Brisingamen
[was Pagan]
The path to Svartalfheim is not so dark as she calls it. The lights around the corner glow well and brightly from the fires. I can hear the ringing of hammers on anvils, torches, and other sounds familiar to a workshop. There are many dwarves working on various projects at various tools, but the four I will see are in the corner.
The walls may be stone, but the tools are all familiar - it is a Metal shop just as the one I learned in when I was young. The dwarf at the bellows is dark, and angry. He would not speak kindly to me if I spoke to him. The dwarf who pours the gold is focused on his work, as is the dwarf who takes the mold and cools it. It is the dwarf who takes the cooled piece from the mold to work on it with fine tools who stops. He is not really short. He is actually built very similarly to my father, but his beard is full, and his hair is white, and his skin is the calloused leather of a craftsman.
He smiles, not softhearted, but kindly, and greets me, and shows me his work. It is a necklace of nearly pure, yet hardened gold.
At first the necklace is a single band with medallions hanging from it, but as I hear the description "The most beautiful necklace you've ever seen", it changes to delicate wirework in organic shapes, like the art deco elven tiaras of Rivendell or Lothlorien. As I look closer, I focus on one leaf that hangs from the necklace - a rose leaf (NOT a petal). The leaf is my part of this necklace. The necklace itself is not mine.
I focus on the metallic leaf and it resolves to living green rose leaf, and I look closely at the veins, and closer and closer at the cell structure, and closer and closer, until I am flowing through the veins of the leaf, and then up, and out, and I'm no longer in the cave.
The leaf is attached to a rose, which is handed by a man to a woman. She smiles, they kiss, and the leaf falls from the rose as they walk away.
It hits the ground, but does not get stepped on. An artist picks it up, and decides to press it for a bookmark.
Years later the bookmark has been framed and put on the wall as a family heirloom.
Then it is given up in an estate sale, or for some historic purpose, such that the people walk through in the manner of an art gallery or museum.
The wall before me changes from plaster to stone, and the leaf is again gilded, and I am asking the dwarf how much he will charge me for the golden leaf on the wall.
He indicates that I should make an offer
I say I too am a craftsperson. The image that comes to mind is one of the wreaths of roses and other flowers that I used to make - the kind they sell at the Faire to wear in your hair.
No, they too are craftsmen, and besides, dried flowers are delicate - what use for such a thing would they have?
I could give them a small plant of yellow roses.
This is good, but who will tend to it?
I suppose I could, but I am hesitant, because I do not trust myself to tend it well, and fear it would die from neglect or poor care. I do not care to make a promise I am not certain I will keep.
He smiles wryly, with wisdom in his eyes. He knew it was not the right choice, but would have held me to my promise if I had chosen it. Something else would indeed be better. What they really want me to do is honor them on my new altar - acknowledge the work they have done for Freya - to help make her who she is. A dried yellow rose that I have already I may put for now, but in the long term I must also find or make a miniature Brisingamen to place with it. Nothing I have already will do.
And we are agreed.
--Ember--
The path to Svartalfheim is not so dark as she calls it. The lights around the corner glow well and brightly from the fires. I can hear the ringing of hammers on anvils, torches, and other sounds familiar to a workshop. There are many dwarves working on various projects at various tools, but the four I will see are in the corner.
The walls may be stone, but the tools are all familiar - it is a Metal shop just as the one I learned in when I was young. The dwarf at the bellows is dark, and angry. He would not speak kindly to me if I spoke to him. The dwarf who pours the gold is focused on his work, as is the dwarf who takes the mold and cools it. It is the dwarf who takes the cooled piece from the mold to work on it with fine tools who stops. He is not really short. He is actually built very similarly to my father, but his beard is full, and his hair is white, and his skin is the calloused leather of a craftsman.
He smiles, not softhearted, but kindly, and greets me, and shows me his work. It is a necklace of nearly pure, yet hardened gold.
At first the necklace is a single band with medallions hanging from it, but as I hear the description "The most beautiful necklace you've ever seen", it changes to delicate wirework in organic shapes, like the art deco elven tiaras of Rivendell or Lothlorien. As I look closer, I focus on one leaf that hangs from the necklace - a rose leaf (NOT a petal). The leaf is my part of this necklace. The necklace itself is not mine.
I focus on the metallic leaf and it resolves to living green rose leaf, and I look closely at the veins, and closer and closer at the cell structure, and closer and closer, until I am flowing through the veins of the leaf, and then up, and out, and I'm no longer in the cave.
The leaf is attached to a rose, which is handed by a man to a woman. She smiles, they kiss, and the leaf falls from the rose as they walk away.
It hits the ground, but does not get stepped on. An artist picks it up, and decides to press it for a bookmark.
Years later the bookmark has been framed and put on the wall as a family heirloom.
Then it is given up in an estate sale, or for some historic purpose, such that the people walk through in the manner of an art gallery or museum.
The wall before me changes from plaster to stone, and the leaf is again gilded, and I am asking the dwarf how much he will charge me for the golden leaf on the wall.
He indicates that I should make an offer
I say I too am a craftsperson. The image that comes to mind is one of the wreaths of roses and other flowers that I used to make - the kind they sell at the Faire to wear in your hair.
No, they too are craftsmen, and besides, dried flowers are delicate - what use for such a thing would they have?
I could give them a small plant of yellow roses.
This is good, but who will tend to it?
I suppose I could, but I am hesitant, because I do not trust myself to tend it well, and fear it would die from neglect or poor care. I do not care to make a promise I am not certain I will keep.
He smiles wryly, with wisdom in his eyes. He knew it was not the right choice, but would have held me to my promise if I had chosen it. Something else would indeed be better. What they really want me to do is honor them on my new altar - acknowledge the work they have done for Freya - to help make her who she is. A dried yellow rose that I have already I may put for now, but in the long term I must also find or make a miniature Brisingamen to place with it. Nothing I have already will do.
And we are agreed.
--Ember--