Chapter 2 #2
Brynhildr followed Yrsa down the wooden stairs from her private quarters to the seier chamber on the second level of the tower, where their daily lessons took place.
As they entered the circular room, the crisp pine scent of juniper berries burning in the stone hearth mingled with the briny tang of the sea wafting through the open window which overlooked the sunlit fjord.
Bundles of drying herbs hung from hooks in the wooden ceiling overhead.
Along the oak shelves affixed to the stone walls, ceramic jars of potions and brightly colored vials stood amidst fragments of bones, glittering gemstones, silver charms, and talismans.
In the center of the room, an ashwood table and two chairs awaited Brynhildr and her mentor.
“Fill the silver chalice and fetch the ritual dagger while I select a trinity of gemstones. We’ll offer meadowsweet, myrrh, and mead to invoke the goddess.
” Yrsa sifted through her sacred stones and crystals, choosing one large gem each of amber, garnet, and amethyst. She arranged them in a triangle upon the hearthstones in front of the blazing flames.
In the center of the glittering gems, she placed the small silver dish reserved for burning herbs, inlaid with a trinity of moonstones and etched with a triad of blackened runes.
When Yrsa lit a chunk of resinous myrrh inside the sacred silver bowl, the sweet, exotic smoke curled like supplicant fingers into the fragrant air.
“Toss three juniper berries into the fire. Add three meadowsweet blossoms and three drops of your blood into the chalice of mead.” Yrsa grasped her volva staff, the gnarled ashwood carved with runes, falcons, suns, and swans.
At its tip, a large amber gem encased in bronze filigree gleamed golden in the late morning sun.
When she thumped the staff rhythmically upon the wooden floor like a drum, the reverberations resonated into Brynhildr’s very bones.
The volva’s velvety voice, mellow as a lute or lyre, rose in a melodic chant of invocation.
Brynhildr pricked the tip of her finger with the ritual dagger adorned with sacred amber, letting three droplets of blood fall into the silver chalice of meadowsweet mead.
In harmony with her mentor, she added her lyrical song to the vardlokkur which would summon the Goddess of Seier whom they both worshipped.
“Freyja, golden-eyed goddess, hear our plaintive call.
Wings of swans and winds of fate,
Guide our hearts, attend us now.
Reveal the threads the Norns have woven,
Show the path that we must take.
Freyja, golden-eyed goddess of seier,
Appear before us now.”
Through the open window, a ray of sunlight streamed into the chamber, pooling onto the polished floor.
As Brynhildr watched in wonder, a shimmering female form descended on the shaft of light and floated into the sunlit room.
With a whoosh of wings and a whirl of wind, the ethereal glow evolved into the golden-haired goddess.
Tall and lithe, her falcon cloak unfurled around her, the brown and grey feathers gilded by the golden sun, tinged with iridescent blue fire.
Beneath her majestic cloak, a velvet gown of deep violet glimmered like amethyst gems. Elegant swans, embroidered in golden thread, adorned the low gathered neckline and the fluttering sleeves which swept the floor like graceful wings.
At the base of her slender throat, the amber teardrops of the Brísingamen necklace danced from an intricately wrought, glittering golden chain.
Like a captured sunrise, its radiant glow set Freyja’s long, cascading blonde locks aflame.
And when the goddess’ amber eyes met Byrnhildr’s, seier magic sparked and sizzled in her veins.
“From the shining fields of Fólkvangr, long I have watched you grow. Once a beloved babe, now a spirited shieldmaiden. At last, we finally meet.” Freyja’s silken voice was smooth as her velvety gown.
“Child of shadow and flame, eighteen summers have brought you to this hour. I have come to bestow upon you a trio of enchanted gifts—not merely to celebrate the day of your birth, but to herald the fate that awaits you among the valiant…and the Valkyries.”
Freyja’s falcon cloak rustled, the iridescent feathers shimmering as brilliant light radiated from beneath the layered plumes.
Within the cloak’s luminous depths, a sliver of golden fire emerged as the goddess withdrew a long, gleaming scabbard containing a magnificent sword.
The golden leather of the elaborate sheath was inlaid with amber gems and etched with intricate runes.
“Sólfalkr—the Sun Falcon,” Freyja murmured, sending shivers up Brynhildr’s shaking limbs.
“Forged in sunlight, tempered in flame. No mortal enemy may endure its strike.” With solemn reverence, the golden goddess placed the sheathed sword across Brynhildr’s damp, open palms.
Heart pounding, mouth parched, she accepted the glorious weapon and slid the gleaming blade free.
A falcon-winged guard crowned the sun-kissed steel. Falcons in flight were etched along the length of the enchanted blade, shimmering as if alive. Set within the ornate pommel, a large amber gem carved with the head of a fierce falcon glowed like molten gold.
As Brynhildr gripped the leather-wrapped hilt—intricately tooled with falcons, suns, and runes— warmth surged up her sword arm, like sunlight infusing her blood.
She tested the weight with a twist of her wrist, stepping back to slice the air in a fluid, effortless strike.
The sword moved with her perfectly, already attuned to her rhythm.
“It flows with me,” she whispered with hushed awe.
An otherworldly glow illuminated Freyja’s amber eyes. “As it was meant to.”
When Brynhildr strapped the sheathed sword at her waist, Freyja presented the second gift. “Falkskjoldr, the Falcon Shield.”