The Serpent and the Maypole
Once bold protectors sailed in sleet craft along blue, cloud-foamed oceans of atmospheric air seeking out trouble and saving. Blessed Hodur, hunting out dragons and monsters encroaching on world, seeking, taking on, vanquishing, warding world's holiness with strong-arm salvation and righteousness. The serpent's father insured the Alcis were sent helward so his sons might have a feast and field day for ages on end. Who will do the Dioscuri's work now that they lay in the underworld 'till this age's end? Which heroes stand and say, I will not stand to see beloved Jord invaded, infested, filth-and-slime infiltrated? Who shall cleanse?
In days of Ermanerich monsters moved in, began their barbed-wire encampments and empires while the Gods, Aurboda-caused, lay feuding, and the coiling venom foe-of-Thor sinuous-ventured inward, to take Ironwood genetics and breed poison-deformations throughout world, with strangulations and evil thorn-following the holy vine's bramble-meanderings.
Then Frodi vine-strangled stranglers, weaving green-tendril'd nets of life resurgent in dancing pulsation, through and through and thick and through, to chase out winter's barren dustbowl minions, and there, Robin Hood upon the plains, meadows rolled out and unfolding district by district with the battle of the trees against the orcs, Robin surveying. And when he first stepped onto the fresh earth, what nightmare quick flashed across his ever-smiling lips as he took in the territory taken by the wyrm's slimy tanglings, and wondered how world could be so tainted. Then merry-men envoys emissaried into every town and hamlet, known world-wide to sing and make spring motions of dance laugh and live amongst the shell-shocked folk, and dream of revolutions. Freedom won't stay put, looks on venom-drugged zombies and imagines awakenings, pulls out the pipe and leads out the children from cities of the dead. We are the humble missionaries of Freyr with wild-eyed visions of dionysian evangelism spreading wildfire revolution against the serpent-riding wolf-ogres, and raise the banner of Frodi's Frith, a world-wide celebration, a freols, the ongoing victory-dance that stirs up men again to stand on two feet and sing their rights with bold voice, and gather fruits together for communion feasts proclaiming, peace on earth! good will towards men! Vanaheim's Father Christmas declaring Yule a permanent kingdom on this earth.
Serpent's father taunts Freyr with Muspel's Men bringing fire, doom-spells, and king-counseling of better safe with brutal bodyguards and Volund-salvaged golems smashing laughter sex uprisings, but the song of freedom sings along, scattering and reassembling. With merriment, with acts of kindness and courage, strong men settling feuds and petty nonsense (whose flames Heid's curses would fan), gardeners and gatherers retake their place restoring Eden to venom-scarred Mother Earth's jungles and plains. Every desert shall be greened, even ants shall cease their warfare. Not today. Not tomorrow. We plant tiny seeds of viridian chaparral that germinate when fires come. And when the fires come, our fruits shall have their bounty, but before, freedom's strong arms muscle out encroachers to plant industrious gards of frith. Jormungand, we strike your wand to make a Maypole!