Chapter 11 #3
Everyone knew that the Sea Wolf and the Sun Falcon were madly in love.
And that fate would wrench them apart.
Brynhildr opened the balcony doors overlooking the starlit fjord. Moonlight bathed the circular chamber in lustrous silver light.
Sigurd stoked the fire in the stone hearth and added another log, coaxing the embers into flickering flames. When he turned to her, Brynhildr’s forlorn face bore the same sorrow which clenched his heavy heart.
She took his calloused hand in hers and pressed a reverent kiss inside his palm.
With tender fingertips, she soothed the burning skin of the new falcon tattoo that Kveld Nightwolf had inked upon his forearm.
When she reached up and stroked his bearded cheek, he could see in her mournful eyes that she struggled to find the right words.
“Freyja is my móeir,” she whispered, tracing a tuft of blond hair on his knuckle with a reverent thumb. “She came to me when Yrsa and I summoned her.”
Tears welled in her wide eyes as she gazed up at him.
“I had always dreamed of becoming a Valkyrie… had foreseen my fate in a seier vision. When my faeir announced that I would wed the champion of the Sólhjarta Tournament, I was furious that he would hand me over like a sack of silver. So I agreed—but only if the winning warrior could best me in battle.”
She glanced at the golden corslet, sheathed sword, and falcon shield carefully stored upon the wooden trunk at the foot of her fur-covered bed.
“Yrsa and I summoned Freyja, to ask for her divine guidance. And the goddess appeared, bearing this trio of gifts.” Her lips quavered as she forced a sorrowful smile.
“Freyja had foreseen that she would bear a king’s babe— a dóttir destined to become a Valkyrie.
She visited my faeir to conceive me, enchanting him so he would not remember.
When his wife died in childbirth along with her stillborn babe, Yrsa was the midwife who swapped me. ”
Brynhildr’s frantic gaze searched his. “I never knew Freyja was my móeir, and Yrsa was sworn to secrecy. When the volva and I invoked the goddess to ask for her aid, Freyja bestowed the trinity of golden gifts. She said that no mortal man could defeat me…but I knew you have the wolf blood of Odin…and you, my beloved Sea Wolf…though you could have disarmed me, you chose not to strike. And placed my glory before your own.” Overcome with emotion, she covered her crumpled face and sobbed into her hands.
Sigurd gently pried them away and brushed his lips against hers.
“I could never strike you,” he whispered into her parted mouth.
“When I saw your golden wings, I knew… I could neither rob you of glory… nor deny you the victory that would make you a Valkyrie.” He kissed the tears which streaked her cheeks, pulling her into his arms. “Though I longed to win your hand, I could never make you my wife by striking you.”
He traced his tongue along the seam of her lips. When she moaned and melted against him, he plunged in to probe her delicious depths. As desire and desperation flooded his veins, he deftly untied the back of her bodice and slipped her blood red gown to the floor.
With frantic fingers, she lifted the hem of his blue tunic, which he removed and tossed onto his Blárúlfr cloak, laid atop the wooden table. He quickly shed the rest of his clothing, standing his úlfblóer sword against the wall next to hers.
She unplaited her golden braids, the long locks tumbling like a sunlit cascade to her slim waist. When she stood nude in the moonlight, the soft wind from the fjord stirring her blonde hair, her ethereal beauty stole his breath, scattered his thoughts, and struck him blind.
He swept her into his arms, settling her upon the soft furs. “At dawn, you shall ride into the sky, and I shall sail across the sea…yet we shall always be together—bound in body, breath, and blood.”
Sigurd worshipped his beloved Brynhildr with reverent fingers, lips, and tongue.
He sampled the sweet skin on her neck and suckled each pink nipple, her whimpers of want driving him wild. When he tasted the tender flesh between her sleek thighs, the irresistible blend of salt and sweet—like golden mead and the glorious sea—was more than he could bear.
He parted her legs with his knees. Positioned himself between her lithe thighs. Sliding his rough hands beneath her soft hips, he plunged into paradise.
She wrapped her limbs around him, pulling him deeper inside.
He pumped her warm depths, the thunderous wave cresting quickly. When she shuddered in release beneath him, crying out his name in sweet surrender, Sigurd poured himself into Brynhildr.
Seed, seier, and soul.
In the moonglow and starlight, amidst the floral scent of roses and the briny tang of the fjord, they lay entangled together all night in the soft furs of the sleigh-shaped bed.
The ouroboros above their hearts blazed with golden fire.
When the deep violet night sky faded to mauve in the early light of dawn, Sigurd dressed in solemn silence.
And left his broken Sea Wolf heart with his beloved Valkyrie.