Fire and Ice...
Author: * Skatha Yngling - 1 Post on this thread out of 2 Posts sitewide.
Date: Mar 2, 2004 - 12:50

...My brother and myself, respectively. I perch myself upon the snowy roof of my mountain hall at Thrymheim, looking down upon the fiery glow of the gates of the forge, far below me. It is in these depths that Witege makes his home, where anger, frustration, vengeance and fever are cultured. I am quite unlike my brother. I am at home in the cold, where I can remain sensible, refreshed, awake.

From the bowels of the earth, at Surt's fiery doorstep, are the great riches of the world wrought. Lind-rings, oath rings, bracelets, corselets, swords, shields... a dragon's hoard of weapons and wealth. Here Witege now hides himself from the winter wind, fighting to take the Smithy back from Kælin, Alfrig and their Svartling brood. That was always my brother's way.

We each responded to our father's demise in our own way. My brother sought vengeance, while I saved my own skin, marrying into the Ése. For this I would lose Witege's trust and admiration, perhaps for all time. My return to Ulfdael was my return to cold seclusion in my father’s empty mountain hall. Witege’s return was not so passive but another fiery, aggressive act – the purging of the Bristlings. His hammer, whose kennings include The Scourge of the Ése and Nidoth’s Bane, I can still see in my mind – a great silv'ry fist used to both smith and smite. The thunder of its angry, feverish blows rumble in the belly of the mountain, where Witege fashions the latest of his achievements.

I’m not convinced that I’ve made the right choices in life, playing it safe in clear-thinking, cold solitude. Too much cold makes one frail and brittle. Making peace with my brother may mean giving in to the heat and anger of the forge. But cold iron, if heated for too long, will crack.