so yeah, this is pretty much the result of me brainvomiting and gargling immense amounts of wank at 3am to try and get my brain back into writing gears. It’s malformed and wanked, very probably pretentious as shit, but I kinda like it. Wut.
Thor is a flaming sun, writ in amber and gold, hewn, forged, calloused and strong. He blazes in the light, a star of his own making, warm and uproarious, licked bright in colours that shine under the summer sun. . The blue of the skies set deep in his eyes, the colour of fresh wheat flecked through his hair. The gleam of weapons and the rage of war, and other things too. The laughter of many about a bonfire, the wood tossed carelessly to be consumed. The sounds of feasting, of plenty, animals fattened and roasted and bones cracked clean. Of boisterous gatherings and boastful cries, mead horns drunk deep and tales told of valour God of thunder, god of lightning, what are these things if not born of the precipitations of summer? Of fields set ablaze to rage in the night?
And yet, he does not slide into indolence. There is forever the warning of battle in his form. Of a necessity wrought and spent when it must be, a derision of idleness and of sloth. He is the god of healing, of sanctity and the fertility of crops. The provider incarnate, the protector. He is beholden not only to the warrior but to the farmer, the blacksmith, the healer at work.
Loki is pale shot with silver, woven, conspired. The snow prince, the winter’s child, the one born of ice, black upon white, forever poised in a half-cusped moon. The silvered tongue that glints in the shadows, barely seen, less still felt. He does not blaze for his gifts are far subtler, the creep of winter upon the autumn, the slow drift of oncoming snow. The chill of calculation, the press of hard times, when actions and thought must be weighed carefully against dwindling supplies while the earth lies fallow. His is not the warrior’s roar of plenty, but the stealthy gaze of a hunter who must long track his prey.
And yet, in his eyes and in his garb, his fertility and grace, there lies the promise of spring, of things born anew to lives yet lived. The lean expanse of creamy flesh at the throat, the breast, the thigh, forever reminders of the sparsity of need. Of the tearing down of frozen, broken things and creation itself revolving on the spokes of an endless wheel. Of him swirls the nature of woman, the nature of man, the birth of the future and the fools of the past. The trickster god, forever undefined.
There is a terrible brutality to the summer seasons, as there is a terrible beauty to the clutch of winter. A time to rise, and yet still a time to fall. An cycle that consumes and recreates, an ourobouros complete yet never-fixed, night to day to chill to warmth.
An endless summer would dry the seas themselves, crops withering to fail in tired, listless soil turned to sun-baked stone. An endless winter would bring a frozen silence, the end of all things laid out in a shroud of perpetual sleep. And likewise, action without thought is to bring about ruin; manipulation without cease is to invite madness itself. There is a time for the open blow of a hammer in the sun, just as there is time for the silent blade of a knife in the night.
They are not equals for they can never <i>be</i> equals. The opposing sides of a coin cannot be compared, not even at the sharpest edge, where the forces swirl and coalesce, one rising in a single heartbeat to dominate the other only to fall before it at the next.
And yet, even in this, there is balance…..
(and then, judging by the smears, I slopped my cup of tea on the notebook.)