THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS when you live in Jotunheim. The world turns topsy-turvy and you can't get your footing or bearings. Odd things outside your control happen ; large, overwhelming events envelop and loom about the world, with sudden incursion of inexplicable lances and teeth and thorns. There is unpredictable bite, and overwhelming disproportion, for when you have invited the giants in to Midgard, they begin transforming it to Jotunheim. It is inevitable. In so doing, you and your society commit treason against the Gods, regardless of what lip service you offer, and declare your independence from their benevolent society : you are on your own, good luck, or whatever luck you might have.
Chain a Balrog (valrógr : strife of slaughter), Son of Surt, and ween it shall stay chained ; and yet be wrapped within illusions vast, as Utgard-Loki's kind shall cast upon the jaded eye, while secret fires burn the air, and serpent's venom flies the far-beyond. Yea, ask the Viper to be good ; his roilings shake the waters, and awaken all his kin. Sons of the Fool invite the Balrogs in, but when awakened, rage they in their jotunmod, the foul and sulfurous mood of fire-blazers.
Obscenity of filth and smut besmirches skirts and bergs of Mother Earth ; impious with their deeds, the keepers of the Balrogs spit slander and curses and dog-speech, howling and pounding the ground, while Sons of Moin spray virulence and pestilence into the air, gall and venom to haunt the clouds ; the mists of the ghastly, smoky city below where wraiths whirl in the dungeons laughs as draugr glee in their death-zones being spread where green garments ought lay. And I call this speech-in-deed the stench of foulest blasphemy, belch and rancor of imprecation, unhex unholy, malediction, libel etched gnaw on Yggdrasil's branches towards tremendous and holy Gods the modern jackass thinks as naught.
But one ought rue the shame of scam and sham, and offer up the boar to show remorse to holy Ingui and his kin, whom we've disgraced and sullied ; call them back, declare allegiance, beg for Lord and Lady of the Soils to compost all the filth we've gathered, and send it down to Nastrond where it finds its home in melting nidings ; and again, to cover the blessed plains and promontories with the greenest garments. Call on Thor to come to reclaimed gards and chase the monsters back to troll-land ; ask the One-Armed One to cast once more his binding blessing that the gulping maw may be restrained. (Yet will we reclaim our gards? Will we take back our Things and keep the kings in line?)
And yet ask, and pray, and hope, it shall take time, and who knows how long, for all unwyrd to work itself out in full, and new seeds of sincere worship in deed and word to sow and take their root, for Wyrd cannot be eluded. Consequence has its law ; the Gods can only mitigate. They take the edge off sharpest bite, but blade so long worshipped still has cut, and let us pray, with deep intentions calling up disir, the cut shall be contained. O, let it be contained, and let that seed of boot we earn through new directions in our deeds come sprout with newer blessings for the Earth!
The Balrogs must be banished. Let us take our fire from the Sun ; let wind and water turn our mills. The only place where giants run the mill is in Niflhel ; we have not the might of Mimir to hold them back in guarded dungeons. Ask strength from wind, and water, and sun. Our hearts go out to all our distant kin upon the Western isle ; may their faith in local deities bring them betterment ; may their courage and skill be strong ; may their health hold its own as best may be against the serpent's sprayings, and cool the flames. May the beast be bounded ; may fools, more sons of Loki than men, find wisdom in ample time, for time ticks now like a geiger counter.
Markus Röncke, artist (Balrog). Dorothy Hardy, artist (Fenris). Sixth century helmet-plate die from Torslunda, Sweden ( ~ Tyr and Fenris). All public domain. Two images of binding as spell to surround and neutralize the beast, let it be so.
