Valkyries Calling Chapter 52: Claimed by the Deep

Chapter 52: Claid by the Deep

When the storm finally broke and Vetrúlfr erged from the chasm, he found his mother and the Skrælingr girl waiting for him there, as if they had watched his struggle from afar, unmoved, untouched, testing the thread of his fate.

Whether it was the cloak of the arctic wolf he had once earned in years past, or the freshly tanned hide of the bear now draped over his shoulders, the man who stepped from that darkness had passed through fire and frost alike. He had danced with death, and returned stronger.

Brynhildr gazed upon her son and the fresh scars that marred his pale chest and biceps with a nod of approval.

“A price was paid, to be sure,” she said, “but nothing in this world is earned without blood. Give the bear’s skin. I must ta its hamr. You will need its spirit and its protection for what cos next.”

Without a word, Vetrúlfr handed her the hide. Brynhildr held it reverently, staring into the white fur as if it contained the secrets of the Nornir themselves. She saw what neither her son nor the thrall could.

The Skrælingr stepped forward and offered him a new tunic, spun from fine wool yet bearing the color of pure, unblemished linen. There was no decoration, no embroidery, no finery to boast of. And yet, Vetrúlfr accepted it solemnly.

After adorning the tunic, she produced another vestnt; from where, Vetrúlfr could not say. It was a woolen klappenrock, its edges trimd in aged leather, embossed with runes old as ice. Their aning was known only to the wise, but he felt their warmth pulse through the seams.

When he pulled it over his shoulders, he felt warmth spread through him like fire waking in his bones. Whether magic or simply cloth, he could not know. But Brynhildr smiled, and that was enough.

“The final trial lies east,” she said, voice low and grave. “Beyond the cliffs, to the coast. Beneath the ice-choked waves sleeps a ship; not seen for sixty winters. It belonged to an explorer who defied fate and drowned in Rán’s embrace.

You are to dive beneath the sea and claim what the gods left there.

A sword forged in the ti before the sagas.

Its na is Nídhræfn. The Raven of Spite. Forged from a king’s betrayal and quenched in his blood.

Rán guards it still. Her waves will not part easily.

But if you claim it, Vetrúlfr, you will wield more than steel. You will wield a curse and a crown.”

And the wind howled again, cold as death, as the third trial began.

Vetrúlfr erged at the site of his third trial and found it waiting: the new cloak his mother had fashioned from the beast he had slain. The missing tooth, once given to him in Ullrsfjörðr, now set back in its rightful place.

There was nothing else upon the sheet of ice where he would make his plunge. Stripping himself of his clothes, he placed the wolf’s cloak aside and donned the skin of the bear.

Upon inspection, he found it had been properly crafted into a cloak like the one he had worn for years. In its lining were more staves, connected by runes that whispered in silence. He wrapped the cloak around his bare flesh and stepped toward the edge of the ice shelf.

Drawing a deep breath, he dove.

The water struck like a thousand knives, stabbing through flesh, muscle, and mory, leaving only bone to scream in silence.

This was not re cold, but Rán’s wrath given form. Soone had co to defile her treasure. Soone dared deny her dominion over the drowned.

The frost cut deep into his bones, stealing movent, freezing breath. He descended, saw glimrs of gold below the dark mire, but the sea clutched him too tightly. He surfaced, gasping, limbs shaking, death creeping close.

The sea had begun to freeze over. If he lingered, he would be entombed. Trapped beneath the ice like all those Rán had claid before.

Yet fear did not hold him.

He dove again, this ti without pause, without breath, without thought.

Deeper. Colder. The blackness swallowed him.

He knew not what swam beside him. Shapes stirred, voices echoed. Sothing sang.

He felt fingers on his chest, not warm, not kind. The giggle of a maiden brushed his ear, but it was not a Valkyrie’s song.

It was older. Colder. Forgotten.

Still, he did not panic. He dove.

As the air left him, as his limbs numbed, he reached for the glimring wreck far below…

And then, all beca black.

Vetrúlfr awoke on the shore, the cloak of the bear still wrapped tightly around him. His clothes lay untouched nearby.

In his hand: a sword, corroded and twisted by the salt of the sea its hilt encrusted with barnacles, its poml slick with ancient rot. Its edge dulled, its steel darkened, but its weight undeniable.

He coughed violently. Seawater spilled from his gut. Whatever had held him in Rán’s grasp had now left him.

The mory of his ascent, of what had happened in the deep, was gone.

Brynhildr stood nearby, her eyes wide. She looked at him as if seeing a ghost.

“You… you were claid by Rán. I saw her take you with my own eyes. How have you returned?”

The Skrælingr girl said nothing, but her wide, unblinking eyes told the story. She did not look at Vetrúlfr as a man returned from the sea. She looked at him as one who had never truly co back.

Her people had nas for such things: qivittoq, tupilaq, spirits who walked in skin not their own. And though she dared not speak them aloud, her silence scread with fear and reverence. To her, he was no longer rely the son of Brynhildr.

He was sothing the sea had made.

The silence between them was colder than any winter.

And the sword in his hand pulsed with sothing that had never belonged to the world of n.