Intro
(Iðunn! Iðunn!)
You didn't notice me — until the apples were gone...
(Hu-ha!) Gods growing grey before the third grey dawn —
Hands shaking at the mead-bench — something wrong —
(Iðunn!) The one who kept them young was gone too long...
Verse 1
They call me gentle — that's the first misreading —
Gentle is what holds the wound from bleeding.
Gentle is the hand the nine worlds keep on needing
When the alternative is every god receding.
I keep the eski — the small box — ash-wood, plain —
Inside: the apples — gold — the gods' domain.
Each one eaten — each one grown back again —
The mathematics of my function — simple — sane.
Óðinn eats — the one eye clears another decade —
Thor eats — the hammer-arm stays strong — no muscle fade —
Freyr eats — the harvest-light stays gold, ungrayed —
Every god in Ásgarðr runs on what I've made.
They feast and scheme and forge and fight and never
Once consider where the youth comes from — however —
Let three days pass without the apple's tether
And the gold-roof hall starts looking like bad weather.
Pre-Chorus
Loki met Þjazi in the eagle-shape descending (shape descending)
Made a deal to save his skin — my life the spending.
Told him where I walked — the orchard at the bending
Of the ash-grove — come alone — no one defending. (uh!)
Chorus
They didn't guard me — didn't need to — until they did (until they did!)
The apples gone three days and every god slid (every god slid!)
Grey hair at the mead-bench — that's what my absence bid (my absence bid!)
Iðunn holds the age of gods inside the lid! (Hu-ha!)
Verse 2
Þjazi took me north to Þrymheimr — eagle-wings —
The same hall Skaði came to claim for her own things.
He thought possession of the keeper brings
The apples with it — that's not how the function sings.
The apples aren't the gift — I am the knowing —
The tending — the renewal — the constant sowing.
A box of gold fruit without the hand bestowing
Is just fruit — aging — rotting — never growing.
Back in Ásgarðr — three days — I watched it happen
From the mountain: Óðinn's beard gone white and ashen.
Thor's grip loosening — Freyr's glow gone cracking —
The gods discovered what I was — through what was lacking.
Loki came in feathers — Freyja's falcon-gift —
Transformed me small — a nut — the carry-lift —
Þjazi eagle-shape behind — the desperate drift —
The gods lit fires at the wall — that's how they shift.
Pre-Chorus
Loki met Þjazi in the eagle-shape descending (shape descending)
Made a deal to save his skin — my life the spending.
Told him where I walked — the orchard at the bending
Of the ash-grove — come alone — no one defending. (uh!)
Chorus
They didn't guard me — didn't need to — until they did (until they did!)
The apples gone three days and every god slid (every god slid!)
Grey hair at the mead-bench — that's what my absence bid (my absence bid!)
Iðunn holds the age of gods inside the lid! (Hu-ha!)
Bridge
You want to know what it means to be essential?
(what does it mean?)
Not the sword — the sword is consequential.
(not the sword...)
Not the throne — the throne is preferential.
(not the throne...)
Essential is the thing without credential.
No rune carved in my honor on the warrior's blade —
(no rune...)
No skald composed my saga while they feasted in my shade —
(no skald...)
No kenning naming Iðunn in the old trade —
(no kenning...)
Just the quiet work the whole immortal age was paid.
I came back from Þrymheimr in a nut-shell flying —
(in a shell...)
Landed on the wall-stones — gods around me crying
(landed home...)
Not from grief — from seeing what the grey was implying —
(they saw grey...)
Three days without the apples — gods were dying.
I opened the eski —
(opened it...)
Passed the apples down the bench — one — by — one —
(one by one...)
Watched the white hair darken — watched the shaking done —
(color returned...)
Watched the nine worlds' power source come back to the sun.
(Skál to the keeper! Skál — she held the age still!)
(Iðunn's apples kept the gods alive against their will!)
Drop — Instrumental
Chorus
They didn't guard me — didn't need to — until they did (until they did!)
The apples gone three days and every god slid (every god slid!)
Grey hair at the mead-bench — that's what my absence bid (my absence bid!)
Iðunn holds the age of gods inside the lid! (Hu-ha!)
Outro
(Iðunn! Iðunn!)
The eski is still open...
(Hu-ha!)
Every god in thirty-five songs
stayed young enough to speak
because of a small wooden box
and the one who tends it.
You never thought to ask.
(You never had to.
That was the point.)
