Image taken at the Viking sim of Vinland, within Second Life

Hear this now, hall-folk, while the snow presses its ear to the walls and the year holds its breath. This is a Yule-tale, old as frost, told when nothing moves quickly and everything remembers. Long ago — and also always — the gods learned that not all endings are loud. Some fall softly. Some sleep.

Baldr the Bright was loved by all. Loved by gods, loved by men, loved even by things without tongues. So the Æsir sought to protect him, and oaths were taken from iron and stone, from sickness and blade, from fire and flood. All swore they would not harm him. All but one small thing.

You know this part — you always know this part — Baldr fell. Baldr lay still. Baldr was carried down the long road to Hel. Let my words circle, once, twice: Baldr fell. Baldr lay. Baldr waits.

For the tale never ends there. They say that even in Hel, Baldr does not rot nor rage. He sits in calm halls. He listens. He waits for the world to turn back toward him.

So it is with the sun. Each year she runs her course, bright and weary, chased by the wolf whose jaws never tire. In winter she slips low, hides her face, seems lost. People say she is stolen. People say she is gone.

Oh how I shake my head! Gone is not the same as ended. Hidden is not the same as dead. Under the snow, the seeds lie still. They do not shout. They do not struggle. They wait.

Listen to me proud warriors. Baldr waits. The sun waits. The seed waits. This is why the stories told at Jól do not end in victory cries. They end in quiet. They end by the fire, with hands around cups, with breath fogging the air.

For the world does not break at midwinter. It tightens. It gathers itself.

And when the time is right — not sooner, not later — what waits will rise. Not with trumpets. Not with thunder. But as it always has.