Let Me Be

The aviary, which had been rowdy with birds in flight and noisy with their chatter, grew silent as Odin stepped inside. He raised his chin, looking among the many and varied branches at the birds who all now seemed to be sitting, waiting. And watching.

The aviary stretched the length of the south hall of the palace. It was more of a courtyard, really, as it had no roof and the birds were free to come and go. In all his days, Odin had never seen a raven anywhere near the city, let alone in the aviary - yet he knew Mimir had no use for lies. Though he was no god, Mimir knew everything in the cosmos. Odin, desperate for some of Mimir’s wisdom and foreknowledge, trusted that if the creature said to seek the raven in the aviary, then that is what he would do.

He sat on a sun-drenched bench, tucked his cloak around him, and settled in to wait.

Blood dried and crusted in his eye socket and on his face. Matted into his beard. He felt the pain, but he could not let it distract him. The bird might appear and if he missed it, his sacrifice would have been worthless.

And he could not risk being so witless in the future as he had been with Loki. He should have seen what his distance with the child would one day create in the man. He should have known he was not raising a son to rule in his stead. He feared he had instead raised an enemy who would fight him at every turn.

If only he had been wiser.

Dusk fell and a serving girl appeared with a dewed jug of water and a plate of fruit and cheese. Odin waved her away.

Still the birds remained quiet. He didn’t even hear the rustle of wings. It was as if each of them - and there had to be hundreds - were on vigil with him.

“My Lord.” It was Mahria, standing inside the aviary door, a candle in her hand illuminating her beautiful round face and dark waves that framed it. “Won’t you come dine with us?” She took a step forward.

“Hold,” Odin commanded, before the circle of the candlelight could fall over his face. He did not wish to frighten the woman with his appearance.

“My Lord?” Mahria leaned forward, and he could see that she strained against his order to stand, wishing to see him.

“I am all right, Mahria. Please tell the others that I am in meditation and must not be disturbed. I will not take food nor drink so long as I am here. Tell them not to worry - all will be well. But let me be in peace.”

There was a long pause before Mahria finally said, “As you wish.” She turned and exited the courtyard slowly. Odin didn’t know if she turned back to look at him, or if she noticed the eerie stillness of the place, but when she left, he breathed out a long exhale. No one would disturb him now, he knew.

And so he sat there, through the deep of the night and into the gray morning hours. As the sun rose, the heat rose with it, and the flies came to perch on the rim of his eye socket. He made no move to shoo them away. He watched the sky.

The brilliant white sun shone directly down upon him, awakening rivulets of perspiration to slowly make their way down his face, when a shadow fell over him. And another.

Odin peered into the bright sky, but it was too bright, too awash in light for shadows. A single bird chirped nervously from a branch, then fell silent once more.

But darkness blotted the sun before resolving into two shadow-shapes as eerie bird-cries promised magic. Odin stood.

The birds spiraled down into the courtyard. Slowly. Circling. Sunlight gleamed off of their black-as-pitch feathers, making them appear to be crafted of oil, gleaming navy and purple and onyx once again.

After too long staring up into the sunlit sky, Odin blinked to clear his sight - and beheld two large ravens perched on the bare lower branches of the linden tree. As his eyes met their unblinking, endless gaze, Odin’s back arched and pain seared through his eye socket and into his brain. He threw his head back and screamed, an invitation to Huginn and Muninn to join in his cries.

The two ravens, each as large as Odin’s head, circled above him, then alighted on his face. Each tore into his eye socket, plucking at the ruined flesh and devouring it while their claws dug into his cheeks and forehead.

Odin endured it all.

And when it was ended, Huginn and Muninn were his, and he was theirs.

What they saw, he saw. What they knew, he knew.

Power surged through him and it was only then that he allowed his eye socket to be healed. Huninn plucked a feather from atop his wing and offered it to Odin. When the king accepted, Muninn followed his brother.

Odin held the feathers in the palm of his hand and cupped the other over it. In just a moment he lifted his hand to reveal a small black patch, created from his the birds’ feathers, which he affixed over the ruined remains of his eye.

He returned to the bench, eager now for the knowledge he had hungered for, and sent Huginn and Muninn out into the cosmos to see what they could see. When they returned some two hours later, Odin knew what they knew - from the fire plane to the ice, from Midgard to Niflheim - only Helheimer and the very distant roots of the world tree were lost in shadows to him.