Amidst hearty cheers of “Skál!”,a soft melody wafted on the briny breeze floating into the cave from the sea, the frosty chill warmed by the heat of the hearth. With deft fingers strumming the strings of the instrument cradled in his lap, Dáinn plucked a bronze lyre etched with runes and inlaid with amber while Gunnar played a flute he’d crafted from a slender branch of birch.
Dvalinn tapped his fingers on the table, savoring the music and mead. As Dáinn’s rhythm increased, inviting movement, Gunnar—flushed with food, drink, and good cheer—set his flute aside and stood with a lopsided grin.
“Come on, woman,” he said to Inga, taking hold of her hand and pulling her to her feet, his voice rough with affection. “Let’s show our guests how we dance.”
Inga laughed, rolling her eyes as Gunnar pulled her into his arms, the two moving in a simple, rustic step born from decades of life shared together.
As if the air had been loosened, Dáinn enlivened the melody, plucking his lyre even faster. Haldor chuckled when Skjöld, emboldened by music, warmth, and mead, rose to his feet and held out his hand to Skadi.
Graceful and glowing, filled with the joy of freedom and friendship, Skadi accepted his offer to dance, swirling intoSkjöld’s open arms like the waterfall into the pool. Fluid magic flowed between them, with sparks offrostfireflames. As Haldor watched his acolyte dance with the lovelyLjósálfarhealer, memories of dancing with Úlvhild floated into his mind.
The first time he’d met his bewitchingvölva, in Harald Bluetooth’s royal hall, they’d danced with their eyes fixed on each other, spirits mingling and magic merging, just like Skadi and Skjöld. He remembered Ylva and Skårde’s wedding atChâteaufort, when he had swirled Úlvhild in his arms, just as Skjöld held Skadi now. And eight winters ago, when she’d summoned him to Étretat for Haldor to accept Skjöld as his acolyte and train him to become avitki, he’d danced with her under the stars.
Odin’s eye, he missed her. But soon, she’d be in his arms again. Before the next full moon, they’d be together. His body throbbed with longing as he envisioned how warmly she would welcome him home.
Dvalinn’s gusty laugh interrupted Haldor’s lusty thoughts. “There’s magic between those two. Can’t take their eyes—or their hands—off each other.”
“Indeed.” Haldor agreed with a gruff chuckle, eyeing the litheLjósálfarand his obviously smitten acolyte.
“Skjöld resembles his grandfather, King Harald. A blond, burly brute like Bluetooth.” The Dwarven host guzzled his mead and swiped a woolen sleeve across his red bearded lips.
An idea suddenly occurred to Haldor. “You have quite a hoard of treasure, Dvalinn. Might you have a pair of wedding rings that I could purchase? I plan to ask for my lady’s hand when Skjöld and I return to Normandy.”
Dvalinn grinned and rose from the table. “Indeed I do. Enjoy the mead and music. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared down the hall and returned a few moments later, cradling a small metal box in his scarred, calloused hands. With a reverent nod, he solemnly offered it to Haldor.
Forged of burnished bronze which shimmered in the firelight, the sidesof the box were etched with intricate knotwork of loops and scrolls in an endless interlocking pattern. On the lid, a pair of amber droplets which glowed like warm honey were encased on either side by a trio of inscribed runes.
“Open it.” The dwarf’s deep rumble resonated in Haldor’s bones. There was magic in the finely wrought bronze box. And in the treasure which pulsed into his palms from within.
Haldor lifted the curved latch, which was shaped like a sleek cat’s claw. Inside, on a bed of plush purple velvet, two golden rings—each adorned with an oval of polished amber—shone like twin setting suns.
“Freyja’s Eyes,” Dvalinn whispered, as if revealing a secret, ancient spell. “Made from the same amber tears as herBrisingamennecklace.”
A violent shiver rippled the feathers magically marked across Haldor’s back and chest, setting fire to theseiðrfjaðrrune which bound his soul to Úlvhild.
“Freyja will watch over the couple entwined by her sacred bond.” The Dwarven blacksmith ran a thick, charred finger over the glistening amber gems. “When the rings are joined together, her two eyes see as one.”
Haldor examined the exquisite craftsmanship of the enchanted wedding rings. The same trio of runes etched on the lid of the bronze box was also inscribed inside each golden band.
Dvalinn noted Haldor’s intense contemplation of the runes. “Geibo, the gift. For the self you offer each other.Ingwaz,the rooting of souls, like seeds in fertile soil. AndWunjo,the blossoming joy of your sacred union.”The dwarf’s grumble was gruff with emotion. “I forgedFreya’s Tearsin gold and fire, binding them in a trinity of runes. Wedding rings woven withseiðrmagic,blessed by the Goddess of Love.”
Haldor was speechless. The amber gems in the wedding rings were the same tears as in Freyja’sBrisingamennecklace!
Freyja—the goddess who had taken young Haldor as her lover, bestowing him with the power to shift into a falcon and summon winged creatures from the skies. The goddess whom Úlvhild worshipped, whoseseiðrmagic she wielded as avölva, and whom she had summoned to heal Haldor, critically wounded in battle, with the divine magic ofFreyja’s Kiss.
These were theperfectrings for him to wed Úlvhild. Freyja’s amber in sunlit gold, forged in Dwarven flames. Like thefjörúnsigilwhich bound their souls,Freya’s Eyeswould forever seal them inseiðr.
Haldor carefully placed the wedding rings back into the folds of purple velvet and closed the small bronze box, securing it with the cat-shaped claw. He smiled at the tribute to Freyja and thought of Kól, Úlvhild’s beautiful black feline with golden amber eyes. Tucking the Dwarven treasure into the leather pouch at his waist, he withdrew a small bag of silver coins and offered them to Dvalinn. “No coin is worth your priceless craft, but I offer this with deepest honor.”
“Keep your silver,Wingmaster. You summoned birds from the skies and saved my forge. The rings are my gift of gratitude.” Dvalinn’s golden eyes glowed in the firelight as he raised his goblet of mead and nodded to Haldor.
Haldor returned the tribute by raising his own chalice, ducking his chin and locking eyes with Dvalinn as he swallowed the golden mead and savored the warm glow of friendship.
When Dvalinn set his mug down on the table, Inga and Gunnar collapsed on the bench, faces flushed, breathless with laughter. “I haven’t danced like that in ages,” Inga gasped, wiping sweat from her brow.
Lovelight shone in Gunnar’s gruff gaze as he beheld his exuberant wife. On impulse, he grabbed her hand and raised it to his bristled lips, then cleared his throat awkwardly, as if embarrassed by his sudden display of affection.
Inga beamed back at him, her still-youthful face aglow.
