krákur og olífur

Two crows in the olive trees today, smug that they look sharp against the silvery foliage. Faced with hrafnaskortur, the lesser corvids charm.

Once one has read Njáls saga, one can never get the line about the ravens out of one's head. Njáll finally lets slip his sons---the very dogs of feud, if not war. They arm themselves and head out, and we read that two ravens flew with them all the way.

I wonder what sort of saga would feature crows among the olives, or even crows flying with olive branches. It's an image for a less extreme story, one with personalities less bent on immolation than Skarphéðinn. He champs unbecomingly, for my taste, at the bit of revenge, eager to get himself cast in a latter-day eddic-style disaster. One would think that even an above-average man in a vaguely comparable position might cut a smaller, less ill-starred figure, a crow to Skarphéðin's raven, and that he would fare out, yes, with axe in hand, to be sure, but perhaps with an olive branch in the other.