Stavanger Bay Frigga bless me

he was a thousand warriors. he was one hundred kings. he had seen the nine worlds. he had lived upon yggdrasil. he had dined with odin at his table. he had run with freyja in her field. he had lived countless lives. in death, he was limitless. memories of all his lives remained in tact. all of those lessons. he was enjoying a feast with his brothers. retelling the glories of all their lives and all their deaths. but perhaps he had partaken too much. the edges of his vision began to slip. his memories grew harder to reach. there was a burning in his lungs.

there was nothing.

and then he was floating. warm. he did not think. he did not remember. he was only warm. suspended in space. unaware of the beings that were nestled close. his every need was tended. he did not know suffering. he was unaware even as the sacs so close to his own disappeared one by one. it was only until his body was being squeezed that he remained so content and oblivious. then, he began to twist and rebel against the interruption of his comfort.

there was a burning in his lungs. his tiny mouth instinctively gasped as the life-giving sac was cleansed from his body. he did not squall. he was the last. he was the youngest. perhaps a runt. but he did not know this. he only knew the instinctual desire for food. he sought the warm of the body that had forced him into this life. it did not matter if there was no room for him at his mother's teats. did not matter if the way was blocked. he would determinedly clamber over them. push his way through them.

it did not matter what he needed to do. he would latch upon a teat. he would feed until his tiny body was full to bursting. and then he would sleep. a thing that was not so different than wakefulness. except that in his dreams he would remember.