On the slope of a naked rock somewhere in Skaþinawjô – the isles of Skaþis – a blonde, fur-clad man immortalises his memory of Mannus, the oldest Ing. A large manlike shape is engraved in the rock; bloodred in colour, with a large phallus. His hands are stretching toward the sky. Mannus, the son of Tuisto, made sure his tribe survived the cold north together with his sons; Inguz, Herminuz and Istwô. Tuisto’s heart is warmed by the sight of his descendants; he knows the gods are not forgotten. Then – he reasons – there is hope after all, for the coming generations.
Drums of war sound. Warriors are gathered to fight on the Wígriðr plain. Charging men, wolves, ravens and gods, worms and beasts of darkness; the plain is lit with fire. Blood is flowing, bits of flesh, severed limbs, smashed skulls and bodies lie strewn across the plain. Screams cut the air, screams of anger and pain, the sound of metal blades and armour clashing, clubs smashing bodies. Then, for a brief moment, everything stops. It is as if the universe holds its breath. Wuotan has fallen on the Wígriðr plain; swallowed by Fanjarîhô. For a moment the time stands still. For Wuotan; Hail and Joy!
Voices from the spirit world can be heard through the dark winternights, the heartbeats of the spirit. It is the holy twelve days of Yule. Dark shapes can be seen in the sky; riders of death. They suddenly charge down from the clouds in wonderful wilderness; kings and chieftains, thieves and murderers – all in the same phalanx, drifting mysteriously through the air on spirit horses, arriving when least expected. Black shields, furs from bear and wolf, shining blades, open wounds and ropes still tied around their necks; they are Wuotan’s pack of warges, the undead and the dead – the immortal warriors of Ansuzgarda! The werewolves haunt the sacred twelve days of Yule in packs, looking after the living; hail the sacred traditions, hail the spirits of the dead, hail the holy ritual of Wuotan, or face the wrath of the Ansuz and the hooves of Sleipnir. Face the Ansuzgardaraiwô!
Happy men and women follow a trail in the woods. They follow a wagon led by a priest, towards a holy lake. Wonderful colours, dancing happy people, the scene is nature’s love. Dancing along are the thralls, the sacrifice to Mother Earth, this sunny day, dancing along towards a holy lake. Hail to Mother Earth, the thralls are shouting. Hail and joy, before they are strangled and lowered into the lake, happy and smiling, willingly giving their lives to strengthen nature. Such is true love, and it’s strength!
A mother mourns the loss of her son. The most wonderful man in the world; light and shining, fair and beautiful as no other man. Light blond hair, wonderful sky-blue eyes and a skin so fair it shines! Tall and handsome, strong and brave, perfect in all his being. Now he is dead! Silent. Alone. Watching the lands and others from a window up high in the clouds. Cold from sorrow, exhausted by grief; the very little remaining life is fading away. Too tired to move, too mournful to think of anything else than her dead son. The others are preparing the defense of the town, and her husband has left to find the avenger for the killing. Nobody thinks of her, nobody has any time for her. She is left alone, to mourn the death of her son.
The gods have just managed to tie Fanjarîhô to the ground. Tíw lost his right hand during the process; it was the wolf’s security, a guarantee he would not be tricked; but he was indeed. His jaw has been bolted to the ground with a broadsword, and foam runs from his mouth in two rivers. The rivers Wán and Wíl – of hope and will. The gods are laughing in joy, and walk happily back towards their home; the terrible wolf has been rendered harmless. Only Tíw is left, bleeding heavily from the wrist, watching the suffering of the wolf, as it twists its body in torment. He looks into the eyes of Fanjarîhô and sees its very soul, its pain and sorrow; its dreadful fate. Getting up, he walks back to Êrôn to let her heal his wound, stop his bleeding. Now he knows what it is like to see into the eyes of Fire. He will never be the same again, he did not only lose his hand, when on the island with the wolf.
Alone in the night, Frijô is crying; she has been left by her husband who had to leave to fight the darkness of matter. Thoughts of what once was flow through her mind; their play in the green grass and under colourful trees, wonderful fields of flowers, fresh fruits and berries, and beautiful music from the elven choirs. Running waters make them dream, lakes where they bathed, riverfalls and marvelous clouds in the sky. They were happy, they had their Golden Age. Now, all she has left are her Golden Tears, that run from her sky-blue eyes, as a witness to what once was – to what is lost forever; until a New World is born, after Ragnarøk. In the meantime, give our dear Frijô some warm thoughts, to help her through the cold nights.
Hadnur the Blind shot the arrow that killed Frijô’s good and shining son. The gods could not utter a single word when they saw what had happened. He understood that something was wrong, but nobody said anything; not to him nor to anyone else. Not for a while. He started to cry, feeling the terrible loss, but it was too late. Beldegir was dead by his hands. He walked away, alone, to his house, to cry and mourn in solitude. Hated by the others, spurned by the others. He could not help it, he did know what would happen when he shot that arrow. He did not mean to kill his own brother. Hadnur is waiting for the avenger to come, waiting for Woli to kill him. He regrets deeply what he has done, but knows death is the only solution. He will be back when the new world rises from the ashes of the old. Then he will no longer be alone, he will meet his brother Beldegir again, and embrace him in the grass where Wuotan, his dear father, was killed by Fanjarîhô. Then he will no longer be the crying demon.
All stories were written/presented by Varg Vikernes. Translation revised by the Burzum.com staff.