Chapter 3
Born of Two Realms
A thrill rippled up Brynhildr’s spine.
Freyja has foreseen that I shall ride with the Valkyries! Yet…if my faeir gives me away as a prize to the champion of the tournament, how can I possibly fulfill my fate?
“Freyja, Goddess of Seier, I am humbled by such generous gifts.” Brynhildr ran appreciative fingertips over the intricately etched falcon stretched across her golden corslet, gesturing to the magnificent sword sheathed at her hip and the falcon shield gripped tightly in her left hand.
“I am honored to bear the name Sun Falcon… and awed that you have foreseen a Valkyrie’s destiny for me. ”
She laid the shield against the wall and turned to face the glimmering goddess.
“But my faeir, King Budli, has offered my hand in marriage to the winner of the Sólhjarta Tournament, to be held on the Summer Solstice two moons hence. If I am destined to become a Valkyrie, I must refuse to wed the champion.”
Freyja’s tone became sharp as steel. “Never defy a king’s decree—even if he is your faeir.
” She strode toward the open window and gazed down at the sunlit fjord, long blonde locks flowing like molten gold to her slender waist. “Your refusal would dishonor, humiliate, and enrage King Budli—which would, in turn, draw Odin’s disfavor upon you. ”
She turned back to look at Brynhildr, a mischievous glint in her amber eyes. “Rather than humiliate him,” she suggested, her tone coy and playful, “offer instead a thrilling challenge—one that will lift his honor high and wreathe him in glory.”
A triumphant smile illuminated Freyja’s radiant face. “Tell your faeir that you will marry the champion… but only if he is a man without fear—one who can defeat you in single combat.”
Freyja glided toward Brynhildr. Long, luminous fingers traced her cheek and lifted her chin so she would meet the goddess’ golden gaze.
“With the enchanted gifts I have just bestowed, no mortal man may defeat you. You shall be the champion of the Sólhjarta Tournament. Odin’s ravens, Huginn and Muninn, will carry word to the Allfather of the invincible Sun Falcon Shielmaiden…
” She smiled, her limpid voice soft as moonlight.
“And you, dear Brynhildr, shall rise to ride with the Valkyries.”
Brynhildr’s fingers lingered on the hilt of Sólfalkr, tracing the falcon head etched into the glowing amber.
Her appreciative eyes lingered on the glittering golden corslet molded to her body and the glorious falcon shield leaning against the wall.
The triad of gifts Freyja had bestowed pulsed with power and promise, and a surge of seier sparked through her veins.
For the first time in her life, Brynhildr reveled in the full weight of her own strength—and the freedom it offered.
No mortal man could claim her. No king—not even her faeir—could alter her fate.
Curiosity burned within her, born of the goddess’ earlier words.
“From the shining fields of Fólkvangr, long I have watched you grow. Once a beloved babe, now a spirited shieldmaiden…”
Brynhildr lifted her gaze to Freyja, whose golden eyes glowed with otherworldly light. “Goddess of Seier… why have you have watched me since I was a babe?”
Her heartfelt question hung heavy in the salty, sunlit air.
A wistful smile curved Freyja’s lips, and a shadow of sorrow dimmed her radiant face. Her whisper broke the solemn stillness.
“Because you are my dóttir.”
Pulse pounding, mouth parched, a bewildered Brynhildr tried to make sense of Freyja’s incomprehensible words.
Her mother, Queen Helga, had died giving birth to Brynhildr.
Freyja’s claim could not possibly be true.
Could it?
“My móeir was Queen Helga,” Brynhildr stammered, her mind racing as fast as her heart. “She died giving birth to me, eighteen summers past.”
Yrsa quietly fetched the silver goblet from the hearth and placed it on the ashwood table. Her voice, soft as a summer breeze, floated through the stunned silence. “Come… sit together and share this chalice of mead.”
Golden eyes locked on Brynhildr, Freyja gestured for her to be seated before sliding into the opposite chair. The floral fragrance of meadowsweet and the heady aroma of honey mingled with the scent of myrrh from the silver dish near the hearth.
“It is true that Queen Helga died giving birth to a dóttir,” Freyja murmured, raising the silver chalice to her lips and taking a small sip.
“But her babe had already perished in the womb, which also caused Helga’s tragic death.
” Freyja passed the chalice to Brynhildr and nodded, encouraging her to drink.
Brynhildr stared into the amber liquid where a trio of tiny white meadowsweet blossoms and three droplets of her own blood glistened in the golden brew.
Heart thumping against the golden corslet, legs shaking inside the amber leather, she lifted the silver chalice with a trembling hand and swallowed a mouthful of mead.
“Yrsa was the midwife who wrapped the stillborn babe in clean white linens, buried her quietly in the sacred grove, and presented you as the surviving child to the grieving king.” Freyja took another slow sip from the silver chalice.
“I had foreseen that Queen Helga would succumb in childbirth…and that her dóttir’s life would end while still in the womb. ”
The goddess passed the elaborate goblet back to Brynhildr, the amber beads in the etched silver glowing like golden suns.
“A seier vision had revealed that I would bear a king’s dóttir, destined to become a Valkyrie.
My child would impact the lives of humans and therefore needed to be raised as a mortal within the realm of Midgard.
When the Norns showed me that the queen of Hrafnfjall would die in childbirth along with her babe, I foresaw the chance to conceive my dóttir and have her raised by a noble human king. ”
Sorrow warred with splendor in Freyja’s golden gaze.
“When I visited King Budli in the guise of a lovely human concubine, I enchanted him so that he would not remember me—or the intimate encounter. You were born three weeks before Queen Helga gave birth. I had the heartbreaking joy of nursing you at my own breast and cradling you in my own arms… until the inevitable moment when I had to give you up.”
Tears glimmering on her luminous face, Freyja tenderly caressed Brynhildr’s cheek.
“Yrsa found a wetnurse in the village. From my hall in Fólkvangr, I watched you grow, waiting for the turn of your eighteenth summer to bestow the triad of enchanted gifts. Now that I have made you invincible in battle, you will draw the Allfather’s gaze… and rise to ride as a Valkyrie.”
Brynhildr’s pulse thundered in her ears. Astonishment, exhilaration, grief, and awe tumbled through her all at once.
Freyja is my móeir!
The seier goddess whom Brynhildr and Yrsa both worshipped had given birth to her, nurtured her, and watched over her from the divine realm of Fólkvangr.
She now sat in Brynhildr’s private chambers of her faeir’s clifftop fortress, revealing the incredulous truth of her divine heritage—and the incredible destiny of her foretold fate.
I shall ride as a Valkyrie!
Freyja’s ethereal voice floated to Brynhildr on the salty spring breeze. “You are born of two realms, dóttir min. And your deeds shall ripple across both.”
The golden goddess lifted the silver chalice, where the tiny blooms in the amber mead circled the droplets of Brynhildr’s blood like pale stars around a trio of glimmering suns. Brilliant light shimmered as she rose from her chair, her mellow voice resonant with otherworldly power.
“To blood and destiny intertwined, and to the fateful path that shall mark both mortal and divine.” Freyja brought the chalice to her lips and took a small, reverent sip, savoring and sealing the sacred bond between the goddess móeir and her Sun Falcon dóttir.
She offered the ornate goblet to Brynhildr with outstretched hands.
Legs trembling inside the bronze leather, Brynhildr arose on unsteady feet.
Her golden corslet glittered in the sunlight as she accepted the amber-adorned silver chalice etched with ancient runes.
Breathless with anticipation, she stared into the swirling blossoms and blood in the meadowsweet mead.
Inhaling deeply, she lifted the shining vessel and drank from the rim touched by her móeir’s lips.
As Brynhildr swallowed the sip of sacred mead, Yrsa gripped her volva staff, pointed it at the silver chalice, and murmured a blessing under her breath. “So it is fulfilled,” she whispered with a knowing smile. “Móeir and dóttir, bound by blood and fate.”
Freyja’s gaze softened. She clasped Brynhildr’s hand with warm, luminous fingers.
“Dóttir min… you shall triumph as the invincible Sun Falcon at the Sólhjarta Tournament, and the Allfather’s gaze will fall upon you.
When he calls you to rise as a Valkyrie, I shall stand beside him.
” The piney scent of juniper and the exotic spice of myrrh wafted in the golden mist which shimmered around the iridescent goddess.
“And when he does, I shall return to you once again.”
With a radiant smile and a whoosh of wings from her shimmering falcon cloak, Freyja floated from the sunlit chamber on a wisp of salty wind.
The silver chalice glimmered in Brynhildr’s trembling hands, the promise of destiny and divine heritage burning bright in her Sun Falcon heart.
Yrsa’s voice interrupted Brynhildr’s reverie. “Let us return to your chamber so I can help you out of the enchanted armor. We’ll wrap the corslet and leather pieces in linen, and tuck them safely inside your wooden trunk.”
Brynhildr followed her mentor up the stairs, back to her private quarters on the third level of the tower overlooking the turbulent fjord.
Yrsa leaned her ashwood staff against the wall, retrieved a large swathe of cream-colored cloth, and returned to unfasten the clasps at Brynhildr’s shoulders and back.