The Fruit of Soldigurd
A Velheim legend, traditionally passed down through spoken word
Transcribed and translated by Valsung Sivrid Sorenvik
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A Velheim legend, traditionally passed down through spoken word
Transcribed and translated by Valsung Sivrid Sorenvik
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It was late in the summer, at the time when many trees held fast to their verdant plumage, and only those weakest of constitution were early to gain their orange tint. Storms had become a common sight, and with them came flooding from the muddy hills and into the valleys below.
Birger was respected among his neighbors. A veteran of many battles, he had been awarded by his Graff a plot of land among the rich soil of the valley. His plot was blessed with bounty, and he chose to grow an orchard there of apples, cultivated for sweetness. But, more than any other accomplishment, Birger felt himself blessed the most by one thing: his husband, Osmaer.
Osmaer the Minstrel was won to Birger by the beauty of the orchard, and he likened the sweet apples there to those which must grow in the Valleys of Plenty, where only the most blessed Sjele would spend their eternity. The Fruit of Soldigurd became Osmaer's most popular ballad, not only sung in the village by any who passed by the proud trees, but by children in the marketplace who saved their coin to purchase them, or by travelling merchants who came to fill their baskets and barrels. Birger was even known to softly sing his favorite passage to himself, as he tended his trees.
"Nought for axen swing nor words browbeat,
Doth sunshine turn to apples sweet.
Nor for your love my heart would crave,
If tenderness your lips misgave.
Blossoming am I,
When gentle love your warrior's heart entreats."
Doth sunshine turn to apples sweet.
Nor for your love my heart would crave,
If tenderness your lips misgave.
Blossoming am I,
When gentle love your warrior's heart entreats."
The rains had not gone away for several days. The wooden barricades which held back the sliding earth and stones of the hillside were wearing away, threatening the village with landslides, even one of which would be enough to cause calamity to the farms and homes, and to Birger's orchard. And so he took with him the strongest men and women, to reinforce the posts along the sheer cliffsides, and see that the earth would remain in place. Heavy storms still covered them, the rain beating down on the workers like deafening drums, while the clouds stole every other sound. Even the bells, ringing in the village, did not reach their ears.
When the tempest finally passed, it became safe enough for the gathered workers to return to their homes. But with the stillness of the winds, came only stillness in the once-lively village.
Birger hurried home with steps that thudded like a warhorse, tramping through the mud and puddles of the roads. The windows of his home had been broken, the door smashed in. He knew quickly that the damage had not been done by the storm.
He sought Osmaer in the wreckage of their home, but did not find him. It was only when he took to his orchard, searching past tumbled tree and ruined storehouse, that he found his lover in the muddy soil.
The village had been attacked in the night, raided not for the purpose of wealth, but as a petty grievance enacted upon the Graff. Birger sought only war with their rival, but the Graff knew that it was not for loyalty that he pledged his axes; it was for vengeance, for what had been lost. He enlisted the soldier all the same, and pledged that the raiders would suffer just as he had, when he took from them everything that once was precious.
Birger and his fighters were swift to enact the Graff's will. The fights were bloody, the cost unfair to those who had lost so much already. But within days, their enemy's fields were burning. His ships had been sabotaged, and sunk into their bays. The villages among his borders lived in terror of the blight that followed Birger and his company, the ruthless taking of their justice being fueled by agony that was tempered only by the spilling of blood.
So caustic was this hatred that the rival nobleman grew fearful for his life, even behind his fortress walls. He hid himself away, too afraid to face the consequences for his actions, and instead sent out his three children to vanquish the threat. Birger was separated from his fighters, and set upon by these champions. And on that day, three heirs of the nobleman were lost, left as they fell, in the mud.
The siege continued until it would go no further. The fortress was set upon, but having lost so many fighters, and being tired from the campaign, the siege was locked in a standstill. Summer had long since passed, then Autumn, and soon Winter would take hold.
Birger's heart would not permit him to admit defeat. They terrorized the village around the fortress, corralling the citizens of their rival, and forcing them to clutch one another and gather in one longhouse, which the fighters then guarded. With their hostages secure, the nobleman was called upon again. And, as before, his cowardice refused to entreat the soldiers.
"He will not come, even to save his people."
"Then he will suffer their cries, and they will suffer for his weakness."
The fighters seemed, at this point, conflicted. All save for Birger, who took up a torch from the ground, and made way for the longhouse. He ordered the spreading of oil across the walls, and stood with his eyes on the fortress, waiting for a response. None came.
"Nought for axen swing nor words browbeat," a gentle voice, trembling past shaken lips, "Doth sunshine turn to apples sweet." This alone, tore Birger's gaze from his true enemy. His eyes searched among the hostages, gathered in the longhouse.
"Nor for your love, my heart would crave," His eyes settled upon the source. A woman, cradling another in her arms, and several children clutching to her tunic. Their heads were low, terrified, but with a soft dignity in their gathering, while their mother quelled them only with the words of an old, familiar song, "if tenderness your lips misgave." Perhaps she'd once sung it as a lullaby, or they had learned it in the market, only to sing it for her in the home while she prepared their meals.
"Blossoming… am I…" the woman's voice broke, as she struggled to maintain her quiet singing. She took a babe into her arms, and pressed a kiss to the child's head. Her son, nearly the age to be a soldier himself, wiped away his tears as the family prayed.
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Editorial note: Discourse of this tale
Birger's campaign of terror across a fertile stretch of land in southern Drixagh has long since fallen into legend. The type of story that a grandfather tells to small children, as they huddle together to ride through the worst of the season's storms. Often to the displeasure of the children, comes the end of the story- where no explicit answer of Birger's actions is ever stated.
Whether he did light the longhouse, to draw out the nobleman and exact his vengeance, or whether he abandoned the campaign when he recognized his own sins, is a philosophized topic between many of the devout. Those who treasure one's ability to protect and avenge their family will insist that the story ends with Birger finding another way to slay the nobleman.
But those who are willing to endure the tragedy of Osmaer's unavenged death, will insist that Birger abandoned his hatred when Osmaer's song quelled his heart. Some will debate that Birger died on the spot, and so was both absolved, but could not be faulted for his failure in the campaign. And still, others insist the fire was lit, for only can equal suffering ensure equal justice, whether or not the nobleman was killed at all. Qualities of duty, love, leadership, and strength in the tale are often discussed over wine while picnicking, or on long journeys when time is plenty.
What remains of the story, perhaps outshining even most of its details, is Osmaer's name. Osmaeran Apples are said to be the sweetest of any variety. His song of temperance is often sung by followers of Maersjel, who recognize the simple truth that while strength is needed to establish or defend a home, it is only with love that a life becomes worth living.
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