Work Text:
When the world was young, power sang through the bones of the earth. It welled up in springs and leapt down from the mountains, racing through rock-clefts in rushing cascades. It rolled in the depths of the sun-warmed rivers and gathered in storm clouds to water the plains. Spirit quickened every green thing and spoke in bird and beast. Together their song was the lay of Erda, and Erda walked among them.
Beautiful as a birch in winter, white of arm and bronze of hair. Then seasons changed and the world's song reshaped her, russet as apples, brown like the doe. Erda attended the sun at her rising and rode through the sky with the inconstant moon. Erda was there at the roots of the mountains, where gemstones whisper in their secret tongue.
Erda knew more than woman can encompass. The fruits of her wisdom were shaped by her womb, then she birthed them alone in the warmth and the darkness, three daughters of knowledge whom men call the Norns.
When the world was young, the gods were closer. When mortal women carded wool, they called upon those wisest of daughters. As they spun their thread, they said many a prayer, and as they wove they made their offerings, all for the favor of Erda's daughters.
Sometimes the Norns would give them answer, in candle flame or scrying pool, in rune cast, mirror, or in dreams, secrets they shared with mortal folk. Seldom did secrets help those seekers: what the Norns see cannot be unseen. Doom cannot be averted.
Freed of her daughters, yet ever connected, Erda roamed the face of the earth. She swam with the salmon, from sea to the spawning ground. With the storks she waded through flooded fields, and flew to their nests, which bless men's farms. She grew roots like an oak and rained down acorns for wild boars to feed upon.
One day as she danced deep in the wild wood, Wotan spied her. Wotan strove ever to discover the secret patterns of living things. Not enough for him to rule the Aesir and govern the giving of oaths among men -- he must hold sway over nature herself and learn to shape the stuff of life.
Wotan spied her: he sensed her wisdom and beheld her beauty with wondering eyes. Stealthily he crept up behind her, then prisoned her arm with his iron grip. "Woman, speak! Who are you that dances so gracefully here in the deepest of woods?"
"I am the black snake who dwells beneath the byre. I am the scent that falls from the linden in bloom. I am the humming in the hive, and I am the she-bear who breaks it open. Would you know more?"
"Tell me all!" Wotan demanded. "Your beauty bewitches me. If you will have me, I'll take you to wife. Come with me to Asgard, where I am the monarch -- there can I show you marvels unheard of by those who dwell in lowly Midgard."
"Wotan, I know you," Erda replied. "Of your marvels, I have no need. I have three daughters, Was, Is, and Shall-Be. All that they see, they share with me. I know how you stole the mead of poetry, creeping snake-like into Suttung's stronghold. I know what you'll whisper in Balder's ear when you lean to light his pyre. All your life is laid bare to me, Wanderer, Spear-Brandisher, Swift-in-Deceit. If you would win me, come back when you're wiser."
With those words, Erda vanished, moving as mist through the bird-haunted wood. Yet heavy was her heart within her; she knew the end of all things, even her own. Wotan would grow in power and cunning, and his restless striving would draw her in. Wotan longed for things impossible, and his longing shaped the world. Erda tasted bitterness -- oh, to be shaper and not the shaped! Yet in the end, all his longing would avail him not. Gods would burn in cleansing fire or sink to sleep in secret caves, but either way, their day would end, and the earth belong to mortal men.
Already, spirit seeped from the world. Spruces were felled for the masts of ships and pines for the roof beams of houses. Things made by men may have their own magic, but they do not sing of Erda.
Earth's waning wearied her. Erda retreated to wilder places, stark and strong in rock and snow.
It was many an age before Wotan caught her. It was she who sought him first, to warn of the evils of Nibelung gold. Erda was cold in her mountain fastness, cold and tired and sick of knowledge. She came to Walhall to warm herself, and to share the poison of her foresight.
Wotan followed, as fate foretold. "Woman," he said, "you wanted me wiser. I found a well at the foot of the World Tree. I paid an eye for a drink of its waters and took a bough to serve as my spear. Wisdom and power these prizes gave me, yet still I was not satisfied. I devised a sacrifice the world had never seen before: I hung myself on the World Tree's trunk and pierced my side with my own spear. Nine days and nights I hung suspended, and received in payment the runes of power. Now I can scry, and I can compel. I know a rune: in the thick of battle, it will blunt the edges of enemy swords. I know a second: no flying arrow can harm the man whom I protect. I know a third: the wind it calms, and puts the foaming waves to sleep. I know a fourth: it looses the tongue of the corpse who on the gallows hangs. All of these, and more besides -- now do you count me wise?"
"My daughters' well waters the world tree. They gave you the runes that they got from me. Use your scrying -- what do you see? Was it worth the price in blood?"
"I see ruin," Wotan said. "I see fire, and the doom of the gods. I reject this! It must not be! I know I see with borrowed sight -- yours is the authentic vision. You must tell me all you know, and in your story I'll uncover the clue that changes our destiny."
"Gladly will I tell you all, and in the end you will regret that ever a word passed through my lips. But it will be too late for you, and bitterness will be your bread and fear your mead for many a year."
"Foolish woman," Wotan said, "the chill of the stones has dulled your wits! Come closer, here, and give me your hand. Feel the power that beats in my heart, and feel the strength that knits my bones. Relentless am I, and passing subtle, and I bend existence to my will."
"I feel the power that beats in your heart, and I feel the warmth that pools in your veins. Lend me your warmth and let me shape it. Let me create a living bond, a child who knits our powers together. Maybe that would comfort me and give me hope for the fate of the gods."
Erda lied. She had no hope. But the child was her choice of fate: her chance to inhabit the fateful events that would bring about the end of the gods. Erda gave birth to her own doom, and she found the child fair.
Wotan later took the child to foster with his battle-maidens. Erda did not weep that day, when she bent to kiss her daughter's hair. Erda sees the ends of all things, and she knows that Earth abides.