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May. 20th, 2006 12:09 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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neutral_omensDate: May 20, 2000 (Frigga Blot)
Setting: The Manor Dining Room
Status: Public (Everyone join!)
(Also used for the writing challenge (sorry, quite long)- if you want to skip the memories, just scroll down to the (***)
Summary: Wednesday throws a party
In the bottom of Wednesday's trunk, buried under relics and runes, marked cards and false coins, is a photograph. Its one of the few photos he owns. Most of his memories date back long before George Eastmann (1) was born.
Wednesday doesn't look at the picture much. He doesn't need to. He knows every line, could easily reproduce it if he wanted to, can see it when he closes his eyes at night. The picture is of a woman, her back to the camera, red hair bound and keys jangling by her side. She doesn't look much different then she did in the First Days. Her skin is still creamy white, her posture straight. She does not bow her head even though her hair is blown by wind.
Sometimes Wednesday pauses, remembers before he was "Wednesday," thinks back to the days when he was Oðinn, Lord of the Aesir, Grimnir and the Terrible One. He would travel, always searching for more knowledge, more conquests, more virginal damsels. But always he would return to her in Fensalir. More of a home than his own hall could ever be. Her handmaidesn would attend to him as though he had never been away.
She, on the other hand, was another story. She was his equal. Equal in wisdom, equal in ardor, and equal in spite. She could greet him with a cold shoulder that rivaled the icy grip of Nifleheim. Her back turned to him as she spun on her loom, weaving the fates of men. Yet once he was back in her good graces, the doors to the cosmos were flung wide.
The truth is he always suspected that she knew more than he did, and he knew that he was probably right in the suspicion.
And he loved her. Yes, though he loved many others, it was her face he dreamed of at night. Her swift wit and cutting tongue that kept him sharp. Sustained by the thought that at one time he had loved and been in love with a woman that could challenge him, always keep him guessing, and usually come out on top in the end.
He had last seen her in Berkeley. She had always been adaptable, even more than he was. She had her own shop; selling tapestries and reading the cards. He had laughed when he saw her, for she was coning the marks just as he did. The cards meant nothing, merely a prop for the grift. It was in her tapestries that the true secrets were kept. With the same steady hands and un-erring words, she could tell her customers their fate. A steady point in a changing world.
He had taken the picture without her knowing. The only photograph he ever took. One final day in her arms, the sound of her voice in his ear. He had snapped the photo as she walked away, her head unbowed, her hair as red as the heart of a fire, and keys at her belt that would never agains open doors.
***
Wednesday woke up early that morning. He had a lot to prepare. Mead to be bought, food to be cooked, arrangements to be made. But in the end it was worth it. By 6pm, the dining hall no longer had the feeling of a cafeteria. Wood smoke hung in the air. Thick scents of meat and bread wafted down the halls. When the old god closed his eyes he could almost imagine he was back in Fensalir. With his wife's picture on the mantle, he traced runes. Runes to gather all the inhabitants of the manor. With them he hoped to celebrate her name.
(1) Inventor of the camera- (I wasn't sure if it would be too obscure.)
Setting: The Manor Dining Room
Status: Public (Everyone join!)
(Also used for the writing challenge (sorry, quite long)- if you want to skip the memories, just scroll down to the (***)
Summary: Wednesday throws a party
In the bottom of Wednesday's trunk, buried under relics and runes, marked cards and false coins, is a photograph. Its one of the few photos he owns. Most of his memories date back long before George Eastmann (1) was born.
Wednesday doesn't look at the picture much. He doesn't need to. He knows every line, could easily reproduce it if he wanted to, can see it when he closes his eyes at night. The picture is of a woman, her back to the camera, red hair bound and keys jangling by her side. She doesn't look much different then she did in the First Days. Her skin is still creamy white, her posture straight. She does not bow her head even though her hair is blown by wind.
Sometimes Wednesday pauses, remembers before he was "Wednesday," thinks back to the days when he was Oðinn, Lord of the Aesir, Grimnir and the Terrible One. He would travel, always searching for more knowledge, more conquests, more virginal damsels. But always he would return to her in Fensalir. More of a home than his own hall could ever be. Her handmaidesn would attend to him as though he had never been away.
She, on the other hand, was another story. She was his equal. Equal in wisdom, equal in ardor, and equal in spite. She could greet him with a cold shoulder that rivaled the icy grip of Nifleheim. Her back turned to him as she spun on her loom, weaving the fates of men. Yet once he was back in her good graces, the doors to the cosmos were flung wide.
The truth is he always suspected that she knew more than he did, and he knew that he was probably right in the suspicion.
And he loved her. Yes, though he loved many others, it was her face he dreamed of at night. Her swift wit and cutting tongue that kept him sharp. Sustained by the thought that at one time he had loved and been in love with a woman that could challenge him, always keep him guessing, and usually come out on top in the end.
He had last seen her in Berkeley. She had always been adaptable, even more than he was. She had her own shop; selling tapestries and reading the cards. He had laughed when he saw her, for she was coning the marks just as he did. The cards meant nothing, merely a prop for the grift. It was in her tapestries that the true secrets were kept. With the same steady hands and un-erring words, she could tell her customers their fate. A steady point in a changing world.
He had taken the picture without her knowing. The only photograph he ever took. One final day in her arms, the sound of her voice in his ear. He had snapped the photo as she walked away, her head unbowed, her hair as red as the heart of a fire, and keys at her belt that would never agains open doors.
***
Wednesday woke up early that morning. He had a lot to prepare. Mead to be bought, food to be cooked, arrangements to be made. But in the end it was worth it. By 6pm, the dining hall no longer had the feeling of a cafeteria. Wood smoke hung in the air. Thick scents of meat and bread wafted down the halls. When the old god closed his eyes he could almost imagine he was back in Fensalir. With his wife's picture on the mantle, he traced runes. Runes to gather all the inhabitants of the manor. With them he hoped to celebrate her name.
(1) Inventor of the camera- (I wasn't sure if it would be too obscure.)
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Date: 2006-06-03 08:17 am (UTC)