. It all fades into the forgotten past.

We are all only striving to prevent the world’s premature demise, but it’s demise will see itself to fruition in time. We’re just stalling this fate until we march inexorably on to the next. Perhaps when that day comes they’ll be someone heroic enough – nay, foolish enough – to prevent the next apocalypse. One can only hope.

Solringen

Sola gjekk i ringen, sumaren sende
Hanar galar rismål for alvar i enga

Hanar galande, galdrar groande
Nornar spinnande, lagnadar bindande
Gudar gråtande, ulvar ulande
Ravnar ropande, risar sovande
Skuggar truande, aksen duvande
Rogne voksande, soli skinande
Ulvar jagande, soli flyktande
Hanar galande, galdrar groande

The Ring of the Sun

“The sun wheeled in its ring
the summer she sent
Roosters crowing waking songs
for elves in the meadow
 
strength in the body
growth in the earth
 
Roosters crowing – galders growing
Norns spinning – fates binding
Gods crying – wolves howling
Ravens shouting – giants sleeping
Shadows threatening – barley swaying
Fields growing – sun shining
Wolves hunting – sun fleeing
Roosters crowing – galders growing”

What have I done?

Plotted to kill my own sister. Killed more men than I can recall, including my own companions. Killed gods, bartered with demons, spoken with aliens, seen Death, made deals with ghouls, served the devil. Uncovered ancient secrets and learned forbidden lore that should have remained buried and forgotten. Sacrificed my integrity, my sanity, my morality…

All to stop the very benefactor that hired me from unleashing horrors that will end humanity. Using unholy artifacts that I unwittingly helped him locate and unearth in the first place.

What have I done? What in the hell am I doing?

Consorting with a highly questionable assortment of companions to say the least. And this boy…dare I call him that. Who seems to be the key to this whole debacle.

I need a very long holiday.

Raido

Svarte skyar rir i meg
Lengten lokkar, hugen dreg
Ber du meg?
Vil i veg

Fager fole byr eg deg
(Stormen stilnar, hugen fer)
Sekkar aud tå åkergull
(Hovslagtromma takten slær)
Fara svint med flyg-før hov
(Hjartet fylgjer, tveim blir ein)
Ber du meg, eg lovar deg
(Rir meg fri med raske bein)
Ri ut
Raido

Stormen stilnar, hugen fer
Hovslagtromma takten slær
Hjartet fylgjer, tveim blir ein
Rir meg fri med raske bein
Ridande
Raido

Vilt eg rei og rende
Fager fole sprengde
Reiden er for drøsul verst
Sælt og snar for sitjande
Raido
Raido

Rir eg deg
Så rir eg meir
For ein er to
Der knutar knytast
I byrd er bunde
Heile verda
Om eg bind deg
Kan eg ferde

Ber du meg
Så ber du meir
Når to vert ein
Der lenkjer smiast
I byrd er bunde
Heile verda
Om du bind meg
Kan du ferde

Raido

“Dark clouds drift within
The longing lures pulls my mind
Will you carry me?
I want to go

Fair foal, I bid you
Sacks rich with gold of the fields
Fare swiftly on flying hoofs
Carry me, and I promise you
Ride out
Raido

The storm is stilled, the mind it flies
The drum of hoofs lay the beat
The heart, it follows, two are one
Sets me loose with speedy feet
Riding
Raido

Wild I rode and ran
Fair foal I spent
The ride is for the horse the worse
Pleasant and swift for the sitting
Raido
Raido

If I ride you
I ride more
As one is two,
where knots are tied
In bonds are bound
the whole world
If I bond you
I can journey

If you carry me
You carry more
As one is two
where chains are forged
In bonds are bound
the whole world
If you bond me
You can journey”

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

I feel I need a holiday, a very long holiday, as I have said before. Probably a permanent holiday: I don’t expect I shall return. In fact, I don’t mean to, and I must make all the arrangements. I believe it is time for me to saddle up Edward and head off into the Alfheim sunset when this is all over…

My sister will die over and over again for the rest of my life.

Grief is forever. It doesn’t go away; it becomes a part of you, step for step, breath for breath. I will never stop grieving because I will never stop loving her. That’s just how it is. Grief and love are conjoined, you don’t get one without the other. All I can do is love her, hate the one who killed her, and embrace the melancholy world she left behind.

I should grieve the loss of the fractious child more than I do, I suppose. But that is for Hildr to do, for it is hers to grieve the loss of her brother. I shall have my regrets for my part, give my condolences and move on. As I have done for all the companions lost, and those that I shall undoubtedly lose.

The love I have for my sister and the grief at her loss weigh heavy, and leave room for naught else. We shall all die after all. Some simply gain their release sooner rather than later.

Death is merely a release from the impressions of the senses, and from desires that make us their puppets, and from the vagaries of the mind, and from the hard service of the flesh.

“To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.—Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d!”
– William Shakespeare

So many hats a man can wear. So many things a man can do. Merciful gods, what I’ve done…

I seem to recall being a detective once, a decorated member of the city watch. I was also a professor, a doctor of obscure sciences, an antiquarian and a historian. I had foreseen my life being spent amidst books and libraries and dusty shelves full of antiquities, not galavanting around like a foolish adventurer, doing deeds that the poets would regale. I would write my dissertations and record my histories and smoke my pipe.

It is one thing to write as a poet and another to write as a historian: the poet can recount or sing about things not as they were, but as they should have been, and the historian must write about them not as they should have been, but as they were, without adding or subtracting anything from the truth. The truth is a harsh mistress, one that most seek to escape by delusion and addiction all too often. But even though the truth may be stretched thin, it never breaks, and it always surfaces above lies, as oil floats on water.

It was so very long ago, that life. A distant and fading thing, like the memory of a dream. Or is my present the dream? I’m a gunslinger, nay a paladin with pistols…and a sea captain that sails to exotic lands. I was a fey from Alfheim, but of late I seem more human with each passing day. I recall being versed in the arcane, but that too fades into obscure memory as my present roils and churns forward.

To think that the affairs of this life always remain in the same state is a vain presumption; indeed they all seem to be perpetually changing and moving in a circular course. Spring is followed by summer, summer by autumn, and autumn by winter, which is again followed by spring, and so time continues its everlasting round. But the life of man is ever racing to its end, swifter than time itself, without hope of renewal, unless in the next that is limitless and infinite.

I think I suffered from madness once. But when life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender dreams — this may be madness. Too much sanity may be madness — and maddest of all: to see life as it is, and not as it should be.

I was a sibling, now alone. I’ve killed, I’ve preserved life. There has been so much ill fortune. It’s up to brave hearts, I suppose, to be patient when things are going badly, as well as being happy when they’re going well … For I’ve heard that what they call fortune is a flighty woman who drinks too much, and, what’s more, she’s blind, so she can’t see what she’s doing, and she doesn’t know who she’s knocking over or who she’s raising up.

I know not what I am anymore, nor what hat I shall wear – I know only what I must do.

I must ride into battle against yon windmills.

“Destiny guides our fortunes more favorably than we could have expected. Look there, Sancho Panza, my friend, and see those thirty or so wild giants, with whom I intend to do battle and kill each and all of them, so with their stolen booty we can begin to enrich ourselves. This is nobel, righteous warfare, for it is wonderfully useful to God to have such an evil race wiped from the face of the earth."
“What giants?” Asked Sancho Panza.
“The ones you can see over there,” answered his master, “with the huge arms, some of which are very nearly two leagues long.”
“Now look, your grace,” said Sancho, “what you see over there aren’t giants, but windmills, and what seems to be arms are just their sails, that go around in the wind and turn the millstone.”
“Obviously,” replied Don Quijote, "you don’t know much about adventures.”

I awaken to the softest of hands caressing my face. As I open my eyes, I look into another set of eyes, glowing with love and adoration like two emeralds in the heavens.

“Mother.” I manage to utter through dry lips.

Her glistening white hair adorns her delicate, royal face like a gentle waterfall. The noblest of archfey. “Nuada, rest. You’ve been through many a sore trial, and have more yet to come. You’ll need your strength.” She smiles sweetly.

“It is good to see you. I’ve missed you and Father since you left for the Far Green Country.” I croak out.

“We have missed you, Nin erui réd.” She says affectionately.

I look about, seeing the verdant landscape of a secluded grove, the diffused light of a golden sun filtering through the canopy above. It is only her and I within the grove. I am reclined against a soft bed of spring flowers and grass, and can hardly find the strength to move.

I say, “Father is not here. He must still be angry.”

“The grief is still too near. He will see you again when he is ready.” Mother says reassuringly. “And you and he will have your hearts restored.”

I breathe in the fresh air, sighing heavily. I must tell her.

“Mother, I have sinned. And Caitlyn…” I try to blurt it all out, but Mother puts her finger to my lips to stop my utterance.

“I know.” Mother says admonishingly.

I begin to choke as tears well up. I convulse with untold ages of remorse and guilt and anguish. She brings my head gently to her bosom, trying to comfort me like a small child. I’m so weak I cannot resist.

“And I also know, Nin erui réd, that you will put it right.” Mother says soothingly.

“I have traveled such a tiresome road, Mother. Done such unspeakable things. Seen such loathsome horrors. How can I right so many wrongs?” I say.

“Nuada, the light cannot shine its brightest lest it come from the darkness. The most wretched sinners become the most righteous saints. The silver cannot by purified without the smelting fire of the crucible. You know this. You know the journey will be arduous, the path treacherous and, at times, uncertain.”

“My path is hidden from me.” I choke out amid my sobs.

“Your path is laid out before you.” Mother states gravely. “And none but you can tread it.”

Mother lifts up my face and looks into my eyes. “You have been chosen for such a time as this. You cannot shirk, cannot flinch. Noble fey such as us embrace our fate.”

I slowly nod my head in understanding.

“I will see it done, Mother.” I say firmly.

“I know you will, Nin erui réd.” Mother says, as a light behind her grows brighter. “Now I must take my leave of you, until such time as we meet again. I will give your father your greetings.” As she stands, she pauses and kneels over briefly. “But first, a blessing for you my dear Nuada.”

Mother closes her eyes and speaks an eleven blessing as she cradles my face. The growing things in the grove move with an unseen breeze as she speaks, as if responding to her voice.

“No aer i eneth lín
tolo i arnad lín
caro den i innas lín
bo Ceven sui vi Menel.
Anno ammen sír i mbas ilaurui vín
ar díheno ammen i úgerth vín
sui mín i gohenam di ai gerir úgerth ammen.”

With that she kisses me on the forehead, and all becomes bright light and green haze, and then the dim light of my fitful dreams.