A/N: Well, hi guys! I haunted here...once...but now I'm back, with a probably really bad story. Meh, I'm giving it to you anyway. Enjoy, my pretties. Enjoy! I shall explain things at the end.
Sometimes, the queen would tell stories of her old home. Not just the starkly different winters and the memory of them bettering her summers, but stories of the Pagan ways. Women on horses bearing away dead heroes, a thundering man whose hammer destroyed his enemies, a man whose tongue was silver and tricked you before you knew it, monsters who would someday eat the sun, a horse with eight legs that ran faster than lightning, and a great hero who was born of siblings and was allowed into the greatest heaven of them all.
She didn't tell these stories often, but when she did, they brought smiles to the faces of her children. Her son would pretend to be that fierce wolf that was born of a shape shifter and her daughter would be forced to be the man who had his hand fed to that same wolf.
This fierce play was discouraged.
When the queen told these stories, sometimes another boy would listen in. Another boy would close his eyes and imagine that he was hearing stories from his own mother. He would imagine that his mother still could tell him stories, that she hadn't left him alone. The Boy-Who-Listened sat outside the room and heard the stories she told.
"'I remember yet the giants of yore who gave me bread in the days gone by. Nine worlds I knew, the nine in the tree with mighty roots beneath the mold," the queen recited, a poem she had learned to demonstrate her talents.
"What nine worlds?" the prince asked. "And what tree?"
"They say that there is a great tree that holds nine worlds inside it. From the gods to the dead. Now, shall I continue?"
"Please! Oh please!" the princess cried.
"Yes, please," the boy listening outside thought to himself.
"'Of old was the age when Ymir lived; sea, nor cool waves, nor sand there were. Earth had not been, nor heaven above, but a yawning gap, and grass nowhere.
"'Then Bur's sons lifted the level land, Mithgarth the mighty there they made. The sun from the south warmed the stones of earth, and green the ground with growing leeks.
"'The sun, the sister of the moon, from the south, her right hand cast over heaven's rim; no knowledge she had where her home should be, the moon knew not what might was his, the stars knew not where their stations were.
"'Then sought the gods their assembly-seats, the holy ones, and council had; names gave they to noon and twilight, morning they named and the waning moon, night and even, the years to number.
"'At Ithavoll met the mighty gods—'"
"What is Ithavoll?" asked the princess.
"The meeting place of the gods, according to these stories and poems. 'At Ithavoll met the mighty gods, shrines and temples they timbered high; forges they set, and they smithied ore, tongs they wrought, and tools they fashioned.
"'In their dwellings at peace they played at tables, of gold no lack did the gods then know—till thither came up giant-maids three, huge of might out of jötunheimum.
"'Then sought the gods their assembly-seats, the holy ones, and council held, to find who should raise the race of dwarfs out of Brimir's blood and the legs of Blain.
"'There was Móðsognir the mightiest made of all the dwarfs, and Durinn next; many a likeness of men they made, the dwarfs in the earth, as Durinn said.' Now, there is quite a long list, but I believe that I can continue if you wish me too."
"Please," breathed the boy listening, he didn't want the gentle woman to stop telling the beautiful story.
"Yes please!" begged the prince. The queen must have smiled, because she took a moment before continuing.
"'Nŷi, Niði, Norðri, Suðri, Austri, Vestri, AlÞjófr, Dvalinn, Nár and Náinn, Nipingr, Dáinn, Bifurr, Bafurr, Bömburr, Nori, Ánn and Ánarr, Óinn, Mjöðvitnir.
"'Veggr and Gandálfr, Vindálfr, Þorinn, Þrár and Þráinn, Þekkr, Litr and Vitr, Nŷr and Nŷráðr, now I have told, Reginn and Ráðsviðr, the list aright.
"'Fili, Kili, Fundinn, Nali, Hepti, Vili, Hanarr, Sviurr, Billingr, Brúni, Bildr and Buri, Frár, Hornbori, Frægr and Lóni, Aurvangr, Jari, Eikinskjaldi.
"'The race of the dwarfs in Dvalin's throng, down to Lofars the list I must tell; the rocks they left, and through the wet lands they sought a home in the fields of sand.
"'There were Draupnir and Dólg, Þrasir, Hár, Haugspori, Hlévangr, Glóinn, Dori, Ori, Dúfr, Andvari, Skirfir, Virfir, Skafiðr, Ai.
"'Álfr and Yngvi, Eikinskjaldi, Fjalarr and Frosti, Finnr and Ginarr, so for all time shall the tale be known, the list of all the forbears of Lofars.
"'Then from the throng did three come forth, from the home of the gods, the mighty and gracious; two without fate and on the land they found, Ask and Emblu, empty of might.
"'Soul they had not, sense they had not, heat nor motion, nor goodly hue, soul gave Óðinn, sense gave Hœnir, heat gave Lóðurr and goodly hue.
"'An ash I know, Yggdrasill its name, with water white is the great tree wet; thence come the dews that fall in the dales, green by Urðar's well does it ever grow.
"'Thence come the maidens mighty in wisdom, three from the dwelling down 'neath the tree. Urðar is one named, Verðandi the next—on the wood they scored—and Skuld the third. Laws made there, and life allotted to the sons of men, and set their fates.' Now, that is all for today, children. That is twenty verses of the poem. I will tell you more later."
And the boy knew that that was his cue to leave. He could not be caught.
And so the Boy-Who-Listened came to dream of trees and dwarfs.
Oftentimes, the Scot would tell stories about his home. None of them seemed to match, except for one that the Boy-Who-Listened heard often. The Scot liked to tell him stories because the Boy-Who-Listened was such a good listener (could you guess? He doesn't talk half as much as he listens). The Scot grew lonely in this land, so he would tell the boy he taught, the Boy-Who-Listened, all about simple things he did as a child.
"Every summer, my best friend and I would row across Lamlash Bay to Holy Island. There were starlets there, mating. They were wondrous, lad. Murmurations of hundreds to be certain. Even in a small boat, they soared all around us, like black waves in the sky."
"What is a murmuration?" the boy asked, pulling the Scot from his lovely memories of the tides of birds.
"What they call the hundreds of starlets, lad. They come here during the summer to mate, but not in such numbers as on Holy Island. Holy Island is a beautiful place. I miss it. All of Scotland is beautiful. The Irish sea, Lamlash Bay…You know, Holy Island is an island off of another island? Arran Isle, it is called."
"Was that where you grew, sir?"
"Hmm? I suppose you could say that. General consensus was that I lived in the wild. Too much cammag playing I suppose. Cammag and Shinty. I could teach you, I suppose. No, they are too much like that game you children have, what is it?"
"Bandy-ball?"
"Yes, far too similar." The boy simply nodded. Why should he bother the Scot? "Someday I will go back to Arran Isle. I miss it greatly." The Scot pressed his lips together and nodded to himself. Then he told the Boy-Who-Listened about the stories he heard as a child himself. "The Dierach Ghlinn Eitidh, lad, is a ghoul of the worst kind. One eye it has, burning like hellfire, and a hundred hands that it grabs you with. It has one leg, though, but I cannae promise that you would get away."
"Does the…Dierach Ghlinn Eitidh eat you?"
"How could I know? If he did, I would not be here, would I lad? But it is not the Dierach Ghlinn Eitidh that you should worry about."
"Then what should I worry about, sir?"
"The Barrow-Wights. They live in the barrow graves, lad, and haunt anyone who comes near. If you try to take the treasure" he snapped his fingers "they attack. Now, they may not kill ye, no they may just drive you raving mad, so we know a bit of what they look like. They have huge heads, long necks, and thin faces hidden by filthy beards. Their knees bend backwards, but their toes still point forward like ours, see? Nasty creatures to be certain."
"But…so long as I do not go to a barrow grave to take the treasure I will be fine?"
"So the stories go. Now, let me tell you about the Baobhan Sith. Evil creatures, they have feet like a doe's, but they will drink your blood dry. They hide themselves as beautiful lassies who wear green dresses to hide their feet so you would not know, and entertain you so you do not suspect, and then they kill ye. There was once a group of knights roaming through the highlands on the main-land, and they came across them. Only one realized the danger and fled."
"…Really?" And despite himself, the Boy-Who-Listened was becoming a bit frightened. He knew the fairies the Scot was talking about only existed in Scotland and he was mostly safe, but still, he was frightened.
"Ah, do not worry so lad! You are safe here, they cannae go too far from the highlands. Now, the kelpies on the other hand…"
And so the Boy-Who-Listened came to dream of playing Shinty by oceans with waters made of Starlets in achingly beautiful foreign lands and hunched creatures made of nightmares.
Rarely, the old knight told stories about the places he saw during the crusades. They were hidden, the stories, but when he told them, the Boy-Who-Listened heard them. He always heard hidden stories and meanings (did you know? He had to learn to hear double what anyone says for survival). The old knight remembered the other lands fondly, and the Boy-Who-Listened enjoyed hearing about them.
Most heard: "Very warm today. I suppose it could be hotter. Continue your work."
He heard: "So much like the Arab lands. The heat was intense but so lovely. I fought and killed in it, you can do this simple task."
Most heard: "The walls are crumbling. They have to be repaired, otherwise there will be no wall soon."
He heard: "A crumbling wall can mean death. The Muslims knew this, the Byzantine know this too. We destroyed walls and killed thousands. So much blood and death…"
Most heard: "I must compliment Pepper, I have not tasted a combination of flavors like this in a long time."
He heard: "In the Muslim lands, there were foods so unlike here. Fruits you will never taste, spices that still linger on my tongue. Would that I could taste them again. Anyone would love them."
The old knight, when he said these things, seemed to always look at the Boy-Who-Listened. It was as though the old knight knew that he heard all he was trying to say. It made him feel as though the old knight appreciated him, even if just for that.
Dinners where the old knight told these hidden stories were ones he never missed. It was like a festival night with travelling storytellers but a secret.
And so the Boy-Who-Listened came to dream of a land that was like living in fire, and foods whose flavors were masked by the metallic taste of blood.
Nearly nightly, the fool would tell stories of different lands, those he had seen as a small child before coming to the castle. They were told through the ballads he would sing, the stories from other lands. The Boy-Who-Listened heard them and recognized them for what they were, and appreciated them.
"'It's a narrow, narrow make your bed, and learn to lie your lane; for I'm ga'n oer the sea, Fair Annie, a braw bride to bring hame. Wi her I will get gowd and gear; wi ou I neer got nane,'" sang the fool, his voice adopting a strange accent that seemed harsh to the ears of the Boy-Who-Listened. "'But wha will bake my bridal bread, or brew my bridal ale? And wha will welcome my brisk bride, that I bring oer the dale?'
"'It's I will bake your bridal bread, and brew you bridal ale, and I will welcome your brisk bride that you bring oer the dale.'
"'But she that welcomes my brisk bride maun gang like maiden fair; she maun lace on her robe sae jimp, and braid her yellow hair.'
"'But how can I gang maiden-like, when maiden I am nane? Have I not seven sons to thee, and am with child again?'
"She's taen her young son in her arms, another in her hand, and she's up to the highest tower, to see him come to land.
"'Come up, come up, my eldest son, and look oer yon sea-strand, and see your father's new-come bride, before she come to land.'
"'Come down, come down, my mother dear, come frae the castle wa! I fear, if langer ye stand there, ye'll let yoursell down fa.'
"And she gaed down, and farther down, her love's ship for to see, and the topmast and the mainmast shone like the silver free.
"And she's gane down, and father down the bride's ship to behold. And the topmast and the mainmast, they shone just like the gold.
"She's taen her seven sons in her hand, I wot she didna fail; she met Lord Thomas and his bride, as they came oer the dale.
"'You're welcome to your house, Lord Thomas, you're welcome to your land; you're welcome with your fair ladye, that you lead by the hand.
" 'You're welcome to your ha's ladye, you're welcome to your bowers; you're welcome to your hame, ladye, for a' that's here is yours.'
"'I thank thee Annie; I thank thee Annie, sae dearly as I thank thee' you're the likest to my sister Annie that ever I did see.
"'There came a knight out oer the sea, and stealed my sister away; the shame scoup in his company, and land whereer he gae!'" He interrupted the singing of the ballad for a gentle tune on the lute. It was times like this that the Boy-Who-Listened could put aside his dislike of him and just appreciate the story. And the fool continued singing, "She hang ae napkin at the door, another in the ha. And a' to wipe the trickling tears, sae fast as they did fa.
"And aye she served the lang tables, with white bread and with wine. And aye she drank the wan water, to had her colour fine.
"And he's taen down the silk napkin hung on a silver pin. And aye he wipes the tear trickling a' down her cheik and chin.
"And aye he turn'd him round about, and smil'd amang his men. Says, 'like ye best the old ladye, or her that's new come hame?'
"When the bells were rung, and mass was sung, and a' men bound to bed, Lord Thomas and his new-come bride to their chamber they were gaed.
"Annie made her bed a little forbye, to hear what they might say; 'And ever alas!' Fair Annie cried, 'that I should see this day!'
"'Gin my seven sons were seven young rats, running on the castle wa, and I were a grey cat mysell, I soon would worry them a'."
"Well sung!" the king called, applauding and setting it for all others to follow. "Perhaps something a little…happier?"
"Of course, majesty," the fool said, smiling. And he launched into a ballad about a noble lady who ran away with a gypsy, her husband chasing after her only to find her disdainful of everything he had to offer her, ending with the lady happily roaming the world.
And so the Boy-Who-Listened came to dream of women with seven sons, knights whose hearts were broken, and great heroes who forgot of Lent at times.
Whenever he saw them, the sailors who did his father's work told him stories. They were stories about storms at sea, about how the Pixie Kay was nearly destroyed or men died and drowned. The Boy-Who-Listened had an idea that they were telling him these stories simply to frighten him. Always had, in his mind.
"And then, tha's when St. Elmo's fire starting dancin' cross the topsail," the old captain, a one-eyed man called Blink, was telling him. "Poor John, young lad, no older than you and just as tiny, he stood too long staring. Didna see the wave until it was too late. Poor lad, swept right over the rail. Drowned right there, 'fore our eyes."
"W-Well, that is very sad…" the Boy-Who-Listened muttered, shifting and wishing he could just flee.
"Ach, fact of life, boy. You will have ta face it when ye take over yer father's business. Do you know how yer father took over?"
"My grandfather died…?" ventured the Boy-Who-Listened.
"Aye. He was drowned jus' like John in a storm. How I lost me eye. Bit of wood flew right into it."
"Oh." He really wanted to leave now. That was just too graphic.
"Indeed. Sit down, lad, you will want to know all about what you will face."
"But…I am training to be a knight…"
"So you will go over the sea, and Old Blink will take you." The Boy-Who-Listened obediently sat, his hands folded in his lap and his back straight, Listening (listening and Listening were different, mind. Now he would absorb and understand and dream on what he would hear). "Now, when you go oer the seas and you get caught in a storm, best you can do, boy, is pray. Pray, and hold on tight to some rope. Unless ye wish to learn how to help."
"No, no, I believe I will be fine."
"Better not have a pup like you up in the rigging. Let loose the mainsail 'stead of securing it! Now, the waves, they get ta a look like boiling. Your hair starts standin' on end, and then…the storm!" he shouted it, and made the Boy-Who-Listened jump. The old man laughed, clapping his hands in mirth like a child. "I got you there, boy! Now listen to Old Blink, boy. If you should find yerself in the grip of a storm at sea, you hold on tight and pray."
"I believe I can do that, sir."
"Ah, get ye to yer father. I like ye boy, but not that much." And the Boy-Who-Listened nodded, leaving the belly of the ship fast as he could, before his father sent him back for the very crate that he had been sitting on.
And so the Boy-Who-Listened came to dream of drowning men in a boiling pot and fire that burned with the breath of the saints.
His least favorite stories were the daily stories that the villagers hissed to each other when they saw him, ones that he ignored best he could and wrote songs to ignore. They were always so mean, and they had been ever since he was a tiny child. They hurt so much, and so the Boy-Who-Listened would usually hide away after hearing them.
"His father cheated my family clean out of all our money. He will be no better, I know it."
"No one loves you!"
"Why can he not just leave? He could go to the other kingdoms around here. They can deal with that heinous family."
"I hate them!"
The rest really don't bear repeating. Besides, the Boy-Who-Listened always Listened to them and when he was smaller, he would cry. Now he was too old, but he was not too old to go hide inside his own mind and dreams. Except those dreams were quickly tainted by his own subconscious preying on his own insecurities. (He would never learn exactly why he thought up half of these, why his own mind turned on him. He just knew that it did.)
And so the Boy-Who-Listened began to dream of constant screaming with vicious, stupid jokes that made him want to cover his ears and duck his head and never, never come back out again.
But the Boy-Who-Listened's favorite stories were the ones he told himself. At night, while lying in his bed, he would tell himself stories in his mind. Forcefully, so that he would dream about them instead of the other things.
They were simple stories, never as elaborate or even as well told as the fool's or the queen's, and they were never so frightening as the old knight's and the Scot's. They were free of the harsh outlook of the sailors', and they never were cruel like those of the villagers'.
They were stories about how happy the Boy-Who-Listened would be once he grew up. How people would like him and invite him to simply sit and eat with them. Otherwise they would be stories about how it was his father who did not exist and his mother who was with him, raising him and loving him.
And sometimes, they worked.
And so the Boy-Who-Listened came to dream of beautiful mothers keeping him safe from the monsters, from the blood, from the dwarfs, from evil Scottish monsters that threatened him and a happy life by oceans of starlets that never boiled in a horrible storm.
But then he would wake, realize his dreams, and silently mourn that they were not true.
A/N: Yeah, my strange story.
So, starting with the queen. We mention, in order: The Valkyries, Thor, Loki, Fenrir (Loki's son), Sleipnir (Loki's son), and Sigurd (You might know him as Siegfried). The poem is the Völuspá The Prophecy of the Seeress. The oldest poem of Norse Mythology, written down in the year 1000, but passed down orally before that.
And alright, maybe there aren't hundreds of Starlings on Holy Island now, but I don't know about back then and I have this weird idea that Sir Ivon comes from Margnaheglish on Arran Isle. Don't ask me why. Please don't. And yes, a Murmuration is the actual name and they do look like ocean waves. And I looked up the rules and history of Cammag and Shinty, and that, I swear to you is Bandy Ball.
And indeed, those spirits are all either Scottish or English. I tried to avoid the Irish and Welsh. It gets confusing. I ran into Holy Fish. Holy Fish.
And yes, I know quite a bit about Baghdad of the day, but I didn't want to put too much about medicine and how they didn't draw pictures in mosques in. Too confusing, I thought.
The ballad is "Fair Annie" a traditional ballad that I found written down in dialect. So, yeah. Deal with it. The ballad is the story of a serving maid named Annie who has seven sons, pregnant with an eighth all by her lord and master. He's marrying her sister, after stealing her away years ago. The ballad ends with the sisters realizing this, and the bride going home without consummating the marriage.
And then I was listening to Raggle Taggle Gypsy. Can you guess?
After, the Pixie Kay is the name of my boat before someone about twenty years ago renamed it Lady Cliff. St. Elmo died in the year 303 and was named patron saint of sailors. St. Elmo's fire is plasma illuminating at the edge of tall objects in thunderstorms at sea. The Welsh know them as "candles of St. David" and there are areas in China where it's known as "the fire of Mazu".
So yeah...I hope you enjoyed it.