“Oh, what beautiful hair you have,” sighed Birna as she let the comb glide through Hervör’s blonde locks. “What a lovely bride you’ll make. Ah, but how sad that you’ll never have a daughter with hair as fair as yours.”
“Are you starting this again?”
“I’m just saying.” Birna sighed once more, then set the comb aside. “There. We’re done.”
Grete, who had been standing by the fire, absent-mindedly playing with one of her braids, stepped closer. Only the ancestors themselves knew what went on in her head at times. Hervör regarded the slender girl. Still half a child. And yet only a few winters younger than herself, she reminded herself at once.
It was easy to forget one’s own youth. She felt older than she truly was. She had felt that way ever since Father’s death. But today more than ever. By the end of this day she would no longer be a maiden. The distance between her and Grete suddenly seemed as wide as one of the deep ravines that cut through their land.
Yet it was often the dreamy Grete who seemed older than all of them.
So it was now, as she and Birna began to braid ripper teeth and wolf claws into Hervör’s hair. “She has chosen her path,” Grete reminded Birna firmly. “And it is an honourable path. She brings no shame to her ancestors with this wedding.” Then, thoughtful, as though speaking half to herself while laying Hervör’s hair into a plait, she added: “I even believe something great will come of this marriage.”
Birna paused in her work to study the girl. “Sometimes you speak almost like the Gydja.”
The door of the hut creaked open. Ylva and Ingrid entered, accompanied by a blast of cold air, and shut it quickly again. They had helped bathe Hervör earlier. They had scrubbed her from head to toe in a great tub until Hervör felt certain her skin must now be whiter and brighter than freshly fallen snow in the morning sun. The water had been mixed with fragrant herbs that now clung to her skin and hair. Afterwards the two women had gone to change. Now they wore amber chains and their finest furs.
But neither of them was as splendidly dressed as Hervör herself, who was wrapped in a cloak of silvery shadowbeast fur.
Ingrid clasped her hands together in delight when she saw Hervör sitting on the stool before her. “What a beautiful bride!”
“If only she were taking a man who could appreciate her beauty,” Birna muttered despite herself.
“Oh, enough of your lamenting!” Ylva burst out and gave Birna a gentle slap on the hand. “One might think she was the first in our time to walk this path.”
Birna laughed bitterly. “The first? If only! There haven’t been this many at once since the days of Baldar!”
“There haven’t been this many orcs in our land since the days of Baldar,” Hervör reminded her. “Nor have so many fathers, brothers, and husbands been slain.”
Birna exhaled heavily. “You’re right. Should they ever slay my husband, perhaps I would wed again and walk the same path as you. But by Gor and all the ancestors—what times are these, when the fairest maidens no longer take husbands and must die so young?”
“My sister died in childbirth,” Hervör reminded her.
And Grete affirmed: “We may all die young. Women by giving life, men by taking it.”
“This morning I prayed for strength.” Hervör turned her head to look at Birna, who stood slightly behind her. Determination lay in her eyes. “Gor will give me the strength I need. And if I die, it will be an honourable death.”
Ingrid approached her with a wooden bowl filled with crushed spiritberries. She dipped a finger into the paste and began painting lines and dots onto Hervör’s face. Ylva took one of her hands and did the same to it.
When Ursula stepped inside, the five women had just finished. Only the wreath of healing herbs was missing – and that, by custom, was set upon the bride by her mother. For a moment Ursula regarded Hervör in silence. She was now adorned as a bride should be: her braids, interwoven with gleaming white teeth and claws, fell upon her shoulders, draped in velvet-soft shadowbeast fur. A bronze brooch shaped like a hammer fastened her cloak beneath her throat. Red markings adorned her cheeks, brow, and the backs of her hands. Amber earrings framed her face.
“You are a glorious bride,” Ursula murmured and kissed Hervör on the brow before crowning her with herbs. “I wish your father could see you today.”
“If he were here, I would not be marrying.”
“He would be proud of you for doing so. You bring honour to him and to all your ancestors.”
With these words her mother took her by the hand and led her outside.
It was one of those days when the sky over Nordmar seemed carved from ice itself. It wasn’t, as so often, covered by heavy grey clouds, but was a clear, pale blue. And yet such days were the coldest. The air burned on Hervör’s cheeks after the fire in the hut had made her sweat beneath her shadowbeast cloak.
“Today is a good day for a wedding,” Ingrid encouraged her, walking just behind.
Hervör had endured many anxious nights. For a time she had wavered. Had thought of what this marriage would mean. Of what she would be giving up—perhaps forever: That she would share no bed with any man, that she would bear no children. But all doubt and fretting were behind her now. Today she was filled with a deep calm. Her decision had long been made. Now she would walk the path she had chosen with firm, unwavering steps.
The village square was full. Nearly the entire clan had gathered. Only the warriors and orc-slayers guarding the mine and the bridge could not attend the wedding.
As she approached, hand in hand with her mother, the crowd fell silent and parted. The men stood on one side, the women on the other. Hervör let her gaze pass briefly over them—these familiar faces she had grown up among. All eyes were upon her now. But she herself looked straight ahead.
There stood Liv in her white fur, leaning on her gnarled staff. “Whom bring you before me?” she called to Ursula in the ritual greeting.
“Hervör, daughter of Angantyr. She comes to wed.”
Ursula gave her daughter’s hand one last squeeze, then released it and stepped aside among the women.
Hervör walked forward alone until she stood before the Gydja. Upon a wooden block at Liv’s side lay her father’s axe. Hervör grasped it and held it out to the Gydja. “Let this be my husband.”
Liv looked at her sternly with eyes that could see the ore within the mountain’s heart and the will of the ancestors within the runes. “She who gives life shall not take it. And he who takes life cannot give it. All people must bleed. Some bleed with the moon, others on the battlefield. Will you shed your blood in battle? Will you walk the path of the warrior?”
“I will. For the honour of my ancestors and the protection of my clan.”
“Then you will take this axe as your husband? Will you wed iron rather than flesh?”
“I will.”
The Gydja placed her hands around Hervör’s, which still grasped the axe. “The stone beneath our feet is our witness. As steadfast as it is, so shall your word and this bond be. This axe is your husband, and may you know no other.”
She released Hervör’s hand, and Hervör stepped aside – to the side of the men.
There stood Tjalf, her jarl. Tall and strong, unbowed by the years despite his greying hair. With both hands he presented her with a great round wooden shield. “May your axe fell many orcs. And may you bring honour to your ancestors, shield-maiden,” he said. Then he raised his voice and thundered: “Now bring the spirit-mist! By Gor, let us bless this wedding!”
The clan roared their thunderous cheers.
Author: Jünger des Xardas