reading runes

Víðarr was not the diviner. He was not the shaman. He was not a Volva, and the art of their magic had always been lost on him. Still, he needed to try. Víðarr had to try… maybe the answers he was looking for would be there. Maybe the answers, the ones that were so tightly held, would come to him. Maybe, just maybe, there would be some guidance underneath it all. He could hope, right? There would always be hope. The shadow simply had to trust his gods, especially now. Especially now that they were close enough to touch. Close enough to walk among them.

The statues were so strange, as were their familiars. Víðarr was used to the gods walking among them. He was used to seeing the face of his pantheon in the faces of the everyday stranger. Treat the strangers, the wanderers, the needy, with the same reverence you’d treat your gods. Treat them with an open heart and outstretched arms. Treat them… treat them with the same love that you show the deities that brought you life. He would. He would continue to. This, though, was different. This was far different than anything he’d seen so far. Usually the gods weren’t so on the nose when they visited. Usually, and yet here he was.

He’d consult the runes on his own. It was strange for the shadow to be doing it, but he didn’t have much of a choice. His family had been splintered, scattered to the wind. There was only the shadow and his companions now. They were all he had left. They were all he had left, and he had to make the most of it. He turned toward the Stone Steppe once more, allowing the same travels to take him over and over. Yes, he’d travel there. Another strange pull of the land, but then, it wouldn’t be the strangest thing of all this season. That was yet to come. He was yet to come. That was fine.

With his dogs by his side, the shadow arrived. He’d do as little as possible to disturb the festivities– he wasn’t the only one that had been drawn here. Something strange was happening with the shift of the season, natural and otherwise. Strange, but Víðarr wouldn’t question it. As with all things, this too, was a gift from the gods. A gift from the gods above, and the gods among them. There was the question of the gods below, as well, but maybe that was a question for another day. Víðarr wouldn’t bother to ask, not quite yet. Not quite. They didn’t owe him an explanation, they didn’t owe him answers, they didn’t owe him anything… so he wouldn’t ask. They’d keep their secrets.

Finding himself a space, Víðarr settled down on his belly. Nothing exposed, no, carefully tucked against one of the broad, flat rocks. From his sparse belongings, he carefully drew the small pouch. It was one that didn’t see the light of day often, and one of the few things that the shadow held onto that came directly from his mother. With a certain tenderness, he withdrew the richly dyed swath of red buckskin, spreading it on the sparse grass before him. It was gentle, so gentle. Carefully, he shook the bag before tipping out the contents. Runes created of polished, gleaming bone, each inscribed with a rune. In his mind, all he could picture was the future, especially that of the pack that would be his. The future that was all his for the taking, as long as he lived by the gods.

Seven runes, face up. With tenderness in his touch, Víðarr arranged them from left to right. They remained in the order the gods had chosen, he would simply lay them so he could read them properly. In the first slot, othala– the legacy that he was currently living. The shadow smiled softly to himself as he ran a gentle touch across it. His future would be born from his past, that much was for certain. He would do them proud, the shadow swore by it.

In the second slot, kenaz– the torch. True calling, true purpose, that was what influenced him now. The shadow nodded once to himself, sagely. This was his calling. This was his purpose. A sign that he really and truly was on the right path. In the third slot, representing future actions, the shadow found himself a bit puzzled. Something yet to be revealed: perthro. Fate… Víðarr would act as he was fated to. There was also something else here, something underlying, the idea that there was some feminine influence. His brow furrowed as he considered, dwelling on this for a moment longer.

The tip of the arrow, the fourth slot. The action he’d need to take in order to reach the absolute best outcome. Algiz, the elk, stared up at Víðarr. Víðarr looked down at it fondly, a twinkle in his icy eyes. To act on courage, to act on instinct. The shadow would do as he’d always done, and as he’d always continue to do. Within him, there is power, and all he needs to do is tap into it directly. Perfect. More than perfect, it’s the confirmation he needs as he continues to read the spread of runes as they’ve fallen.

The fifth slot. The way that Víðarr felt… his own feelings. A man of passion, though it always ran beneath the surface, he wasn’t typically one to hide those feelings. The bone carved with Uruz, the ox, peered up at the shadow. The shadow looked down at this one, too. Well, it was accurate enough. He was approaching this with as great a force as he could muster. It was true, the events of the last few weeks had renewed his determination, the perseverance that lived inside him. Víðarr was ready to fight this one out, living for the long haul of it all.

Though Víðarr thought the seven runes of his initial spread had landed face up, he realized now that he’d miscounted. Within the sixth slot, the one for possible problems, the shadow realized that there was something missing. While Odin’s rune itself had slotted easily into the seventh on his spread, the sixth was curiously empty. For a long moment, the shadow dwelled on this fact. What did it mean? How does he interpret this? Once more, he longs for his siblings, his family, who so often had the answers when he didn’t.


"Viðarr"