Alfather, my old friend, hail to you on this winter day.
I give thanks for your blessing, I give thanks for toil.
For it is in respite we can count the fruits of our labor.
We sit in Asgard as the spring draws long days afresh
from the frost, and petals are already blooming. I hail
your patronage, all the tricks of poetry and magic you
have gifted me, and we talk long over spiced mead of
the duty of kings, and how in the death of your son,
you found renewal, a new purpose, but above all,
peace – losing the greatest thing you had meant that
there was nothing left to give, a twisted freedom that.
Hela will not let you in to her table Hunger, where
Balder feasts with Nanna and grandchildren that you
will never know, but there is a kind of surrender in
making peace…
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