A Giant's Beanstalk

[caeso]

WE ARE THE MYTH THE WORLD CAN NOT BE ALLOWED TO FORGET



"I am Hrimnir, son of Glipnir, son of Heimnir, son of âelpnir,"
"Alfnir, son of Vafnir, son of Mjolnir, son of Folknir, godson of the godson of Great Uniter, Grimnir,
who is son again of the First Blood and Ymir, and so it was written in blood and gut-augur."

"and I am the last of my fashion.
when I look beyond the great cliffs and peaks;
there are my blood, my flesh, but I do not see in them what my Father saw in them
we have lost the savagery of a beast and the strength of a myth that mankind once feared

that Giants are not larger of flesh, but greater in spirit and strength;

that we made no quarter and accepted no equal in any measure
that we have been softened and fattened by city life and indolence

but I do not forget his name."

"Scarecrow, Big Bad Wolf;
I did not expect you.
But now I do not write that last fable alone.
I had thought I would die quiet in the night.
My bones ache. I hunger. My body eats itself.
But with you, the moon seems closer in reach.
I will plant my beanstalk, and I will watch it grow.
And one day, I will reach the Moon."

[caeso]

"My son, why do you hide your face in fear?
Father, do you not see the Erl-King?
The Erl-King with crown and cape?
My son, it is a streak of fog."

WHEN I WAS A BOY
MY FRIENDS WERE
BATS AND BEASTS
WOLVES AND CROWS
AND EVEN
AN ITSY BITSY SPIDER

AND THEN I MET A GREAT BIG DOG
WITH SUCH FIERCE TEETH THAT I THOUGHT HE MIGHT EAT ME
AND SUCH A LOUD VOICE THAT I DIDN'T NEED EARS TO HEAR HIM
AND SUCH A FIGURE THAT I DID NOT NEED EYES TO SEE HIM

AND MY LITTLE CROW PECKED OUT MY EYES
SO I COULD SEE NO EVIL
AND WHEN I HEARD HIS VOICE, HE PECKED OUT MY EARS
SO I COULD HEAR NO EVIL

BUT THE OLD MAN
SAW RIGHT THROUGH ME
AND FOR A MOMENT
IT FELT SO GOOD
TO BE UNDERSTOOD

mister scarecrow

the big bad wolf

friend crow

and little red

and now the old man, erlkonig

giants weren't meant to write stories

we were meant to be the ones who were written about

then who am i?

[caeso]

"First and last of the fashion;
the dying gasp of a myth.
the memory of something that goes bump in the night.
the taste of flesh and copper is thick on my tongue;

tonight, they have been taught that the woods are not their friend."

"I crave their lips to whisper my deeds.
For word to spread of the wildman, with his broken body.
His broken fingers, his whispered words;
his stooped back and ugly eyes and dumb face
pupils bulging like a bugs, ribs like a skeleton;

not by my name; because to them, I am not Hrimnir, son of Glipnir, son of Heimnir, 

But as bogeyman. As the writer of fables. As Grimm.
As something that restores the fear to the wild, and makes Mothers tell their babes not to open the door when they hear a voice from the woods;
that a father threatens to feed their child to when he misbehaves, and once upon a time, the one who is blamed when a man simply vanishes from the world.

Of how I bid demands thrice, as is the old way;

how they squirmed and fought and kicked and screamed.

How full I felt when they collapse under me, throat hoarse from howling.

When I sate myself no more with beasts, but the blood of man."

"Even in this, I am not alone.
Little Briar Rose, and your sleeping beauty.
Your eyes bulge like mine.
Your flesh crawls with ugly things.
Your skin writhes when you move.
How you waxed about how you would have killed me.
You are a monster, like me, and you are my friend."

[caeso]

THE END OF THE BEGINNING

My round table.
Huddled neath my beanstalk.
You are not mine, but you have become me.
Because in every great work, there is something of the author.
And through them, the author will always be immortal.

Some call themselves dogs.

Scarecrows.

Spiders.
Hatters.
Tin Men.
My Little Riding Hood.
My Briar Rose.
My Cheshire Cat.

And beyond them, the godsons of the Erlkonig; the one who gave me my muse.

Upon my left hand, a crow, Diavol, whose mysteries are still to be learned.

to my right, a nonsense bird - Jubjub, whose yolk is still unbroken.

In damnability alone do we share any qualities.
I look at them with their smiling faces.
Their talk of families. Of packs. Of loyalty's meaning above all.

Is there something missing in my heart, to have lost the tree for the forest?
I'm not doing it for them.

I'm not doing it for my people, anymore;
the Giants who have grown fat and indolent and are soft at the gills.

I'm not doing it for my oldest friend;
whose designs lay in the service and yolk of dark masters and ascension there-through.

Then who am I doing it for?
Is it my own vanity?
Or is it what I told you that night?

That Might isn't the strength of your arm.
But your strength to compel fate's hand by any means?
No: rather not. I do what I do because it entertains me, to see it all in motion.

Our story has come alive, and I'm just here to watch it play to the next note.

The next time I'll have the time to write something like this, my world will be a much different place.

Goodbye, journal. I will be glad to be free of my aching hands.

The only lie I told you was my name.

I've always been Grimm, I reckon.

And I am so much closer to reaching the moon.

[caeso]

The page is heavy in my hands, and the little characters in my head have gone away.
Were you ever real, Alice? Or were you just a fiction created by my restless mind?

 

We have not known the comfort of a dream since the distant memory of Hrimnir, and that now feels like so very long ago. Some trade their souls; others, their sanity and flesh. I, however, gave you the unwoven spool of my subconscious, the succor of my restful dreams. To pray in service that you could sleep sweetly, and never have to wake up to see the reality of this ugly, wretched lie of a world beyond the fairytales I wrote for you. 

 

Have you been entertained, my Son? I think I can almost remember what your face must have looked like, now; in the world where you were born, and not just another of the memories that exist in my head, but not in the world we walk in.

When I stepped outside the door, and I found the depth of the blackness, and I spoke to the Man in the Wall;

when he spoke through me and used the flesh of my neck as a marionette, turning me into a doll, I realized;

 

that not even is the Void alone free. This reality and all products of it are ultimately constrained by our understanding of them. That what we see and believe is our reality; that circumstances are subjective. Perhaps, then, if I believe hard enough: I can bring you back to me. I can forget that Lyseroth has betrayed me, that Idair and her pack of Wolves have outgrown me, and that all of the people I loved and cherished have vanished quietly into the sweet night without a word.

When I was a boy, I promised I would touch the Moon.
And now that I have, I cannot remember why I ever wished such a thing:

but I regret and mourn all that I can no longer remember losing along the way.

Maybe, if I steal someone else's dreams.
Maybe, if I keep pushing forward.

I can remember what it means, and cure this wretched Writer's block.
Wonderland is no more than a memory on my lips.
Captain Hook: will you help me find my Neverland instead?

Or maybe I'll just die.
Or, maybe, I never really existed at all.
Who dreamed me into existence, if I imagined you?