Brunhild's Lament
When I was a child, the gods blessed me. In dreams, each came to me with a gift: from Thor I received strength, so that by the time I was five winters old I could lift steel weapons three times my height. From Odin, I received courage, so that when I was merely seven winters old I could stand face to face with the great wolves of this land and remain steadfast. From Loki I received the gift of guile, so that by the time twelve winters had gone by I could tell a man’s intentions by looking into his eyes.
I curse the day that Freya’s blessing came to me: at sixteen winters, I became beautiful like my mother. The women of the village squawked, falling over themselves to praise me when I was around and gathering in hushed groups at festivals to gossip and practice their jealousy. My mother told me, “Now you are as beautiful on the outside as you have always been on the inside, my snow flower.” I knew better than all of them. It would only be a matter of time before they would come. I had already seen it happen to my friends: once their womanhood began to blossom — my mother’s term — they, one by one, were snatched from their lives and imprisoned firmly within the strictures of marriage. I vowed that it would not take me.
Like many of my girlhood promises, this vow has been tested. It started with men from my own village. When word of my special abilities and beauty spread, my mother began to receive offers — bribes, more like. An extra loaf of bread here, a handful of coin there. The men did not ask me, of course: my consent would come later, and more as a formality than anything else. My mother, bless her, refused these men, finding them unworthy. I knew that her word alone would not stop everyone, and so I picked up a blade and began to train.
By my twentieth winter, I had defeated everyone foolish enough to challenge me, and few others were willing to try. Word of my prowess was spreading, and I knew that there would soon be men from shores far and wide who would come to challenge the warrior queen of Îsland. I continued to train and make sacrifices to the gods, currying their favor more zealously than before. In moments of despair I would curse Freya in private, wondering why her gift had become such a curse to me. Would that I could live in peace, leader of my proud people without the pall of marriage hanging over me.
The first of my suitors was a Frenchman who promised me fine perfumes and jewelry in exchange for my hand; I asked him to throw a stone further than I could, and laughed as his knees buckled under the weight. My next was a Saxon warrior, convinced he could bring me to my knees: I sent him home in pieces. As the seasons wore on and no suitor could defeat me, I began to grow tired of the game: with that fatigue came my downfall.
My devotions became less frequent and less involved. After so many years of success I began to take up the pen more than the sword. I spent time not in the training ring, but with my dear childhood friends and their children, happy to be part of these new lives from a distance. I settled disputes, managed our trade, kept my people happy and alive. I was a good queen. But the gods saw fit to punish me for my insolence, for my weakness.
Shortly after my twenty-third winter, I was given a last and final gift from the gods, a parting token of their...affections. Hel reached up from the underworld and sapped the strength from my limbs while I fought for my life. When my new husband entered me for the first time, I felt power decay, as if the blood my heart pumped from my wounds carried with it the favor of my gods. They had abandoned me in my moment of need.
Consigned to my fate, I watched as if through another’s eyes as I was swept away from my kingdom across the sea to live as a jeweled puppet. I observed the way these foolish foreigners would jab and sneer at each other; and then, like an old friend, Loki whispered in my ear: “If you cannot fight them yourself, perhaps you can make them fight each other.” A ray of light glinted off a familiar ring: my ring, taken from me on that night of violation and given to another. Unbidden, the corner of my mouth turned up, and Loki’s chuckle reverberated through my bones, rekindling for a moment the spirit I had lost in the Old World. The streets would run the red of justice before the year was through.
I curse the day that Freya’s blessing came to me: at sixteen winters, I became beautiful like my mother. The women of the village squawked, falling over themselves to praise me when I was around and gathering in hushed groups at festivals to gossip and practice their jealousy. My mother told me, “Now you are as beautiful on the outside as you have always been on the inside, my snow flower.” I knew better than all of them. It would only be a matter of time before they would come. I had already seen it happen to my friends: once their womanhood began to blossom — my mother’s term — they, one by one, were snatched from their lives and imprisoned firmly within the strictures of marriage. I vowed that it would not take me.
Like many of my girlhood promises, this vow has been tested. It started with men from my own village. When word of my special abilities and beauty spread, my mother began to receive offers — bribes, more like. An extra loaf of bread here, a handful of coin there. The men did not ask me, of course: my consent would come later, and more as a formality than anything else. My mother, bless her, refused these men, finding them unworthy. I knew that her word alone would not stop everyone, and so I picked up a blade and began to train.
By my twentieth winter, I had defeated everyone foolish enough to challenge me, and few others were willing to try. Word of my prowess was spreading, and I knew that there would soon be men from shores far and wide who would come to challenge the warrior queen of Îsland. I continued to train and make sacrifices to the gods, currying their favor more zealously than before. In moments of despair I would curse Freya in private, wondering why her gift had become such a curse to me. Would that I could live in peace, leader of my proud people without the pall of marriage hanging over me.
The first of my suitors was a Frenchman who promised me fine perfumes and jewelry in exchange for my hand; I asked him to throw a stone further than I could, and laughed as his knees buckled under the weight. My next was a Saxon warrior, convinced he could bring me to my knees: I sent him home in pieces. As the seasons wore on and no suitor could defeat me, I began to grow tired of the game: with that fatigue came my downfall.
My devotions became less frequent and less involved. After so many years of success I began to take up the pen more than the sword. I spent time not in the training ring, but with my dear childhood friends and their children, happy to be part of these new lives from a distance. I settled disputes, managed our trade, kept my people happy and alive. I was a good queen. But the gods saw fit to punish me for my insolence, for my weakness.
Shortly after my twenty-third winter, I was given a last and final gift from the gods, a parting token of their...affections. Hel reached up from the underworld and sapped the strength from my limbs while I fought for my life. When my new husband entered me for the first time, I felt power decay, as if the blood my heart pumped from my wounds carried with it the favor of my gods. They had abandoned me in my moment of need.
Consigned to my fate, I watched as if through another’s eyes as I was swept away from my kingdom across the sea to live as a jeweled puppet. I observed the way these foolish foreigners would jab and sneer at each other; and then, like an old friend, Loki whispered in my ear: “If you cannot fight them yourself, perhaps you can make them fight each other.” A ray of light glinted off a familiar ring: my ring, taken from me on that night of violation and given to another. Unbidden, the corner of my mouth turned up, and Loki’s chuckle reverberated through my bones, rekindling for a moment the spirit I had lost in the Old World. The streets would run the red of justice before the year was through.
Comments
Post a Comment