Disablót: The Night of the Wise Women
The wind that night was still, as though the whole world held its breath. The fire crackled low, its light painting long shadows across the stones. The air was thick with the scent of herbs—mugwort, meadowsweet, and juniper—offerings for the Disir, the mighty women who walk between the worlds.
Long ago, when the threads of fate tangled and the path ahead grew dark, Wayfinder Odin sought the wisdom of one who could see beyond time. Not a king, nor a warrior, nor a God’s counsel would do—he needed the sight of the Völva, the seeress who had been buried long before his time.
With his staff in hand and spells upon his tongue, Odin rode to the edge of the world, to the burial mound where she lay. He chanted runes over the Earth, his voice low but heavy with command.
"Wake, Wise Woman. Speak to me of what is, and what shall be."
The ground trembled, and from the deep came the voice of the Völva, slow as the turning of the seasons, strong as the roots of Yggdrasil. She rose, pale and cold, her eyes seeing through both the worlds of the living and the dead.
She spoke not only to Odin but to all who had ears to hear: of beginnings and endings, of the weaving of wyrd, of the fall of Gods and the rise of new days. She spoke of the Disir—the mothers, grandmothers, and foremothers who stand unseen beside their descendants, guiding hands and whispering warnings.
Odin listened, drinking in her counsel as though it were mead. He knew the price of such wisdom: it would weigh upon him. But knowledge was the coin of the Gods, or at least of Odin, and he would pay for it gladly.
When her voice faded and she sank back into the Earth, Odin stood alone beneath the dim starlight. Yet he did not feel alone—around him, in the rustle of the wind and the flicker of the firelight, the presence of the Disir could be felt. They had heard. They would remember, and share what they had heard with their Kin when it would be of aid to them.
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At Disablót, we call to the mighty women who came before us—mothers of blood and mothers of spirit, women of wisdom and will. Like Odin before the Völva, we seek their guidance. We lay out food and drink for them, we speak their names, and we listen for their counsel in dreams, in omens, in the quiet between heartbeats.
We say:
“Hail Mothers and Grandmothers, Hæl and well ancestors.
You are the breath on the wind. You are the smoke in the fire.
Share with us your wisdom, So we may live well.”
For the Disir are never truly gone. They whisper in the flames of our hearths, their voices echo behind our thoughts, they spin for us visions to light our paths forward.
The End.
