“A triad of sigils, a trinity of gems, a trio of runes…set in gold and silver, etched in bone. Truly a magnificent gift.” She reverently returned the dagger to Sigurd, who sheathed it in the golden scabbard at his hip.
“I shall use it on the morrow at dawn,” he said, sweeping Brynhildr into his arms and twirling her near the roaring fire. Across the grassy meadow and along the pebbled path leading into the village, festival stalls filled the night air with the scents of grilled skewered meats, spiced cakes, leather goods, and burning incense, mingling with the salty sea breeze from the fjord.
When she lifted her curious gaze and searched his eyes, Sigurd added, “For the blood oath that Agnar and I shall swear.”
He led her away from the boisterous crowd, across the flagstone courtyard where the shadows were deeper and the firelight dimmer. “I shall need a silver goblet for the mead…and the blood. Do you have one in theseiðrchamber where you study with thevölva?”
“I do indeed.” She cast a cautious glance around the courtyard. “Myfaðirmust be negotiating a bride price with King Eirikr for Princess Dagny,” she said, noting the absence of all three monarchs. “Ulric Ironshield—my weapons trainer—is smitten with Gyda, the lovelydóttirof Jarl Siggtryg.” She nodded toward her burly guard, who was dancing and laughing with the dark-haired beauty. “And my maid Astrid is mad about Helgi, a warrior from the rocky coast of Rogaland.”
Brynhildr grasped Sigurd’s hand and tugged him toward her tower. “Come—let’s disappear behind the wall of thorny vines.”
Clusters of dried, fragrant herbs hung from metal hooks in the wooden ceiling of the circularseiðrchamber. Shelves mounted on the stone walls displayed a vast assortment of ceramic jars, colored vials, and stoppered flasks. Gleaming feathers, polished bones, and glistening crystals were gathered amidst gemstones, talismans, and charms.
“Hold this for me so I can see.” Brynhildr handed Sigurd the lit torch.
He hovered the flame over her shoulder, casting light across the shelves in the darkened chamber while she searched for the silver chalice.
“Here it is,” she exclaimed, retrieving an elaborate goblet etched with ravens, sunbursts, and runes. Along the rim, amber gems glittered like droplets of molten gold. “We’ll bring it to my room.” She nodded toward a wooden stairwell near the rear wall. “Those stairs lead up to my chambers—or down to the covered walkway which connects this tower to the fortress on the ground floor.” She flashed him a breathtaking smile. “Let us go upstairs. All night long, I have yearned for you. I cannot wait a moment longer.”
* * * *
While Sigurd placed the torch in the metal sconce upon her wall and stoked the embers in the hearth, Brynhildr removed her silver crown and garnet necklace, laying them on the table alongside the silver chalice. As she slid off her leather boots, he strode across the floor and wrapped his arms behind her back, pulling her against his chest.
She melted when he claimed her lips with his own.
“By all the gods, your beauty steals my breath,” he murmured into her open mouth. Sigurd deftly unlaced her bodice, sliding her gown and underdress to the floor. With a wolfish snarl, he lowered eager lips to her aching nipples. As he traced his tongue over theouroborosringabove her left breast, themark of the dragonwhich bound their souls pulsed in rhythm with her throbbing loins.
His ravenous eyes roamed over her nude body as he quickly shed his clothing. In the moonglow and starlight, the sight of his arousal—standing high and ready to penetrate her—made Brynhildr’s legs quiver and her knees weaken.
“Theouroborossears my skin whenever you are near…” he whispered, suckling her neck and shoulders. “It burns when our eyes meet…each time I think of you…and fire engulfs me in flames.” His calloused hands caressed her skin, his lips following reverent fingertips, making Brynhildr whimper withwant.“My body yearns for you, but so does my soul. I need you… like water and air.”
He led her to the bed, laid her gently down, and knelt over her. Softly at first, his warm lips brushed hers, his tongue penetrating while his fingertips stroked her breasts. When he suckled her nipples, making her moan, he parted the blonde curls between her trembling thighs.
“I hunger for your taste.” He lowered skilled lips to her tender folds, lapping and sucking as if she were a succulent treat. “I must have you,” he groaned, flipping her onto her belly.Strong hands gripping her hips and tilting them up, he plunged into her with a deep thrust. His guttural growl rumbled right into her bones.
He pounded her flesh, moaning as if in pain. Slipping a finger between her thighs, she rubbed the sensitive nub in rhythm with his pulsing thrusts. When the waves of ecstasy crashed over her, Sigurd impaled her like a spear. As he convulsed in release, filling her with a fountain of seed, the contractions of her climax extracted it all.
Panting with exertion, he swept her long hair aside and kissed the damp skin between her shoulders. “The pleasure was intense,” he whispered, caressing the nape of her neck with reverent lips. “Theouroborosburned as my seed spewed forth… as if I were filling you withdragonfire.”
Sigurd laid down at her side and pulled her close. Themark of the dragonglowed like molten amber upon his thundering chest.
“I felt it too… theouroborosbranding me with your mark.”Brynhildr took his hand, placing his fingertip upon the golden ring which pulsed above her pounding heart. “Each time our bodies join, we share our souls…and theseiðrwhich binds us grows ever stronger.” She cradled his hand between her own and raised it to her lips. As she pressed a fervent kiss upon his palm, she confessed her greatest fear. “When you triumph over Agnar tomorrow…I must face you in the final duel on the summer solstice.”
Tears welled as she gazed into his fierce lupine eyes. “I cannot wield a weapon against you…you are part of me. And I cannot bear the thought of victory or defeat. For if I should prevail, I lose you. And if you defeat me, I shall not ride as a Valkyrie. There is no outcome but sorrow.”
Sigurd cradled her upon his chest and wrapped her in brawny, comforting arms. He kissed the top of her head,smoothing her tousled blonde braids. “You are the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden, and I am the Sea Wolf of Sjóborg. On the summer solstice, we shall face one another in the final challenge — and embrace our fate with glory, honor, and valor.”
He kissed each of her fingers, feral eyes locked on hers. A warring blend of sorrow and joy etched his blond bearded face. “Come,” he said softly, rising from the bed. “We must return.”
Heart constricted with impending loss, Brynhildr donned her crimson gown and silver crown, while Sigurd dressed in solemn silence.
He laced up the back of her bodice, strapped on his sword and golden dagger, and taking her hand in his, led her back to the jubilant feast.
* * * *
Pale pink and gold dusted the dawn sky as Brynhildr slipped into a deep green linen gown, the hue of the forest of Hrafnfjall. She fastened her light blue silk cloak—the color of the dim sky over the icy fjord—with the raven brooch, its lapis lazuli eyes mirroring those of Sigurd’s snarling wolf. And the deep blue of the wild northern sea.
I wear the colors of Nature. Land, water, and sky—a sacred trinity to stand as solemn witness.
