i.
o young god, what shine doth thy brother take
but what is it that’s at stake?
always thrown into the darkness
you will always be a shadow
ii.
secrets kept, but you do know what mother holds
and so does the trickster, so you go to him
was it jealousy? or was it sin?
iii.
bless the graces of the trickster
no matter of his own agenda
such the feel of fire’s flesh is enough to make you thresh
But soon your arrow will be fired
pierce
iv.
all the weeping, all the sorrow
but none expect the poor boy blind
the trickster would then take the fall
but isn’t he the one at fault?
none expect the brother, blind
but you and trickster know your minds
the fury of the flurry cannot stand the kind of emptiness that would mark the end of light, but lo would he the winter’s dark be damned to ever let the brother who is shining take away his spark.
i.
ii.
iii.
and he didn’t.
What strings have tugged, the brother knows, but he does not let them know he knows. Mother dotes on him, the other, and Hodr knows its for his shining, blinding light so different from his blinded darkness. Son of the winter’ cold, no match for the summer’s bold. What he cannot see, he can, however, feel, and feel he does, so great and green the monster vile that creeps up in his throat like bile.
He has no rhyme or reason, simply sibling suffering, a rivalry if he may, or so that’s what he tells himself.
What shining star, that Baldr is, and Hodr hides in shadows. He’s always been a child of the winter-darkened shadows. But lo, he never thought it much until his brother, splendor touched, impenetrable, invulnerable, what skin his blessings came.
But Hodr knows, and no one knows that he does, what weaknesses his brother has, or rather just the one.
Or so he thought he was but all the only one.
The fire-haired, the stitched and marred, the trickster with a smile on his dastard, scar’ed lips.
At least that’s how he’s told.
“ But don’t you know ,” the trickster told, “ the secrets of his limits? ”
Hodr did, and scar-lipped quibbed, the two would talk in plenty.
Hodr did not mind his sorrows, what he felt, the jealous touch, at least that’s what he thought. But Loki, too, did not mind so, but knew him better than to press.
Hodr and his cold would find that there was no more use pretending.
And to the trickster he would tell the deep desire of his brother’s fell.
And Loki laughed, the fire cackled, and they both know what to do.
Carefully and contemptly the two set out to fetch, to fetch a branch or three or so, of the youngest mistletoe. What plant of innocence may strike, and Hodr felt its little life in his hands.
Loki helped him fashion, then, a bow o’ branches, arrows, too, and taught him how to shoot.
What fires burned, the young god felt, the callous of the working flame, and mayhap, then, he felt it, too, why Lok’ was known by that name.
Position square, and shoulders good, the young god struggled with the pace. The box was taught, his fingers fought, a strain across his face. But fire then he did, a target not hos brother. And Loki clicked his tongue and said, “try again, but with more valor.”
The flame-god held him there in place, what echoes of this new found place, a place not like location, but a place like place of mind.
Hodr let the flames of hair tickle at his face.
With better practice better hearing, he found a better pace.
The arrows flew, and hit their mark, closer, closer still.
Another thing, another gather, another day to pass. And more and more the cold-god wanted to strike with his new, fresh skill.
But Loki, ever cunning-wise, deflected on his case.
“ Not yet, not here. Wait for yet another day. ”
And he did.
And he did.
And Hodr and Loki both would find themselves at a target range, practice here and practice there, and Hodr hits his mark. He knew he must be ready now, but still the trickster stopped him.
Hodr could not take the waiting, not a moment longer.
The trickster smiled, something sadly, he could not see it but he felt it, all too close, against his face.
“ Hold it steady, keep your grace ,”
That is what he said.
But what he meant was, “ hold your nerves, you are breaking face .”
And Hodr felt the sting swell up, what he aimed to do. And then he came thought anew, why Loki held him so long through. The sinews grew, something shook, the cheer around them ever so unknowing to what they were about to do.
“ Keep it steady, hit your mark ,”
That is what he said.
But Hodr knew, as he drew, what the Trickster meant,
“ Hold yourself together, for this will break your heart .”
And all the jeer around him, he felt his heart skip pace, as if the gods about him would dare defy his place. He may be blind, but helpless not, but as he shook he felt the steer of Loki’s stead, so near.
The hearth in winter melts what sorrows that had come to pass.
The flames of Loki Fire-Heart would melt what sorrows the Blinded, Winter God held deep.
“ Keep it steady, hit your mark, keep your grace before you falter ,”
And so the boy then struck.
The mourning came and went so quickly, Hodr felt as though he stood in place in time.
The trickster came and went so fast, he felt a hole, not where his brother once had wept, but where the flames had licked and spent, embers, ashes, all remained were smoke and lingered sense and feelings of a time amiss. And Hodr once again remembered, what he thought anew, why Loki then had kept him there all for so long and through. Not the sorrows, there were none, not regrets or illest mets, but rather now they would be parted, and the fire in the winter’s hearth went out and dark again.
