On her other side, Lugh snapped his pale head toward her in alarm. “What is wrong?”
Dread darkened Elfi’s bright face. “Thetrollkorsflared hot asFaðirpassed.”
Skjöld glanced at the sword, its Elven steel a dull glow in the gloom. Thegildirgem in its hilt, once radiant withLjósálfarlight, was now veiled in grey clouds like tarnished quartz.
“Faðir, wait!” Elfi cried, rushing forward to stop Thorfinn from lowering the blade into the earth. “The Count of Soissons is allied with theDökkálfar.I fearGaladirhas been tainted by their darkness.”
She spoke to Lugh, standing silent amongst the trees. “You forgedGaladirfor mybroðir.And your Elven Mirror castsLjósálfarlight to reveal what hides in shadow. Please tell us what has defiled Dag’s beloved blade.”
Lugh bowed his silvery head and withdrew the moonstone mirror from his emerald green cloak. Radiant light shimmered beneath its otherworldly surface as he held the enchanted glass over the Elven sword. “I glimpse the crimson-eyed witch… and Gúldur, who forged the accursed spear which slew Dag. And the dagger that nearly killed Úlf.”
The great grey wolf growled amidst theÚlfhéðnar,his anger echoing across the glen.
“TheDökkálfar Blacksmith of Dorestad, whom I killed withÚlfsongr,in the Battle of Ísland… fulfilling the prophecy with my father’s Dwarven sword.” Njörd’s feral gaze was as fierce as his white wolfskin cloak.
As murmurs rippled through the trees, Thorfinn clutched the corrupted blade, panic spreading across his frantic face. His voice quavered, rough with grief, as he implored Lugh with desperate eyes. “Can you cleanseGaladir, so that I may lay it beside my son?”
Lugh’s radiant smile lit the dim grove like moonlight through mist. “What was forged in light can be purified of darkness.I shall restoreGaladirto its pristine form.”
Lugh secured the Elven Mirror inside his elegant cape, removed his deep green gloves, and tucked them into his leather belt. While Thorfinn heldGaladiracross his outstretched palms, Lugh wavered long, slender fingers over the cursed sword, murmuring in ancient Elven tongue.
Swirls of black smoke slithered like snakes into the night air, foul with the stench of rot and ruin. As if summoned by the protective wards guarding the grove, a cleansing gust of saline breeze from the nearby sea swept the sinister shadows from the hallowed forest.
“I have removed theDökkálfardarkness, but only theLjósálfarLord of Starlight may restore thegildirgem.” Lugh turned to the copper-haired Light Elf standing in the gathered crowd. “Please imbue the stone inGaladir’shilt with radiantLjósálfarlight.”
Ildris emerged, robes silver as moonlight on snow. Within his luminous hand, sparks of white fire sizzled, as if he wielded the light of the stars. When he whispered words of ancient Elven wisdom, thegildirgem set inGaladir’sornate hilt pulsed with power. Brilliant starlight radiated from his otherworldly palm and poured into the stone like molten silver.
Elegant scrolls and etched runes in the Elven steel glistened in the moonglow. Thegildirgem in the intricate hilt of theLjósálfarsword dazzled with iridescent flame.Galadirflared with new brilliance, shining like frozen moonlight, radiant as a frosted star.
Long, silky hair shimmering like spun copper, Ildris bowed his noble head to Lord Thorfinn. His deep, rich voice was smooth and mellow as a harp. “Now it is worthy to lie in peace beside your valiant son.”
With the solemnity of a king laying a crown upon a tomb, Thorfinn lowered the restored blade into the earth beside his fallen son. The gleaming steel nestled gently into the dark soil, runes aglow, thegildirgem catching the starlight like frozen flame.Thorfinn’s solemn voice carried the weight of a sacred vow. “Dag’s courage and light endure in thisLjósálfarblade andin our grieving hearts. Now that my son’s stolen sword has been restored and returned, may his spirit rest in peace beside it, within the sanctity of this sacred grove.”
Elfi was the next to approach thehaugrwitha grave gift for her fallen brother. “Dag taught me to play his whalebone flute,” she murmured, cradling the carved keepsake in her pale hands. “Since his death, I’ve often gone to the waterfall cave of the Mermaid Cove, where he and I used to swim as children. There, I played this melody as a tribute to his valor, hoping it would honor him in Valhalla.”
She looked down at the ivory relic, her lips trembling with emotion. “Tonight, I play it for the last time…and return his beloved flute, so that Dag may play it for theAllfatherand theeinherjar.”
When she lifted the flute to her lips, the pure, plaintive notes—crystalline and clear as a freshwater spring—filled the sacred grove with a haunting elegy for her valiant brother. As the final note faded, she knelt beside the grave, wiped the tears from her crumpled cheeks, and lovingly placed the whalebone flute on the bed of soft furs besideGaladir.
Bjarke escorted Oda, her gnarled hand gripping the sore hip that plagued her as she hobbled forward to the open slice of earth.
“I stitched this for Dag,” she choked, her frail voice laden with sorrow.
With Bjarke’s help, she laid a folded tunic of deep blue wool, stitched with shining silver thread, into the shallow grave.
“That he might wear it in the golden halls of Valhalla, where no cold can reach him, but where hisammastill worries for her grandson’s warmth.” Oda patted the tunic once, as if smoothing it over Dag’s beloved chest, then let Bjarke gently guide her back.
Jarl Rikard offered a thick silver armband, etched with runes. Skårde placed a fine silver ring with a stunning emerald stone—the colors of his heraldry as theDragon of Normandy—for the slain hero of Étretat. Njörd’s gift was a Byzantine dagger from Miklagard, its bone hilt carved into the snarling head of a wolf. Bjarke—Dag’s closest friend—placed an elkhorn adorned with amber beads so Dag might enjoy his mead in the afterlife. Varg, the castle bowyer, set down a fine yew bow and quiver of arrows. And Skjöld proudly laid the driftwood—gift of the Norns—into which he’d embedded a lapis lazuli spirit stone for Dag, the first mentor who had taught him the blade.
Now that the final gift had been laid, and silence settled over the grove like sacred mist, Thorfinn spoke, his weathered face aglow in the starlight. His reverent voice resonated with conviction. “Dag has been honored with the return ofGaladirand the offering of sacred gifts.” He looked down at the open earth. “Now we lay him to rest.” He knelt beside the grave, and with his bare hands, scooped up the fragrant soil of the sacred grove. “Sleep well, my son,” he whispered.
The dirt fell softly over the furs and gifts.
Each family member and close friend added a handful of earth over the grave. Bjarke and Varg—who had fought and bled at Dag’s side—covered thehaugrwith their bare hands. When the soil was firmly packed, everyone placed a stone and whispered a blessing, until the burial mound lay cloaked in a quiet armor of remembrance, each rock a mark of love and fond farewell.
The sixÚlfhéðnarlifted their wolfskin-cloaked heads, and a single howl split the silence. The lupine tribute to Dag rose high into the starry night sky and the hush of the sacred grove.
Shrouded in soft light, Lugh—theLjósálfarblacksmith who had forged Jarl Rikard’s swordAragil, Skårde’s swordDuradrakk, and Dag’s Elven bladeGaladir—approached the grave, his silver blond hair shimmering in the moonlight. His ethereal voice was smooth as wind over still water.
