#yule
(THE LONG NIGHT OF THE WILD HUNT)
Under a sky carved from iron and ink,
where frost crowned the barren pines like old kings,
an ancient Norse homestead crouched low to the earth—
roof bowed, timbers groaning,
a lone ember of warmth in a world swallowed by winter.
Inside, the family gathered close as a heartbeat:
Mother stirring a cauldron thick with barley and hope,
Father oiling the bow his own father had carried,
Children pressed like pups against the wolf-fur rug,
whispering of spirits that stalked the long dark.
For tonight—tonight was Yule.
And on Yule, the Wild Hunt rode.
The wind turned first, sharp as a blade,
howling not like weather
but like something ancient remembering blood.
Snow lifted in spirals, dancing upward,
as if summoned by unseen reins.
The eldest child, eyes wide as midwinter moons,
whispered:
“He leads them… Odin rides tonight.”
The Hunt swept across the heavens—
shadows against deeper shadow,
hooves beating thunder into the frozen black.
Flashing eyes of spectral beasts,
hounds slavering with ice-born hunger,
and at their head, the One-Eyed Wanderer—
his breath a storm, his cloak a tempest unfurled.
He sought souls wandering too far from the hearth,
the lost, the foolish, the lonely,
those whose courage thinned with the cold.
The old stories said:
Stay together or be taken.
And so the family drew closer,
arms linked, hearts steadying one another’s trembling.
The rafters moaned as though gripped by giant hands.
Smoke curled and twisted, disobedient to the laws of fire.
The youngest child cried,
and Father held them tight—
“Fear not. No dark thing takes those guarded by kin.”
Yet even he swallowed hard
as antlered shadows passed over the barred door,
and the snarl of otherworldly wolves
shivered the air like cracked steel.
All night the Hunt raged.
All night the fire in the hearth fought its own battle,
sparks hissing defiantly
against the cold that pressed in,
hungry for every warm breath.
But the family stayed knitted together—
a living shield,
a circle of whispered stories, shared bread,
and the stubborn flame of love that winter cannot ****
Hours crawled like wounded beasts.
The storm’s roar softened—
first a snarl, then a growl, then a sigh.
And at last the sky cracked open
with the faintest silver thread of dawn.
As the first light touched the whitened world,
the Wild Hunt dissolved into the thinning dark—
hooves falling silent,
the hounds withdrawing into the unseen forest of legends,
and Odin himself vanishing like smoke
dragged back into the halls of myth for another year.
The family opened the door.
Snow lay deep and glittering,
the world cleansed and breathless
as if newly made.
The air felt bright, sharp—
a blade of morning ready to carve a new season.
They stepped out together—
no longer fearful,
but triumphant.
“We have survived the Long Night,”
Mother whispered,
her voice soft as wool, strong as oak.
And Father, laying an arm around her shoulders, added,
“And because we survived together,
the sun returns to us.”
The children laughed—truly laughed—
their breath turning to tiny dancing clouds,
as the pale gold of the newborn sun
climbed the horizon like a blessing.
Then they feasted,
as all who endure the winter’s trial must feast—
with roaring fire, warm ale,
bread thick with honey,
and the echoing joy of those who know
how narrow the line between survival and sorrow can be.
And on that Yule morning,
their home glowed like a star fallen to earth,
a quiet promise whispered into the stillness:
Family is our hearth when the wild world hunts.
And together, we survive the longest night.
(Epilogue: After the Longest Night)
Morning settled over the homestead
like a woolen blanket warmed by dawn,
softening every hard edge
the night had carved.
The fire had burned low,
but not out—
a single amber eye blinking sleepily
among the ash,
content that its vigil was done.
The family moved slowly now,
their steps unhurried
as if refusing to disturb
the fragile hush
that only comes
after surviving something ancient.
Mother’s hands smelled of juniper and bread,
Father’s hair glittered
with a few last snowflakes
reluctant to melt,
and the children—
finally unafraid—
chased sunbeams across the floor
like kittens discovering joy
for the very first time.
Outside, icicles chimed
a sleepy morning song
as the sun warmed them from within,
drop by crystal drop.
Even the wind,
so fierce in the dark hours,
now wandered softly
like a guest who had overstayed
but meant no harm.
In the gentle glow,
the family gathered again—
not from fear this time,
but from habit,
from love,
from the simple truth
that after every long night
comes a moment
when hearts understand
why they held on.
Father spoke first,
voice quiet as the first thaw:
“This is the gift of Yule—
not just the sun’s return,
but knowing we return with it.”
And Mother added,
“Every winter tests us,
but every dawn reminds us
that warmth grows brighter
when shared.”
The children listened,
heads resting on fur and wool,
eyes soft with that trusting wonder
only found in homes
where love has weathered storms.
Together they watched
the world turn gold—
snowfields glowing like
the robes of gods,
smoke rising gently
from every distant neighbor’s hearth,
each plume a quiet testimony
that other families had endured as well.
And in that peaceful moment,
the night’s shadows faded entirely,
leaving behind only lessons
woven like threads
into the tapestry of the heart:
That fires burn brighter when bodies sit close.
That courage is a circle, not a single flame.
That the Wild Hunt passes—
but family remains.
And so Yule morning blossomed,
soft as a sigh,
warm as shared blankets,
and the homestead—
once a refuge against the night—
became again
a place of song,
of laughter,
of simple, golden living.
For the longest night had ended…
and together,
they had greeted the dawn.
(Hearthside Prayer to the Returning Sun)
O Sun, gentle wanderer
who rises from the far-off halls of light,
we welcome you home.
Through the claws of the long night
we held our fire,
we held each other,
and now we stand in your warming breath
with grateful hearts.
Bless this humble hearth
that guarded us in darkness.
Bless these hands
that worked and wept and held fast.
Bless these small voices
that sang against the storm
when the sky forgot its glow.
Let your golden touch
melt the frost from our spirits.
Let your slow, patient warmth
wake the earth beneath us.
Let your steady path remind us
that even after the fiercest night,
light remembers its way back.
May our days grow longer
with kindness.
May our tables grow fuller
with shared bread.
May our hearts grow brighter
with courage
and the knowing that no winter—
not even the longest—
can break a family that stands together.
O Sun, returning friend,
shine gently upon us.
Guide us into the seasons ahead.
And keep our hearth warm
until you rise again.
(Runic Invocation to the Returning Sun)
ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ, hear us.
Fire-Bearer, Dawn-Breaker, Light-Warden—
return with gentle steps.
From ᚾᛁᚾᛞᚨᚱ, the deep night, we have journeyed.
From shadow’s grip we rise again.
Our hearth has endured;
our kin have held strong.
ᛋᚢᚾᚾᚨ, Sun-Spirit,
your golden wheel turns anew.
May your rays strike frost from the earth,
and your warmth bless the breath of our home.
We carve your name upon the timbers.
We whisper your return into the smoke.
We set our hopes in the embers
that survived the storm.
ᛚᛁᚷᚺᛏ-ᚱᛖᛏᚢᚱᚾ—
Light Returned,
guide our days.
Strengthen our hands.
Brighten the path we tread
through all the seasons of man.
ᚺᛖᚨᚱᛏᚻᛋᛏᛖᚨᛞ, hearthstead,
stand ever warm beneath your gaze.
Let no hunt or winter night
undo the bonds of kin.
O ᛋᚢᚾ, shining soul of the sky,
we greet you.
We honor you.
We rise with you.
ᚢᛚᚲᚨᚱ—
So let it be.
(To the Húsvörður, Keeper of the Quiet Hearth)
In the hush between fire-crack
and soft-falling ash,
you linger—
Húsvörður,
shadow-soft, ember-bright,
watcher of walls and warm places.
You ask for little:
a swept floor,
a whispered thanks,
a bowl of cream left by the coals
when the moon climbs highest.
In return,
you keep the dark corners gentle,
the timbers steady,
the long nights merciful.
We feel you
in the way the fire catches
on the first try,
in the peace that settles
before storms arrive,
in the warmth that clings
even after the embers fade.
Silent guardian,
threshold spirit,
we honor you.
Guide our hands
as we tend the home.
Guide our dreams
as we sleep in its shelter.
Guide our hearts
to care for what cares for us—
the hearth,
the family,
the fragile glow of belonging.
And in return,
sit with us always,
unseen but never unfelt,
faithful as flame,
gentle as breath,
keeper of our quiet world.
(I, the Húsvörður, Speak)
I am the warmth you forget to thank,
the hush that settles after laughter,
the soft weight of safety
that wraps your bones
when the wind claws at the eaves.
I stand where shadow meets ember,
where stories gather
in the rafters’ ribs.
I have watched your mothers,
and your mothers’ mothers,
tend this fire with steady hands.
I will watch your children’s children
do the same.
I do not hunger.
I do not sleep.
I do not wander far—
my duty is here,
woven into beam and stone,
into kettle-steam and winter bread,
into every oath spoken gently
over this hearth.
When the night grows long,
I lean close
and hold the cold at bay.
When you are weary,
I press patience into your shoulders.
When fear shivers through the floorboards,
I whisper calm
through the crackle of the coals.
And when you leave offerings—
a sip of milk,
a piece of bread,
a whispered word of gratitude—
I take them not for nourishment,
but for remembrance.
It tells me you know
I walk with you,
unseen but steadfast.
Guardianship is my gift,
and your belonging is my reward.
Tend the hearth,
tend each other,
and I will hold the threshold
against all that prowls the dark.
For as long as flame dances,
as long as family gathers,
as long as this house breathes—
so, too, do I.
Dec 8, 2025
Dec 8, 2025 at 11:24 PM UTC
The first snowfall of December had come quietly to the little village tucked beside the Norwegian fjord, smoothing the roofs and whitening the bare birches so they resembled candle branches. Inside one such cottage, a young girl named Inga lay awake, listening to the wind paw gently at her window as if it wanted to say something. She was seven—old enough to know better than to believe in fairy stories, but young enough to keep listening for magic anyway.
She shifted beneath her wool blanket and stared at the faint moonlight seeping across the floorboards. Everyone else in the house was asleep: her mother after a long day baking brown bread, her father snoring softly by the hearth, and even the dog curled in a warm circle of fur. Only Inga remained awake, half by accident and half because she liked imagining what might be wandering the snowy world outside.
A soft thump came from the kitchen.
Inga froze. It was not the kind of thump a house makes when it settles. No—this was deliberate, as if someone had stepped inside who did not belong there.
Another sound followed: a muffled grunt. And then something scraping.
Inga pushed aside her blanket, slid her bare feet to the cold floor, and tiptoed out of her tiny bedroom. She crept slowly, one hand brushing the wall, until she reached the edge of the kitchen doorway. The moonlight coming through the window revealed a shape—large, shaggy, and utterly wrong for a kitchen.
The creature was hunched over the pots on the table. A long nose poked out from beneath a tangled beard, and his clothes were patched with mismatched scraps of wool. His boots looked as though they had walked through centuries.
Inga’s breath caught.
She knew that nose.
She knew that beard.
She knew the stories.
“Stekkjastaur…?” she whispered.
The creature jolted as though struck by lightning. He spun around, eyes widening to the size of winter apples. “NO—no, no, no,” he stammered, waving his arms frantically. “You did not see me. I’m… a broom. Yes. A broom that fell over.”
“You’re the Sheep-Cote Clod,” Inga said, stepping into the kitchen with that fearless certainty only children possessed. “The first of the Yule Lads.”
“I am a broom,” he insisted, backing up until he hit the stove. “A perfectly normal broom that is definitely not a magical Christmas troll.”
Inga crossed her arms. “Brooms don’t wear boots.”
Stekkjastaur looked down at his boots, cursed under his breath, and tried to stand like a broom. It was as convincing as a goat pretending to be a teacup.
“If you yell,” he whispered, panic creeping up his long face, “everyone will wake up. And then the whole season is ruined. Mother will say I am incompetent again. I’ll be the disgrace of the Yule Lads. Do you know how long it took to get this assignment back?”
Inga considered this. “So don’t give me a reason to yell.”
He blinked. “What do you want?”
“To help,” she said simply.
Stekkjastaur gaped. “Help? With my… sheep bothering?”
She nodded eagerly. “I know where Old Torvald keeps his wool. And the new lambs came early this year. If you want mischief, I know lots.”
He rubbed his beard. “This is highly irregular. Humans aren’t supposed to help. Humans are supposed to scream, run, or faint. Or all three.”
“I won’t do any of that,” she said. “But I will yell if you say no.”
Stekkjastaur slumped. “Fine. But only for tonight. And only because I cannot be caught again. The others would never let me forget it.”
The next night, Inga stayed awake intentionally. She knew the second Yule Lad arrived on December 13th: Giljagaur, the Gully Gawk. She sat by the window with a blanket around her shoulders, watching the moonlight spread over the snow like spilled milk.
A shadow detached itself from the barn and shuffled toward the cottage. Inga slipped down the stairs and waited by the kitchen door.
Giljagaur stepped inside, stooping so his long limbs didn’t knock over the pots hanging above him. He muttered something about skyr and hiding places and then nearly tripped over Stekkjastaur, who was already rifling through the flour barrel.
“You’re late,” Stekkjastaur said.
“And you smell like you bathed in a sheep,” Giljagaur replied. Then he noticed Inga. He froze. “Why is there a child here? Children are dangerous. They leak secrets.”
Stekkjastaur drew himself up. “She has… leverage.”
Giljagaur stared. “Leverage?”
“If I didn’t let her help,” Stekkjastaur said miserably, “she was going to yell.”
Inga smiled at him, sweet but with a spark of mischief.
Giljagaur rubbed his temples. “This is the worst possible night for this. I came to sneak skyr. Sneaking skyr is delicate work. You cannot do it with an audience.”
“I can help,” Inga said.
“No,” he groaned. “This is not how the Yule Lads are meant to operate. This is chaos.”
Stekkjastaur leaned over. “She knows where the good hiding spots are.”
Giljagaur paused. “Does she?”
Inga nodded. “And I know which pots creak. And which stairs don’t squeak. And where Mother keeps the special winter skyr.”
Giljagaur’s eyes lit up. “The special winter skyr…?”
Stekkjastaur whispered, “She’s very useful.”
Giljagaur sighed in defeat. “Fine. But only tonight. And only because winter skyr is very hard to come by. And because if you yell, child, Mother Gryla will come down from the mountains and chew me out.”
Over the next nights, more of the Yule Lads arrived—each one encountering Inga, each one stopping cold when they saw her, and each one hearing the same explanation from Stekkjastaur and Giljagaur.
Stúfur, tiny and bold, declared it was nonsense—until Inga showed him exactly where the frying pans were polished smooth enough to see your reflection.
Þvörusleikir, the Spoon-Licker, gave a long speech about protocol—until Inga pointed out where the wooden spoons lay drying.
Pottaskefill, the Pot-Scraper, accepted her immediately. “Finally,” he said, “someone who leaves food in the bottom of the ***
Askasleikir, the Bowl-Licker, sighed but agreed. Hurðaskellir, the Door-Slammer, loved her enthusiasm. Skyrgámur, the Skyr-Gobber, considered her a genius.
By the time Bjúgnakrækir, the Sausage-Swiper, arrived, the others had already briefed him. “Don’t worry,” Stekkjastaur said. “She’s on our side.”
“I don’t have a side,” Bjúgnakrækir said. “I just have sausages.”
Still, he let her help.
Gluggagægir, the Window-Peeper, nearly fainted when she tapped him on the shoulder. Gáttaþefur, Doorway-Sniffer, said her scent was “small human mixed with pine needles,” which Inga took as a compliment. Ketkrókur, the Meat ****** recruited her immediately. Kertasníkir, Candle-Stealer, said she was an ideal accomplice.
Through all twelve nights, Inga played with mischief—not harmful mischief, but curious and gentle pranks. A rearranged cupboard here, a mysteriously vanished sausage there, boots turned backward, yarn braided into the shape of dragons.
The villagers muttered that the Yule Lads were especially active this year. Things went missing, lids clattered, shadows moved at the edges of lantern-light. No one suspected a small girl was helping orchestrate it.
The Yule Lads, for their part, were astonished. “A human child,” they whispered. “A partner. A little accomplice.”
And Inga adored every second.
But on the last night—when Kertasníkir slipped his candle into his sack and the brothers began their trek back toward the mountains—Inga felt a tightness in her chest she could not explain.
Kertasníkir paused by her door. “You cannot tell anyone,” he said softly.
“I know.”
“Because they will not believe you. And disbelief is a kind of un-magic.”
She nodded, throat tight.
Stekkjastaur patted her awkwardly on the head. “You were… surprisingly competent.”
“That’s the closest thing he has to affection,” Giljagaur muttered.
Inga smiled.
One by one, they trudged into the night, their shapes blending with the snow and shadows, their laughter echoing faintly against the mountains.
When the last of them disappeared, the cottage felt unbearably ordinary.
Inga closed the door gently and whispered to the darkness, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”
And she never did—not because she feared they’d get in trouble, but because she knew the truth:
No one would believe that on twelve snowy nights, she had run wild with mischief alongside the Yule Lads themselves.
Nov 29, 2025
Nov 29, 2025 at 5:48 PM UTC
December comes
with its horses covered in frost
owls mixed with the wind
when winter knocks at the doors
Lowering clouds
that brush up against life
dry wood
a fire that dances
and an ancient song
that sounds in the night
It’s us waiting
devouring the heat like ripened fruit
between the branches that touch the sky
there the blue dream of the snow
Nov 16, 2025
Nov 16, 2025 at 2:07 PM UTC
Your sugar dust dances,
Falling in wisps and whirls onto the carcass of summer;
And that silent breath, like the ghost of a kiss,
Shadows under ill-lit street lamps.
Where toes dig deep into woolen blanket
And the body's fire is the only reprieve from your reaching icicles
I shall slip a smile to these rose petal lips and welcome your cold embrace
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 5:59 PM UTC
granule
a glint
then, in love
a grenade of sunlight
the morning is sharply taken
bathing off of shots from the reflective snow
Dec 26, 2022
Dec 26, 2022 at 10:01 AM UTC
Blessed be the Bleak Black Skies
Where wintry winds wind far and wide
For fairest fairies heaven’s vault ignite
– My mind meandered whilst outside.
“Beware Beloved boy!” – Babushka bawled
“Lest your sleigh slides down the sleety lake
Come quick inside to escape the cold
Except my heart this Yule you yearn to ache”
Seven summers since have passed
And adamant as I always am,
Torpefied are my toes atop the tarn
Yet bare-bodied I be
Showcasing my shivering sheath
Red cheeks, red nose, and red feet
Keen to knuckle under Kári’s decree
So, I submerged myself swiftly
Below Boreas’s biting abode
Concealed in the coldest calmest of waters
Within Winter Wonderland’s whitest
For that freeze that forces you to fathom
that Corpses can’t feel the cold
Feb 9, 2021
Feb 9, 2021 at 5:23 PM UTC
While the softest snow falls on boughs evergreen,
Glittering white, untouched and pristine.
Through forest and glen the four winds do blow,
Whispering Yule song on the wings of a crow.
Over rooftops and chimneys, curling with smoke,
Where inside the hearth's log is sure to be stoked.
As merry men dream, tucked away in their beds,
The rays of morning begin to shed.
And the hushed spell of night is slowly undone,
The land is a prism beneath morning sun.
Glistening, radiant - a sight to behold,
A crisp winter scenery starts to unfold.
Dec 22, 2020
Dec 22, 2020 at 2:10 PM UTC
Soft, knit sweaters
And piping-hot tea
Make for very toasty weathers
And cozy times for me.
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 12:15 PM UTC
By: Reuben Paredes
Oh, Christmas I’ve seen you in my past,
Were my childhood, innocent is instill,
Like a child waiting for the present,
Until, I unwrapped my gift and felt content,
As I smiled and keep enjoy at will,
In hoping that each memory may lasts,
How is different the feeling to be a child?
With the cold wind, blown in wild,
And imagine, the tidings in tenderness mild,
Would it be the same today?
Of the glimpse of my youth is gone,
In zenith of Yule, may I salvage of my heyday,
Will my shout of hurrah! Is enough and done,
Whatever will be the tomorrow brings,
May the Old Christmas Carole will be hear and sing,
Like a wind chimes that sounds serene,
Be the light in my eyes to be seen,
Let, your bright star, be shine above,
And be the lambent light, glows in our beloved.
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
Christmas is here! Time for good cheer!
Once more the best time of the year!
TV programmes; same old! Same old!
We love them! Stick with what we know.
The season we’re celebrating;
All year long we have been waiting.
Eating food we don’t have to make
From scratch. Nor do we need to bake.
Shops sprinkled with white Christmas dust;
All things sparkling! All things a must!
Time for fun, for laughter, for joy!
From “on-line” get the latest toy.
Buy in haste, regret at leisure…
Toys that give us short-term pleasure.
Turkeys vote for Christmas, we know…
Brussels sprouts, and all things that grow.
Life is “hard labour” thro’ the year;
Comes Christmas, pop champagne, not beer!
Heston’s puddings have all sold out;
“That is a nightmare!” some may shout.
Christmas passed. New Year comes around…
Is snow lying thick on the ground?
We have survived another year;
Very soon ‘Springwatch’ will be here.
Creepy crawlies and birds that sing,
Showers with the first buds of Spring,
Lambs frolicking, pretty flowers grow…
Also, weeds that we did not sow…
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC
I have a silver castle in the sky
One day, we will visit it, you and I
We will sail down the river, gently row
Eyes affixed on my castle, from below.
My beautiful castle is shining bright
Surreal and surrounded by mist at night
We will keep rowing until morning dawns
We will haul in nets of shimmering prawns.
My castle in the sky is very far
We will never reach it by boat or car
But in my mind it will always hold true
All is possible at the time of Yule.
In dreams my castle can be anywhere
Wherever I wish it, it will be there
Between you and me, no one else should know
My dream castle is made of ice and snow.
In my dreams I should also let you know
Castle walls glisten with silver and gold
Dreams of castles in moonlight all aglow
Piled sky-high with treasure and wealth untold.
Can I tell you, while I am feeling bold
Sadly, comes dawn, there is nought to behold
All the same, dream I will and dream I must
Tho' at dawn, even castles turn to dust.
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 4:49 AM UTC
i'm glad that this is the shortest day of the year
because it means i will spend minimal time awake
and minimal time thinking of you
as if the two have become synonymous over the years
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 10:13 PM UTC
Kinder Yule
The darkness is nearly over
Days begin to be lighter
Celebrate into the night
Winter solstice into the light
Day breaks party on
Celebrate all that is good
Ideas flow
new stuff to grow
Soil to be loved
Plans are made
Celebrate earth
Less is more
I am armed with my kindness
Am having a kinder Yule
Hoping to spread it to you
Peace on earth and a kinder world
Kindness rules
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 1:31 PM UTC
Festooned with the heraldry of doom,
a gilded, wainscoted room,
whose occupants drink ale in an oozing swarm
while harpers harp a solemn tune.
The lioness gives obeisance to the new king
with an offering
of suffering,
and warm droplets of water...
Two fates inseparably soldered
by misfortune,
on this, the longest night
then toward the light
and not beyond.
Again, backwards, repetition, turning.
A yule tide with no pull
from the heavenly orb, burning.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC