Lord of Tuesday
Life is war, this we know, O Tyr, yet our minds resist it. It is peace we yearn for, Lord of Warriors, peace and comfort and love and home, yet we know, you teach, the best in life must be won, and then won, must be warded and fought for.
Life is struggle. We assert ourselves or perish, we stand up and fight or we sit down and cower. Loving Lord of Melees, you would have us on our feet, weapons in hand, and ready to take what life brings. You cry, "Bring it on!" ; we hope, at times, too, to have this courage in our lives. You would never have us cower. Proud and thick you'd have us.
Who is the warrior who ever told you a goal was impossible because the opposition was too strong? You went and marshalled your forces, then came back and spat in impossibility's face. Neither did you cower nor did you drift in castles made of air ; you live that there is a second match to any unfair fight, and you train the einheriar well, every day. Did you keep Fenris as a pet to teach them what they'd be up against? Even this challenge you took on, taming the untameable, and, ambitious, noble, when it did not work, you owned up and took one for the team.
Not a day goes by there is not some battle to be fought. Every day presents us with one. Many men waste their war-shoes chasing after unworthy or distant battles, while at home the battle falters, caves. You make us earn our keep, Tough One, but what we win, you let us enjoy.
The hagalaz roaring chaos of this world would extinguish us if we did not fight back ; to exist is to take a stand, and you do not make it easy. Every step of territory is hard-earned, and must be fiercely guarded. Foolish men goad our machismo to chase us off after what pulls us far from the trenches we must ward.
You are as real as it gets, Sparsely-Spoken-Of One. Our poets did not need to speak muchly of you, for you are ever-present, so obvious ; there, in the games ; there in the preparations ; there in the holmgangs ; there, as sheriff calling the thing ; there, as struggle in our face. You never say that winning is everything, although it's something to strive for ; you say knowing how to fight our battles well is life well lived. Reality is won at the edge of a sword. You say, make it a sword-play! And, scarred one, you know how to play well!
We pretend that life is not war, but there, the stakes present themselves again and again. Be free or cower. Fight for your freedom against the slaves or be a slave yourself. I shirk from carnage, Thick-Skinned, it is far from me, and I would not have it, but struggles, struggles there are! Unavoidable! Inevitable! And is it not liberating to just admit it! This doesn't mean we need to hack the limbs of fellow men, not except for when we cannot avoid it and remain free, but it does mean we must fight! We must fight so that it does not come to hacking! We must fight well, we must be determined, planted, belted in and ready for action.
They never call you Lord of Love, Lord, unfairly, seems to me. The werman or woman without you in marriage will falter and cower and cry, weak and unable to take the struggle for power that plays in every household. They will lose themselves, relinquish strength, fail to rise ; and some, weak, will beat, when all they needed was to stand. Who can love without a stand? You teach that taking, Wolf-Hooded. You teach that art of love.
I do not worship you as Mars, Intrepid Friend, for I do not worship the Wolf that nourished the Romans with her teats. You, Grim-Helmed, bound that Wolf. Make sure it stays bound till the day it dies, Vidar be praised! I will not suck the milk of jotunn-wolves bred in Iron Woods, who jotnar-crazed stretch out of bounds and seek to prey on all. For such your arts were not intended, and truly, Inveterate One, goblins have rasped out your name on rapine and jotunn-frenzy. Such dishonor of your holy name surely met surprise on their doomday, Sheriff of the Court of Judges! Their Niflhel-ticket was swifter than they could cry out the lost words "einheriar". Territorial God, you'd have us win room, room good and wide to live in, not eating ourselves out of house and home like jotnar then subjecting all around us for our foolishness. Your arts were meant to win us pride, and resolution, and toughness. Make us tough, but keep our hearts poetic. May we never forget the gusto of your thundering brother, nor the mead of your mighty Father of All!
You, Single Champion, single-handedly expose the lies of Romans : pacification is not peace, though most prefer this "peace" to fighting. Islam calls it "submission" ; many, unknowingly, prefer this "islam". We are on our feet. Our swords, in hands, remind all kings our might. To pacify is to extinguish is to blot out is to piss upon is to stamp insults with a boot borrowed from jotnar. None of that for us! And they say you do not love! They say you do not love!
Never let me submit, O Lord, not while there is fight left within ; and when I must retreat, help me catch my breath and return again when least expected! Let me not squander the war-might you give, on foolish heroisms designed by cynics, bankers, and vultures, but channel it, root-deep and laser-strong, to every struggle that life presents me. May I never abuse it ; may I always use it, to advance my cause, to take my stand, and assert all the good that life can offer me, my kith and kin, and even the world. So be it, Fracas Friend!