Chapter 11 #3
úlvhild pricked the tip of her finger with the sharp point of her dagger and let three droplets of blood spill into the silver chalice. She stirred the contents with the tip of Freyja’s Whisper.
And downed the bitter brew.
She crossed the earthen floor of the hut and fetched her staff, thumping it on the wooden floor of the hut and chanting a vardlokkur to summon benevolent spirits.
As her head began to swoon from the herbs, she rested her staff against the wall and invoked the three Norns, imploring them to reveal the impending battle in ísland.
"Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld I call,
Weavers of fate, who bind us all.
Unravel the threads, show what will be.
Unveil the future that waits for me."
úlvhild’s legs gave out, and she plopped onto the bed as swarms of visions engulfed her.
A luminous female with long pale blonde hair and a flowing white ephemeral gown.
Njord, in his white wolfskin cloak over gleaming chain mail armor, wielding a magnificent sword.
A beaming Elfi, wearing her blue silk wedding gown, Rán’s three-tiered necklace at her throat, her brown hair streaked with gold swept up in intricate, elaborate braids.
Njáll and Luna…Bodo and Sif…a joyous Ljósálfar wedding.
But the waves of bliss washing over úlvhild swirled into oppressive, ominous shadows.
Warships with Varangian raiders storming a black beach. Dokkálfar wielding deadly weapons, clad in cloaks of dark shadows. An enormous warrior with a savagely scarred face, braided black hair and black fox fur cloak wielding a sinister sword with the head of snake.
As úlvhild watched in helpless horror, the Snake Warrior strode swiftly toward Haldor, malevolent blade raised, ready to strike.
Without hesitation, she directed the blinding force of her magic—the sólrún power granted to her by the Sun Goddess Sól—away from the attacking Dokkálfar, toward the Snake Warrior, to stop the descent of his deadly sword.
Baring herself to the crimson-eyed witch who waited for the moment to strike.
It would cost úlvhild her life. But Haldor would live. And that was all that mattered.
As swirls of darkness overtook her like smothering smoke, úlvhild sent every last trace of herself—her magic, her essence, her soul—to Haldor through the seierfjádr mark which bound them as one.
And succumbed to the devouring void.
* * * *
Sunlight crept through the corners of the shuttered western window when úlvhild stirred in her bed.
She must have slept, for she lay sprawled across the furs, as if she had collapsed during the vision.
Stretching her limbs, she sat up slowly and waited until she felt able to stand.
She stoked the fire with the iron rod, then fetched the small pot she’d used to brew the bitter potion.
She washed it thoroughly with the chamomile soap, along with her sacred silver chalice and Freyja’s Whisper, rinsing them in the basin of water while whispering a spell of purification.
Drying her goblet, she stored it safely inside her wooden trunk and laid her sheathed dagger on the bedside table, for would wear it tonight to the feast. She filled the clean pot with fresh water, adding curative herbs to restore her.
Angelica, for spiritual protection.
Yarrow, to cleanse her blood.
Meadowsweet, to settle her sour belly and soothe her aching head.
And nettle, to strengthen her weakened body.
úlvhild set the pot over the fire and sat down at the small table to watch the flickering flames, lost in the fateful vision.
Njord would indeed reclaim his father’s Dwarven sword, and Elfi would marry him in a glorious Ljósálfar wedding.
But there would be a decisive battle in ísland.
With Dokkálfar Dark Elves clad in the shadow cloaks she’d foreseen in a previous sighting.
The ones she would destroy with the solar magic of sólrún.
úlvhild removed the boiling pot with the iron tongs and set it upon a flat stone to cool while she fetched a ceramic cup from the wooden shelf near the hearth.
Wrapping her hands with the linen cloth, she carefully poured the restorative tisane into the mug, straining the herbs with a wooden spoon.
She sipped the pungent brew, savoring the bitter bite of yarrow, the honeyed almond of meadowsweet, the earthy musk of angelica, and the metallic grass of nettle.
She would die in the imminent battle, struck down by the crimson-eyed witch. But Haldor would live, for úlvhild would slay the Snake Warrior. And give every last drop of her magic to her Falcon.
úlvhild searched among her pouches, withdrawing three more dark berries and a pinch of herbs, which she tossed into the fire to purify the air.
The sharp, piney scent of juniper mingled with the calming fragrance of sage.
She poured herself another cup of the herbal brew, the warmth flowing into her shaking limbs, grounding her in the human realm, closing the veil to the Otherworld.
From among the supplies in her wooden trunk, she retrieved the polished silver plate which would serve as a mirror while she applied the blue woad paint to her face.
Upon the bed of soft furs, she laid her falcon feather cloak embedded with charms, bones, and beads, along with her golden woolen gown and the blue linen cloth she would use at the feast while casting runes to entertain Jarl Sigurd’s guests.
She withdrew her precious amber necklace, carved with the image of Freyja and laid it on the table beside the sheathed dagger embellished with ruby red garnets and etched with swans in flight.
At their side, she placed her white catskin leather gloves and matching boots, and the bronze diadem with glowing moonstone that matched the tip of her ashwood staff.
Tonight, she wanted to be revered and feared in the full glory of a volva.
In a wooden bowl she fetched from the shelf, úlvhild mixed blue woad with water, applying the paint with her fingers as she smoothed the thick paste over her face.
While the first layer dried, she spooned ash from the hearth into a separate small bowl and poured melted beeswax from the tabletop candle into the cinders, mixing it with a fragment of cat bone shaped into a long, slender point.
After applying another coat of blue woad to her face and letting it dry, she painted rows of shining runes along her pale neck, dipping the bone like a brush into the inky black soot.
When both woad and ash were thoroughly dry, she donned her amber colored gown, tying the blue linen cloth around her waist, topped by her black leather belt with pouches of herbs, charms, bone runes, and beads.
Using the silver plate to see her reflection, úlvhild attached the amber necklace beneath her long, wild black mane.
With deft fingers, she wove a trio of amber beads into a slender braid on either side of her face.
She placed the narrow bronze diadem with moonstone gem low over her blue brow.
tying together the glowing amber in her necklace with the bronze circlet upon her head.
She finished the remainder of her herbal tisane, rinsing the cup and drying it with the linen cloth before returning it to the shelf.
Deeply inhaling the cleansing herbs which wafted from the fire, she donned her catskin boots and gloves, now properly attired for the welcoming feast. When she opened both windows as a signal to Elfi and Njord that she was ready, the sun had already set, and the grey gloam of twilight shimmered with emerging stars.