for the night is dark and full of terrors

Siv Helsi · 05-23-2012, 02:24 PM

[html]

(660) Siv is using ground chalcanthite for the fire; this is the closest approximation to the color.

While men were not gods, they were like gods. They were petty, squabbling things that valued only themselves and in the end paid in blood. Had All-Father not hung from the tree for nine days, spear in side, to learn the wisdom of the nine worlds? Had one of her own kind not spoken to him of his journey, and of his eventual demise at the mouth of the great mad wolf? Siv knew these things as well as she knew her own blood. She saw glimpses of her gods in mortals—in the silvered tongue of her king, in the iced gaze of his prized tiger? There was a reason she had been drawn here, and that her cousin had followed.

Pale eyes watched, in the subtle way of well-trained women, without being truly observed. Only when her offering was taken did she leave him, crossing to the other side of the crackling fire. She did not fail to see how he watched her, nor did she attempt to cover herself. A faint and terrible smile lingered on her black lips even as he questioned her faith. He would learn, in due time. They all would.

It would be fair to say she was eager, now, watching him, but she was careful yet. Heavy pouches, burdened with the spells of trickery and deceit, hung at her hips. Her fingers lingered near them, but loose, gently. Patience was part of this game.

There was a moment where she thought he might leave her; might cling to his doubt and his anger and use it against her spell. This too, passed. She could not hide the pleasure in her eyes, which darkened deeply. Siv dipped her fingers into one of the pouches at her side. Salt-like material grated against her fingers. “It is my nature to know things,” she echoed, her voice low and husky. “Some are born with great destinies. This you should know,” the witch went on. “You were made to rule.”

Her hand moved quickly, flinging a handful of the ground stone into the flame. It coughed up smoke and hissed like a snake, flashing only once before the flames began to burn green. Siv’s other hand followed suit; sawdust, soaked in sweet smelling herbs and horse blood, gave the green fire a heavy scent and heavy smoke. She breathed it out, all fine, and breathed it into the man she called a king.

For a long time, she looked into the fire. She waited—waited for him to drink the drought, to have his mind forcibly released from its burden of doubt—and finally, when she saw something strange flicker on his face, she began to speak.

“A charlatan without faith poisoned these lands against you,” the black wolf said, waving her hands through the smoke. The gestures were meaningless. She was well practiced in the oldest of all magical arts; deception. “I’ve begun to cleanse them. There was bad magic here; magic to give strength to those who would usurp you. There is doubt…there are those yet who have lost their sight.” Riddles, as if she herself were speaking with Loki’s mouth. Perhaps she was. He could not, while it was sewn shut, but mortals might. The ways of the gods were still so very strange.

“When the summer turns, I must be allowed to cleanse all. The gods will favor us as long as we give them blood; the blood of our enemies, the blood of those who would stand against us…the blood of living things that serve them as I do.”

Dark feet carried her towards him, circling, weaving, until she was at his back. She hunched and bent at the waist, pressing her firm breasts into his back, whispering in his ear as a lover might. “Your path is one of conquest,” Siv purred, and believed it. “But you must learn to embrace that which you fear. These are dark nights, Thistle King.”

Login




Remember me Lost Password?