Bindings: A Poem for Inner and Outer Fenrir

by Raven Kaldera

Fenrir3

The Hag of the Iron Wood had three children,

And the daughter was death,

The son was destruction,

And the third encircled the world.

 

It is cold in Niflheim, in your cell

Beneath the stone, where you hate me

Redly in your dreams. I am your prey, again and again,

Not out of love but rage, for what I have done to you.

Yet better you take my dreamself,

However deep the wounds,

Than ravage another. I will not hide behind those I love

When the Great Wolf comes; take me, bite off my hand,

Limit and cripple me,

Make me bleed and weep,

Make me remember, every day after,

When I reach instinctively and fall ever short,

The price of my honor,

And still it will be worth the price.

 

Mountain’s roots.

 

Your feet are chained, predator of the sun,

With the chain made of six impossible things

That you may not run free in the world

And drink slaughter. I know what you would do.

Your lies cannot convince me that you would

Ever be harmless. Nor would you fight for the good.

There is no way around this trap.

You threaten me with terrible things,

Should I shut the door on your cage,

But I will not be moved by threats. The worst you can do

Is hurt me, and should you be free,

That would come of its own at any rate.

At the bottom of the mountains are the caves

Where dwell black things, evil that never sees the light,

The place where you hide from your mess,

And leave me to the binding of wounds

And tearful recriminations. There I chain you,

And there let you lie on damp stone

Beside the echoing trickle of underground rivers.

I will bring you food and drink, what meager stuff I can,

Heavy with the drugs of fantasy and dream,

And you will not die, but only sleep

And chase the sun in dreams. It is kinder this way.

 

Beard of a gentle woman.

 

Your phallus is bound, son of the fire,

Most male in a family of slippery genders.

All penetration is good to you,

Cock ramming home into screaming hole,

Teeth slicing through skin,

Tongue gouging into arteries,

Muzzle ripping into the softness of a curving belly.

They are all to be taken, save you

Who never yield yourself up in that way.

You have no color vision, wolf-child,

All is black or white, and you are black,

And that is that. I will not let you forget

The wound, the castration, the inescapable fact

That there is more than man in this body,

Whether you would have it so or not. I bind you

With the symbols of the third, your sister-brother,

Who lies like your coils of chain around the world.

Lust will not stir you. It is kinder this way.

 

Spittle of a bird.

 

Your jaws are bound with sleep, you whose teeth

Would rend and tear the very sun.

I sit with raven’s spittle in my hair

And sing a croaking song, one that will lull you

Perhaps imperfectly, but well enough for now.

Like the soft music that whines everlastingly

From the radio on the prison’s death row,

Soothing each angry man to sullen apathy,

I will sing to drown out your growls

And remind you that I have not forgotten you,

Even if you must be bound. It is kinder this way.

 

Footfall of a cat.

 

Your howl is bound, singer whose voice

Turns the blood to ice, freezes the prey

Where it stands unblinking, paralyzed.

Silence rules outside your cell; your whimpers

Will not be heard by others.

Nor will your terrible words of seduction,

Your razor-sharp tongue that cuts and lashes.

You will not lure in any others

To crouch and reach timidly between the bars.

They have no key to let you out anyway,

And their finger-bones are not yours to gnaw on,

Like smug trophies in the back of your cell.

Nor will you hear their voices through these walls,

But only velvet stillness. Nothing will

Disturb your sleep. It is kinder this way.

 

Breath of a fish.

 

Your sniffing nose is bound,

Hunter, tracker, chaser of prey;

For when you are free, none escapes its keenness.

You run the trail close behind,

They can hear your panting, the pounding tread

Of your sharp-nailed paws, and their breath

Catches in their throats. Only water,

River or stream, breath of the fish that swim therein,

Can foul your tracking, foil your lethal purpose,

Make you howl in confused rage at the riverbank.

So I surround you with the river of my tears

That you might not be waked from your sleep

And go springing at the bars, only to fall

Choking on the cold stone. It is kinder this way.

 

Nerves of a bear.

 

Your endless strength is bound,

Your tireless seeking of new throats to catch.

There is but one thing greater than the Rokkr warrior,

Snarling beast of the pack,

Jotun blood in your veins turned to werewolf,

And that is Odhinn’s bears of rage

Who go into battle impervious to pain and wounds.

So must I be impervious to your cries

And never touch the door. You will make certain

That I share that pain, whether I will or no,

But it must never sway me

Lest I come to pity, and in your world

Pity is rewarded only with death.

For I too love you, Wolf - how could I not?

And it tears my heart to bind you,

But there is no other choice. The bars must be strong

And close together, and you must rest,

Close your wild golden eyes,

And not dwell too much on the reality

Of your prison. It is kinder this way...

 

...at least for you, if not for me.

 

(For Fenris must be chained

Or Chaos will be King.)

 

Artwork by Maurice Mosqua.