Chapter 27
Sword, Son, and Skald
Resplendent in a black cloak trimmed with ermine, an ornate silver moonstone brooch at his shoulder, Thorfinn appeared in the doorway of the Great Hall, the Ljósálfar sword Galadir cradled in his gloved palms. Sheathed in a scabbard of shimmering dragonscale leather adorned with glittering gildir gems, the magnificent blade gleamed with otherworldly brilliance in the firelight’s golden glow.
As the women joined their men, Thorfinn led the procession from Chateau Blanc.
He was followed by Jarl Rikard escorting Oda—Thorfinn’s elderly mother and Elfi’s grandmother, chatelaine of the clifftop castle.
Sk?rde came next, proudly leading Ylva and Vivi on each arm, his deep green tunic etched with silver in his heraldic colors as the Dragon of Normandy.
Behind them, Njord escorted Elfi, then Skjold with his radiant Skadi, her silver-threaded hair shimmering like frost in the torchlight.
Bodo followed—limping once again now that the cursed ring had been removed—with a jubilant Sif on his arm.
Overjoyed that Thorfinn had granted her freedom, she would marry Bodo on the winter solstice, alongside Elfi and Njord.
The tall úlfhédinn Njáll came next, his black wolfskin cloak and dark hair a stark contrast to the pale blonde Ljósálfar Luna at his side. They preceded the remaining Light Elves and úlfhéenar who gathered in quiet reverence within the hallowed sacred grove.
In the quiet heart of the dense forest, mist coiled around the roots of the ancient ash, beech, and fir trees.
As Ljósálfar magic rippled in waves up the Laguz runes inked along his forearms, Skjold sensed the protective wards that Lugh had cast around the burial ground and la Forêt du Loup nearby.
Skadi must have felt it, too, for she squeezed his hand, her clear eyes sparkling like the icy fjord in Norway.
Not wishing to disturb Dag’s body, which had been buried months before, Thorfinn’s men had dug a narrow grave beside his son’s haugr, where Galadir and treasured gifts would now be laid to rest. Within a stone enclosure in the clearing near the grave, a small ceremonial fire flickered as Ylva and Vivi—who had always chanted with úlvhild for rituals, offerings, and blessings—now sang a vardlokkur to summon spirits and the gods to honor Dag.
Ylva and Vivi tossed juniper berries, meadowsweet, and yarrow into the fire.
The sweet, smoky scent of fresh herbs filled the crisp night air, invoking protection, peace, and purification to honor Thorfinn’s fallen son.
Vivi poured golden mead into the fragrant flames from an elkhorn etched with runes and embellished with glowing amber gems. Ylva let drip the sacrificial blood of the goat as a sacred offering to the gods while she chanted the invocation of blessing.
“Gods and spirits,
Hear our song.
As Galadir is laid to rest
Within this sacred grove.
Let this sword return to Dag’s noble side.
Let peace rise where grief has lain.
Odin, remember the light out hero bore.
Freyr, guard the stillness of this hallowed ground.
May Dag’s valor and his Elven blade
Shine bright in the glory of Valhalla.”
Their ritual blessing complete, Ylva and Vivi returned to Sk?rde’s side among the group gathered in the sacred grove.
Thorfinn approached the grave, Galadir cradled in loving arms like his fallen son. When he knelt before the mound, the wind stilled, as if the forest held its hallowed breath.
Standing beside Njord, Elfi inhaled sharply, one hand clutching the iron trollkors at her throat.
On her other side, Lugh snapped his pale head toward her in alarm. “What is wrong?”
Dread darkened Elfi’s bright face. “The trollkors flared hot as Faeir passed.”
Skjold glanced at the sword, its Elven steel a dull glow in the gloom. The gildir gem in its hilt, once radiant with Ljósálfar light, was now veiled in grey clouds like tarnished quartz.
“Faeir, wait!” Elfi cried, rushing forward to stop Thorfinn from lowering the blade into the earth. “The Count of Soissons is allied with the Dokkálfar. I fear Galadir has been tainted by their darkness.”
She spoke to Lugh, standing silent amongst the trees. “You forged Galadir for my broeir. And your Elven Mirror casts Ljósálfar light to reveal what hides in shadow. Please tell us what has defiled Dag’s beloved blade.”
Lugh bowed his silvery head and withdrew the moonstone mirror from his emerald green cloak.
Radiant light shimmered beneath its otherworldly surface as he held the enchanted glass over the Elven sword.
“I glimpse the crimson-eyed witch… and Gúldur, who forged the accursed spear which slew Dag. And the dagger that nearly killed úlf.”
The great grey wolf growled amidst the úlfhéenar, his anger echoing across the glen.
“The Dokkálfar Blacksmith of Dorestad, whom I killed with úlfsongr, in the Battle of ísland… fulfilling the prophecy with my father’s Dwarven sword.” Njord’s feral gaze was as fierce as his white wolfskin cloak.
As murmurs rippled through the trees, Thorfinn clutched the corrupted blade, panic spreading across his frantic face. His voice quavered, rough with grief, as he implored Lugh with desperate eyes. “Can you cleanse Galadir, so that I may lay it beside my son?”
Lugh’s radiant smile lit the dim grove like moonlight through mist. “What was forged in light can be purified of darkness. I shall restore Galadir to its pristine form.”
Lugh secured the Elven Mirror inside his elegant cape, removed his deep green gloves, and tucked them into his leather belt. While Thorfinn held Galadir across his outstretched palms, Lugh wavered long, slender fingers over the cursed sword, murmuring in ancient Elven tongue.
Swirls of black smoke slithered like snakes into the night air, foul with the stench of rot and ruin. As if summoned by the protective wards guarding the grove, a cleansing gust of saline breeze from the nearby sea swept the sinister shadows from the hallowed forest.
“I have removed the Dokkálfar darkness, but only the Ljósálfar Lord of Starlight may restore the gildir gem.” Lugh turned to the copper-haired Light Elf standing in the gathered crowd. “Please imbue the stone in Galadir’s hilt with radiant Ljósálfar light.”
Ildris emerged, robes silver as moonlight on snow.
Within his luminous hand, sparks of white fire sizzled, as if he wielded the light of the stars.
When he whispered words of ancient Elven wisdom, the gildir gem set in Galadir’s ornate hilt pulsed with power.
Brilliant starlight radiated from his otherworldly palm and poured into the stone like molten silver.
Elegant scrolls and etched runes in the Elven steel glistened in the moonglow. The gildir gem in the intricate hilt of the Ljósálfar sword dazzled with iridescent flame. Galadir flared with new brilliance, shining like frozen moonlight, radiant as a frosted star.
Long, silky hair shimmering like spun copper, Ildris bowed his noble head to Lord Thorfinn. His deep, rich voice was smooth and mellow as a harp. “Now it is worthy to lie in peace beside your valiant son.”
With the solemnity of a king laying a crown upon a tomb, Thorfinn lowered the restored blade into the earth beside his fallen son.
The gleaming steel nestled gently into the dark soil, runes aglow, the gildir gem catching the starlight like frozen flame.
Thorfinn’s solemn voice carried the weight of a sacred vow.
“Dag’s courage and light endure in this Ljósálfar blade and in our grieving hearts.
Now that my son’s stolen sword has been restored and returned, may his spirit rest in peace beside it, within the sanctity of this sacred grove. ”
Elfi was the next to approach the haugr with a grave gift for her fallen brother.
“Dag taught me to play his whalebone flute,” she murmured, cradling the carved keepsake in her pale hands.
“Since his death, I’ve often gone to the waterfall cave of the Mermaid Cove, where he and I used to swim as children.
There, I played this melody as a tribute to his valor, hoping it would honor him in Valhalla. ”
She looked down at the ivory relic, her lips trembling with emotion. “Tonight, I play it for the last time…and return his beloved flute, so that Dag may play it for the Allfather and the einherjar.”
When she lifted the flute to her lips, the pure, plaintive notes—crystalline and clear as a freshwater spring—filled the sacred grove with a haunting elegy for her valiant brother.
As the final note faded, she knelt beside the grave, wiped the tears from her crumpled cheeks, and lovingly placed the whalebone flute on the bed of soft furs beside Galadir.
Bjarke escorted Oda, her gnarled hand gripping the sore hip that plagued her as she hobbled forward to the open slice of earth.
“I stitched this for Dag,” she choked, her frail voice laden with sorrow.
With Bjarke’s help, she laid a folded tunic of deep blue wool, stitched with shining silver thread, into the shallow grave.
“That he might wear it in the golden halls of Valhalla, where no cold can reach him, but where his amma still worries for her grandson’s warmth.” Oda patted the tunic once, as if smoothing it over Dag’s beloved chest, then let Bjarke gently guide her back.