From Winter Is Coming, and No Election Can Stop It
If all of this is a law of nature, then what’s the point of doing anything? If winter comes no matter what, why not draw the curtains and wait for the dark?
The answer to that is in ancient poetry.
The Norse had Ragnarök, and named the run-up to it the Fimbulwinter — three winters with no summer between them, the season when kin turn on kin:
- The wolf-age
- The axe-age
- The sword-age.
Hidden in a wood, Hoddmímir’s holt, which the wise have long suspected is the world-tree itself, two human beings shelter while the world burns. Líf and Lífþrasir: Life, and the one who clings to life. They live on nothing but the morning dew.
When the fire has burned itself out and the long winter finally cracks open, they walk out of the wood, and everyone alive after them descends from those two. The land comes up green out of the sea. Wheat grows that no one sowed.
So there is work to do, and the work never stops in the winter. Nobody in any of these stories could stop it, and the ones who said they could were selling something. The work is to be the seed; the thing that comes through the reset because it was never leaning on the thing that is collapsing.
That is not voting harder, btw.
Voting harder is grabbing a spoke as the wheel goes over. The real work is older, quieter, and mostly unseen.
You keep the memory alive on purpose, because forgetting is the engine of the whole descent. You hold a few people close against the wolf-age.
You carry the old stories down into the dark, so that whoever climbs out the far side still knows what a king was — still has the word for the thing we are all half-grieving — and can build it again instead of only missing it.
We have done exactly this before. It is the only thing that has ever worked.
So look honestly at the hour. It is late autumn.
The man on the white horse is real, and he is coming. But his name will never be on a ballot, and he may not arrive in our lifetimes.
Between now and the rider, there is only the wood, and the dew, and the seed. Be sure to tend it for your descendants.
Roth Note: It’s our turn on the battlefield. We will not survive this time of monsters, this dying of the world. Our mission is to protect the knowledge of truth, tradition, and the ways of our ancestors. Our mission is to leave a remnant for our descendants. A new world is coming. Therein lies our confidence.
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