Chapter 19 #2
Sigurd slowly unsheathed the magnificent blade, majestically displaying it before her. The rolling waves, running wolves, and etched runes shimmered as if alive.
“Gramr is triply forged in blood,” he rumbled, deep, guttural, and proud. “Volsung blood from my faeir, lupine blood from Blárúlfr, and my own. Thrice the strength of the wolf.”
“With which you slew Fáfnir.” She whispered in awe, watching as he sheathed Gramr and leaned it upright against the wall in a corner. Firelight from the flames in the hearth glinted in the snarling wolf’s lapis eyes.
He gathered the winged helm and the golden brynja, which he laid on the chest with her armor, returning to sit on the bed at her side.
He raised her hand to his bearded lips, immensely grateful to have delivered her safely here.
“After Regin and I reforged Gramr, the dwarf led me to Fáfnir’s lair.
The dragon dragged himself each day to drink at a lake, so I dug a pit in its path.
When he passed over me, I drove Gramr into his belly.
Dragon blood poured over me, hardening my skin, as if infusing me with his strength.
And Brynhildr…” He lifted her hand to his lips again, pressing a fervent kiss on her pale fingers.
“I also gained the ability to understand birds! Your golden falcon Gyllin came to me—and told me of Odin’s wrath.
She said he’d cursed you with the Thorn of Sleep and imprisoned you in a Ring of Fire atop Mount Hinterfjall in the Alps of eastern Francia. ”
He pulled the covers back and slipped into the bed beside her, cradling her on his chest and kissing her damp blonde hair.
When she snuggled against him, humming softly, he continued his tale.
“Kveld and I sailed to Denmark and rode south until we came here. He told me to bathe you in the sacred spring…and that making love would rekindle the seier fire of the ouroboros which binds us…burning away every last trace of Odin’s frozen curse. ”
Sigurd lowered his lips to hers, brushing them softly and tracing them with the tender tip of his tongue. As she opened her mouth to welcome him in, he delved in deep, delighting in her taste and the soft moans escaping from the back of her throat.
He suckled her neck, her shoulders, the ouroboros above his heart blazing as he sampled her chilled skin.
When he drew a pink nipple into his mouth, she whimpered, running her fingers through his thick hair.
He traced kisses down her belly, parting the blonde curls between her trembling thighs.
Gently he stoked her tender folds, her moist heat beckoning like sweet mead.
He lapped at the luscious flesh, swirling and circling her sensitive bud. Slipping two fingers inside her, he stoked the flames of the ouroboros, rekindling her dragonfire.
“Please, Sigurd,” she whimpered, “I need you inside me.”
He positioned himself between her long legs. Slipped his shaking hands under her round hips. And with a groan of unbearable pleasure, plunged into her paradise.
She wrapped lithe legs around his waist, gripped his back with slender arms, pulling him into her more deeply with tightly clutched limbs.
Brynhildr clamped her lips on his shoulder, her body clenching him inside and out.
She shuddered in release beneath him, the contractions of her climax gripping him in rhythmic, squeezing pulses.
He drove deep into her and erupted, pouring his soul and seier as he filled her with a fountain of seed.
After a few moments, when his body calmed, he raised his head and kissed her soft, warm lips.
Lovelight sparkled in her shining eyes, a rosy glow in her flushed cheeks.
“By all the gods, I love you, Brynhildr. After everything you have endured, I am glad you are here with me, safe at last. Our souls are forever entwined…beyond fate and the gods.”
He lay down at her side and cradled her upon his chest.
As she nestled against him, tracing the ouroboros above his heart with a tender finger, she whispered, “We shall be together forever…in this life and the next.”
Her breathing slowed, as Sigurd held her over his fiercely loyal lupine heart.
Soon, he too drifted into blissful sleep, his Sun Falcon protectively cradled in his loving Sea Wolf arms.
When mauve and pink streaked the dawn sky, and early morning light glimmered on the sacred spring, they made love again, the ouroboros blazing as he filled her with seier and seed.
The bells rang, announcing the morning meal.
Brynhildr sat up in bed, clutching the wolf skins to her heart.
“I have nothing to wear but my armor.” She eyed the golden corslet, blackened with soot, and the amber leather leggings, damp from melted ice and frost. “Not only does it need cleaning, I loathe to put it back on…it reminds me of Odin’s wretched curse. ”
He fetched clean clothing from his pack. “Wear this,” he offered, laying a blue woolen tunic and grey breeches on the bed. “They will be too large, but better than armor. And much more suitable for a meal with monks.”
She slipped out of bed, long blonde locks tumbling to her narrow waist.
He couldn’t resist drawing her close, swooping down for another kiss. “Your beauty blinds me,” he whispered, “Dóttir of Freyja, yet with a radiance all your own. My Sun Falcon, how I love you…” Sigurd lifted both her hands to his bearded lips and bestowed a reverent kiss.
Her glorious smile lit up his entire soul.
While she donned the tunic and breeches, he poured spring water from a ceramic pitcher into a basin set upon the table, next to the bar of edelweiss soap.
“I have a willow brush and a sprig of mint to clean your teeth…and an antler comb for your hair.” He laid the items neatly on the table, stifling a laugh at how tightly she’d had to pull the drawstring—and how his broad tunic drooped over her slim shoulders.
“You can wear Blárúlfr,” he grinned, wrapping his wolfskin around her once she’d finished combing her hair.
“The monks might be shocked at the sight of a woman’s skin. ”
He quickly donned his own garments, cleaning his teeth and combing his hair and beard.
When he finished, he grinned at the sight of her, dwarfed in his enormous blue cloak.
Her blue green eyes sparkled like a sunlit fjord or the dappled forest around the sacred spring.
“Come,” he said, gently taking her hand.
“I’ll present you to the brothers at the Abbey of Saint Bernard of the Spring. ”
Inside the refectory, Kveld Nightwolf, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan were seated with the monks, enjoying a simple but hearty meal of oat porridge with wild blueberries, barley bread with sheep cheese, dried fish, and a fresh fruit blend of apples and pears, blended with crushed hazelnuts and honey.
As Sigurd entered with Brynhildr, the men rose to their feet and nodded in welcome.
“Bienvenue, ma belle dame,” Père Clément said with a kind smile, gesturing for everyone to be seated.
Brother Thibault slipped into the adjacent kitchen and returned with bowls of porridge for Sigurd and Brynhildr, topped with berries, sheep’s milk, and honey.
He lowered his tonsured head and smiled as he offered her a wedge of barley bread on a wooden platter, accompanied by a small dish of creamy sheep cheese.
As everyone resumed eating, Brynhildr complimented the delicious fare.
The elderly abbot eyed her unusual attire. Since it was obvious that she wore Sigurd’s clothing, he leaned toward Brother Pierre and spoke softly in rapid Frankish.
Brother Pierre wiped his clean shaven lips with a linen cloth and translated for Sigurd and Brynhildr. “We have a trunk with a few items of women’s clothing,” he explained, smiling at her.
“A few years ago, a traveler whose wife had died during the voyage stopped here with his desperately ill daughter. When she was healed by our sacred spring, he repaid us with his wife’s fine garments, which he no longer needed.
Although he kept a few precious items for his daughter, he left the bulk of her belongings here.
We keep them in a guest cottage, in case a traveler in need should arrive at our monastery.
” A broad grin stretched across his scarred, gentle face as he addressed Brynhildr. “After breakfast, Père Clément would like to offer them to you.”
Tears welled in her expressive eyes. “Thank you,” she choked, overcome with emotion. “I have nothing but armor to wear.”
When the meal was done, Kveld, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan rose from the table and thanked the monks.
While the two húskarlar left the refectory, Kveld said to Sigurd, “We’re repairing the north wall along the spring.
Call if you need us.” Lifting Brynhildr’s hand to his black bearded lips, he murmured, “Thank the gods Sigurd saved you. It is good to have you here.” With a nod farewell, he strode out the heavy oak door, leaving Sigurd and Brynhildr with Brother Pierre and Père Clément.
“Follow me,” the burly monk said in Norse. “The abbot would like to offer Brynhildr her own cottage—the one with the lady’s trunk.”
They followed the two monks across the grassy meadow strewn with edelweiss blossoms. The sweet floral fragrance filled the morning air, the soft rush of the waterfall splashing as it fell into the pool fed by the sacred spring.
Père Clément unlocked the door of the furthest cottage nestled at the edge of the woods and led them inside, Brother Pierre close behind to translate.
An open window offered a view of the sacred spring and the waterfall pool, sheltered on one side by a wall of solid rock and the other by the dense forest. A bed stood against the opposite wall, with a large wooden chest near the stone hearth.
On a table near the window, a pitcher and basin, like the ones in Sigurd’s cottage, were grouped with a bar of soap and a folded white linen cloth.
Beside the hearth stood an iron poker and a neatly stacked pile of firewood.