Went back to old roots for this week's upload. Been day dreaming a lot, about myths that never were. Hope you don't mind joining me for a different kind of story.

There once was a realm stretching from coast to coast, with deep rivers running like veins throughout. That land had been carved so by Tibjörn, that king of kings that never wore crown nor title. Wherever ships sailed, people hailed the name of the one so beloved by victory. Yet all men fall and so too did Tibjörn. Living long enough to build a realm upon which he stood taller than the skies, he was at last collected by the winged shieldmaidens. Perhaps because the gods themselves eventually came to see their halls within the grasp of the ever ravenous white bear.

Upon his death his cubs were summoned to Tigorð, although their father had lived far longer than enough to see his cubs forged in his image. In truth they’d already ruled their lands as kings in all but name. Five, there were. Yet only four arrived. Balder, the most fair of Tibjörn’s sons, had fallen from his ship and been embraced by the cold currents. According to the tales of old wives in Geldbyrg, where Balder had built his seat, he had gone to greet his father.

Four sons now stood in front of the great mound in Tigorð, eager to finally feel the weight of the crowns that they already wore. Within the mound awaited the last hall of their father. Above them, his grim visage in stone yet judged them. The greatest horde the world had even seen stood beneath them. They were the true cubs of Tibjörn, their many voices bellowing for their lords to give their father the proper rights.

As was custom, Tibjörn’s sons entered the mound to give offerings and ask for blessings from both their father and their gods. They then exited and stood in front of the endless mass of men-made-beasts, greeted by their roars celebrating those coming glories and victories. 

The oldest son, Sigulf, was the first to raise his crown and put it upon his head. He would be blue king and sit in the seat of his father in the high hall of Tigorð.

Then Tapper raised his crown and pronounced himself white king.

After him Frej, the twin brother of Balder, would raise his crown and claim the black realm.

Lastly there was Dyre, the youngest son of Tibjörn. He raised his crown, greeted only by his own meager horde of wayward second sons, for he was king of the green realm.

Balder’s sons would divide his lands amongst themselves. These lands they called the grey lands, because they laid in between the white and the black realm. Since Balder went the path of his namesake, the grey lands would become the wrestling ground of the white’s, blue’s and black’s and forevermore chained to the white hold of Varbyrg, Sigulf's Tigorð, or the black temple fortress of Fryhof.

With their father laid to rest within his mound atop the hill and their crowns laid to rest upon their proud heads, the now kings swore the ancient oaths of brotherhood and so forth. Yet they all journeyed back to their own lands drunk on the sweet whispers of greatness. Sigulf sat upon his father’s seat, his father’s shadow banishing the light from the hearth.

There were now many crowns.

There should only be one. 

Tags: week 5 2026, View by:in_bocca_al_lupo