To Mend the Oaken Heart

Hark my son these words. Cattle die and brothers die, one day we'll die ourselves, but this song of praise will never die of he who has glory gained. So fear not the coming twilight when giants and gods collide, for when once more the steel shines in our hands then truly we are heroes beneath the heavens. It's a fine day to die...

Submitted by SerpentEve — Apr 25, 2025

Out of the South from the deserts of Muspell they came, on their banners the cross of their lord, to bring a new wisdom to green land of plenty, to bring us salvation with fire and sword. They came here to tell us the nature of God, but if their god knew Nature as well as does Wod then would they have still piled our priests high on the pyre and polluted our green land with blood and with fire? They promised great riches and wealth when we die, and forced us to starve and our children to cry; a tenth of our harvest, a tenth of our grain, all of our freedom, get none of our pain; but Nature's the one who did suffer the most as they stole all Her glory with their idle boasts, for they claimed that their god made them lords over all and that all things must bow before them or must fall. Where once our days were timed by hands of Fate and we lived in the balance with plenty for all, priests turned the tables, they b[r]ought the imbalance, they said they should live e'en though Nature must fall; tore down the forests to feed the new millions, used Mother Nature to conquer disease; fools, can't you see, have you no understanding? rose in the cornfield must burn with the weeds. Tied to the stake, is it a dream, some mistake? What's my crime? Will I awake? Am I evil? Have I wronged thee? Fire burns my eyes, sears my flesh, drowns my cries. Skin is black, in twitches it cracks. Is this your mercy? Is this the mercy of your god? Who is this god that I hear you call Satan? Just a figment of Christian mind, yet still you burned kinsmen and women as his. Tell me priest, are you really so blind? Hear the screams of the cat in the basket as the priest hung him over the fire. What was his crime? Where was his jury? Tell me priest? Did fuel your desire? See the wood ring all blackened and barren. "We must burn out this Heathendom haunt". How do you justify wanton destruction? Tell me priest, did the trees your god taunt? You preach that the end of the world will bring your salvation and so you await Armageddon with baited breath, proclaiming to the masters of She who prevents the ascension, and, to fulfil thy desire, you would sentence us all to death. They've planted their seed among us for so long, tis time to root out that which does not belong; only chance left, our world's life to prolong. The harvester's ready, the scythe has been whet, too long have the masses played russian roulette, putting the gun against Earth Mother's head. Hurry my brethren, there isn't much time, gods call for vengeance divine. See that the punishment fitteth the crime. Earth Mother's patience has lasted so long. Be sure that Her fury will be just as wrong. Burn the priest, just as in thy name so many have burned before thee. As many were beaten to death on the wheel then so in their name I scorn thee. Burn the priest for thy time has passed, thy words and thy teaching abhor me, for if you would rally the end of the world then thy world must end before me. The time it has come to light a new pyre, take up thy torches and strike up the fire. Witness the flames reaching higher and higher. Old wood must burn to give way to the new. New shoots grow out from a faith that is true; out from the world which our forefathers knew. For all of our fathers who died at the stake, make the amends for that bloody mistake. This land, once ours, must be ours to retake. Where once the alters [guessed "altars"] of our gods did lie, churches of Christendom rise to the sky. Where once rose flames, now let flames rise on high. Burn the priest, just as in thy name so many have burned before thee. As many were beaten to death on the wheel, then so in their name I scorn thee. Burn the priest for thy time has passed, thy words and thy teaching abhor me, for if you would rally the end of the world then thy world must end before me. Out of the South from the deserts of Muspell they came, on their banners the cross of their lord, to bring a new wisdom to green land of plenty, to bring us salvation with fire and sword. You came here to teach us the nature of God, but your god forgot Nature and you forgot Wod. Now it is your turn to burn on the pyre and our green land will be cleansed with blood and with fire.

Submitted by Iron_Wraith — Apr 25, 2025

Tears for the sunrise, witness of the dawn, awakens the sleeper from his rest, still and warm. Alone he greets the morning, blinks the light from his eyes, turns his face from the vision, to the gods he cries, "Why have you forsaken me enslaved to the unknown? These years of savage plague have left me scarred like ancient stone". Nerthus, Nerthus I cry for thee, mine eyes burn, sorrows grieve. The holy fires of Hel have never crimsoned such as these. Gods of death fathered the children, see them rise. Midst the paling corn, the priest dances deiseil no more. The scythe is raised, it can only fall. Witness of the morning wipe thy moisty eyes. Tis time no more for grieving, time for gods to rise. The corn grows pale and yellow, scythe is honed and sharp, Hunting-moon will waxen as the days grow dark. Now the quick must fall as leaves drop silently from trees, and, cold and still, push up their mounds into the Autumn breeze. Mankind, mankind I cry for thee, mine eyes burn, sorrows grieve. The holy fires of Hel have never crimsoned such as these. Gods of death fathered the children, see them rise. Midst the paling corn, the priest dances deiseil no more. The scythe is raised, it can only fall. With plaited limbs of golden stalks, the ben holds the spirit of the corn. Awaits the Spring, her naked body stripped of emerald, buried, shall be reborn. With golden spears and plumed heads, the master race believed invincible, but gold must bend before the scythe or else to break, to fall so cold and still. And the Earth shall be holy once more. Waiting the season in endless time, I've seen the sunrise and She was mine. No more confusion, darkness brings light; gods are awakened, now they will fight. Mankind warned so many times by vision, word and deed. As corn you grew so tall and strong, but now you've gone to seed. Abred, Abred I cry for thee, mine eyes burn, sorrows grieve. The holy fires of Hel have never crimsoned such as these. Gods of death fathered the children, see them rise. Midst the paling corn, the priest dances deiseil no more. The scythe is raised, it can only fall.

Submitted by BloodShrine — Apr 25, 2025

There once was a maiden who danced on the way, as fair as the Summer sun on Midsummer's day. Her food was the birdsong that played where she ran and her mead was the dew-drops that covered the land. Her cloak, it was coloured the emerald green, and her crown was the sunlight on gold flowing streams. Her love was as wide as the eagles did roam and her heart was the hearth fire that all men called home. But a new king arose in a foreign land; sought to rule the whole world by his conquering hand. Such power and glory he spread in his seed, yet a rose in a cornfield is always a weed. In lust for a new life men abandoned their own, and their swords were the plough by which "good seed" was sown. Alone sat the maiden, such teardrops she cried as she buried her children along with her pride. Now her green cloak they've taken and covered with grey, for its ripped and its torn and its splattered with clay. Her crown it lays tarnished from poisons they've spilled, laid her open wide, let each map take his fill. Yet she longs for the day when she'd once more be free, when those that torment her return cross the sea, or burn in the fires oft foretold of old, for she'll dance on their ashes afore they're ere cold.

Submitted by Immortal — Apr 25, 2025

Birds sang sweet in the silent trees. Two lovers sat beneath their leaves. Gaily we laughed just to hear their song, held tight within the spell love weaves. As children we danced in the Summer sun, red light shone in her golden hair. Her skin was stroked by the gentle breeze, the days passed like dreams without a care. But jealousy grew in their twisted minds. They said witchcraft had made me blind. "Such beauty cannot come from God, devil's child, Daughter of the night". So the soldiers came, took her away. I watched the tears fall from her eyes. She begged for mercy, begged them please. They turned their hands, ignored her cries. Broken as she'd fell from the rafters, hands tied back ripping sinews inside. Numbed to the pain where the needles went and the soldiers who stole her sweet honey at night. What is this creature they drag from the cart? Naked and bleeding, broken limbs hang limp at her sides. Where is her red hair that once held the sun? Shaved and ripped out in the name of their Christ. Only the bruises and cracked dried blood show where her sweet face used to be. Split by a toothless gash, swollen and bloody. Her puffed out eyes have no will to see. Numb from the pain, too weak to stand. The crowd spat and jeered as they dragged her by. They took her and tied her to the log. A solitary tear fell from her eye. The flames licked at her purpled flesh. Blackened, blistering bruises burst in the fire. Not a scream, not a single cry, yet I feel her pain. My heart rides with her on the pyre. And in the smoke which rises from that raging fire I see her face, pure and sweet as I'd remembered. And she whispered to me, "My love, we'll meet again". Ride on the northern wind like a raven, she calls my name. From the raging blaze and the pain she'll rise again. For those who died in the fire we'll take revenge. We'll stalk in the shadows as wolves to slay the lambs of Christ.

Submitted by The Void — Apr 25, 2025

I hear a voice of wisdom called as soft as thunder in the storm. Bringing the glory tales of those who went before. Where once ravens flew. Where honour rode in the faith of the true a Hammerheart would know not fear. With banners shining high and swords, which were drawn to defend. Where once ravens flew. But now this land, this land once pure and wide and free, this land is cursed; faith lost by those who could not see. But still the ancients call, awake the hearts of all who would believe. A voice of wisdom calling us to war. Now rise up, fight, be free. O one-eyed god on your throne in the sky, I feel thy wolves and ravens near. I hear thy son ride upon the storm, the hammer shining as our guide. Arise the sons of northern thrones, Allfather's calling us to war. Fight for our home, this land which once was our. Where once ravens flew. And again ravens fly. Soar into the havens on wings of blackest night, screaming the glories of ancients past they rise from the slumber of ages. Wisdom. Thought. Memory. The call to remember, to reawaken this ancient heart so lost in the passage of time. Ride once more. Ride upon the north wind, caressing the gentle breeze that rages within the storm. Spread wide to catch the wind, to catch the storm. See how they fly once more held high in the faith of the true. And the swords, the swords, raised up again into the vast and blue wide hall of ancient dreams, glinting in the sunlight. See how they shine. See how they glisten. An ocean of shimmering silver steel bathed in the morning light of reborn glory. A Glamour of metal and voices raised high in the hails of our forefathers, the ancient hails to the gods of the north wind awaken, and we, the sons of the north wind, the sons born to these northern thrones, we hail thee. Odin, Odin, Odin, Allfather we hail thee. Ride at our side once more. Reach out with the great and lofty Gar-spear to guide your chosen sons to reclaim our rightful thrones. Ancient thrones. Thrones secured by the blood of all our fathers who now dine in glory at thy side. Thy ravens above us, so beautiful they stand in pride. Honour, glory, victory. This victory ours, Sigtyr. Til death, til glory, til victory, til Valhallr greets us with gates so wide and open, welcoming thy sons to our homes in the sky. Ravens above us, held high in faith that we never fall. And the Hammerheart, the heart that beats so strong and true and constant, never to cease, never forgotten, for we never die that glory gain but to rise once more in splendour beyond the reason of mortal sight, to reclaim these lands once ours' to restore the heart of ages.

Submitted by Morgoth — Apr 25, 2025

O Fortuna, velut t[L]una statu variabilis. Semper crescis aut decrescis, vita detestabilis. Nunc obdurat et tunc curat, J[l]udo mentis aciem. Egestatem, potestatem, dissolvit ut glaciem. Sors immanis et inanis, rota tu volubilis. Status malus, vana salus semper dissolubilis. Obumbrata et velata, midhi quo que niteris. Nunc per ludum dorsum nudum, fero tui sceleris. Sors salutis et virtutis midhi nunc contraria, est affectus et defectus, semper in angaria. Hac in hora, sine mora, corde pulsum tangite. Quod per sortem, sternit fortem, mecum omnes plangite. Fortune plango vulnera stillantibus ocelis. Quod suamichi manera sabtrahit rebelis. Verum est quad legitur, fronte capillata. Sed plerumque sequitur occasio calvala. In fortune solio sederam elatus, prosperitatis vario, flore coronatus. Quic quid enim florui Felix et Beatus. Nunc a summo corrui, Gloria privatus. Fortune rota volvitur, descendo minoratus. Alter in altum tollitur nimis exoltatus. Rex sedet in vertice caveatrainam. Nam sub axe legimus hecubam reginam.

Submitted by Lake of Tears — Apr 25, 2025

As the sun was rising, three maidens flew low from the heights of Asgard to bathe on Midgard below, but as they laughed in the water, their swans plumage cast on the side, three brothers did find them there and took these Valkyrs for brides. Seven winters they rested with the brothers, bound as wives. Love's fire burned deeply, they thought t'would last all their lives, but eight winters found the maidens filled with a longing to fly. On the ninth they once more took their downy wings and soared to their homes in the sky. Fly. Loss took hold the brothers deeply. Long they mourned their swan-maids to return in vain. Gazing to the misty skies from dawn to dusk yet still the sorrow burned, the pain. Egil and Slagfinn took up their skis and journeyed through frost-winds and Nor-winter freeze. Searched over ice-realms, searching for love. Steely grey skies rained down Hel from above. Bleak were the mountains, bleaker their quest for Valhalla's maidens to hold to their breast. Fruitless their search, fruitless their cost. In black pain of winter the brothers were lost. Völund alone, the last of the three, did not depart on this hopeless journey but waited for his sweet Alvit's return. With longing and sorrow for this he did yearn. A master of forge-work and Svartalf craft, he copied the love-band his sweet wife had left; a ring of such beauty and intricate shape, til seven hundred together did drape. Then one night, when home from hunting he returned, he found that Alvit's ring had gone. Filled with hope that his sweet swan-maid had come back his heart began to sing, but he was wrong. Völund slept peaceful, twas the first night since Alvit had skyward on swan-winged flight, yet peaceful his sleep was never to be and soon was awakened by brash reveille. Shackled and bound before Nidud the king, the lord of the Swedes had taken the ring, now also the sword, the smithy's fine blade, forged in magic, with spellcraft inlaid. Völund was led to a neighbouring isle where, humstrung, the captive was forced to toil crafting the weapons and trinkets and rings with hammer on anvil as forge-bellows sing. The fire in the furnace which flashed from the grate was matched by his rage and matched by his hate. The anger and angst was alll he could bear, the smithy was racked with pain and despair. Sorrow was deep, the nadir of life. Gone was his freedom, [and] gone was his wife. And yet, still was hope. Though crippled and wan the fire of revenge would forge in bloodlust's gory plan. Midst the pauses in his labours forged a span of gold and shining wings like his wife's, and through cunning switch reclaimed the sword of magic temper from the king. Now revenge. Völund had waited and bided his time, now Nidud the king would pay for his crime. Into the forge his sons were enticed and soon lay so cold, bereaved of life. Their skulls set in silver fine chalices made and were off'd to the king for the drinking of mead; their eyes and their teeth, fashioned as gems, Bödvild the queen hung at breast as at hems. Donning his wings, the smithy did fly out of the forge and into the sky. Circled the palace and crowed of his deeds, his vengeance complete, his torment now freed. Then onto, Alfheim where Alvit he found and. As smith of the gods, his glory was bound; his magical sword in the Branstock was cast by Odin for Sigmund, its fame to e'er last. And Altheim rings with laughter.

Submitted by Dahmers Fridge — Apr 25, 2025

Tears are shed so many, as rivers they depart. Yet tears alone cannot suffice to mend the oaken heart.