The Unbreakable Chain
A Velheim legend, traditionally passed down through spoken word
A Velheim legend, traditionally passed down through spoken word
Transcribed and translated by Valsung Sivrid Sorenvik
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Upon the bank of a wide river rested the proud home of the Jarl. The palisades of his fortress home were erected of wooden beams, sharpened to points, from which colors of his family's pride were strewn not in ribbons or bunting, but in the crest-bearing shields of his devoted raider army. Many summer days did Liv, the Jarl's daughter, walk hand in hand with her father along the wooden walls, and ask of him the stories that were painted on the shields.
"That is the mark of Sten Erikson," the Jarl would explain, "whose cleverness upon the sea did weave his longship through the crags of jutting cliffs, like one passes a thread through the eye of a needle." Or, "This is the banner of Signe Lysøy, who turned the tide of battle even when her enemies outnumbered her soldiers three-to-one." And on and on, until Liv had memorized the tales of every color and shape that was painted on those round, wooden shields.
On the days when the raiders were abroad, the wall was bare. Those loyal to the Jarl would lift their shields, and have blessings placed upon them by the Staargir. And off they would sail, leaving Liv alone in a home which felt half-desolate, and lacking in their familiar colors and company. Where she would recall her friends, by painting their stories into her books, and writing their legends in songs and poetry. And when the raiders returned, Liv was among the first to greet them. Those carrying wounds would be tended, and she would sit among the crones and watch, and learn. Even as a child, it did not burden her heart to sit beside the dying and the agonized. In her heart, the burden would have been far heavier, if she were to turn deafly from their suffering. And, in time, she grew into a young woman who could bear the most grievous injuries, and tend them with grace.
On such a day as this, when the companies of raiders returned with their spoils of war, both in riches and with freshly won wounds, Liv was seeing to her usual duties. Changing bandages, fetching water, grinding herbs for medicine- when she found herself in the company of a stranger.
"Do not linger on the captured slave," chastised one of the crones, "Tend our fellows, first. And the spoils of the raid, secondly. They may fetch a fair price at market, but there are just as many here who may wish to see that one die, for all the comrades lost to their blade."
It was difficult for Liv to imagine the creature before her to be a soldier, despite the crone's words. How many had they killed? She saw no blade. Only wounded hands, and rags where there might once have been proud clothing. Cropped hair of flaxen gold, curled around their forehead and clinging to it with sweat. A spattering of freckles on a pale face, disguised by dirt and soot.
"You are not abandoned," Liv whispered to their grimacing face, before she continued with her duties elsewhere, though always keeping an eye to the wounded slave. Their injuries were severe, so much that they spent days asleep on the medical cot. In this time, Liv learned that this soldier had felled many of her friends, and the loyal bannermen of her father. It became her habit to rest beside the cot, as if her presence would abate the leering gazes, or hostile feelings of the others. It would be of poor soldi to destroy a rightly-won spoil of war, but even the anger of the Gods may not have prevented an impassioned show of vengeance. And so, by the sleeping soldier's side, Liv remained.
The slave made a quicker recovery than anyone might have expected. Despite their wounds of battle, it was only days before they were upright. Still, no words came from their stoic lips. Liv explained where they were, what had happened. Told them of how the others depicted their battle, of the courage they showed. How any other might have perished from such grievous wounds, but that their body must have been blessed by the gods, for its resilience. Still, none of this brought joy to the soldier, who remained captured by their enemy, and bound to the cot.
In time, the slave could walk again. Liv showed them of her favorite places in the fortress. Of the medicinal herb garden, which was warmed by the waters of an underground spring. The slave took little care, but tended the garden as instructed. She showed them of the Helbolwen, and the resting places of her ancestors. The slave gave no prayer, but swept the cavern floor. On and on this went, as Liv shared with them the love she held for her home, and yet earned no word from her silent bondebillung.
It became so that her father took notice, and would begin to chastise Liv for her affinity with the slave. "Teach them their tasks, and let them alone," he would say, or, "Show not affection to the soldier. When their injuries heal, we will trade them for livestock." But, even this, Liv did not heed. For if time was to be short, then indeed, she would make the most of what little time there was.
After some weeks of this, when the soldier was nearly healed, and tending to their domestic tasks, Liv had decided to share with them a final wonder of the fortress. A personal place, to her: the library she kept, of her stories and paintings. If this did not impress the soldier, she thought, then there would truly be no hope to capture their attention at all. And so, despite their mild reluctance, Liv took them to the library.
The room was small, and lit with only a few meager candles. But when she laid a scroll upon her desk and showed the illuminated writings to the slave, it was as if life had entered their eyes for the first time. Their lips parted, and Liv could only begin to grin.
"Do you enjoy stories?" she asked, "This is the tale of Arne Gormsdottir. Can you read, quiet bondebillung? I will read it for you- 'Arne, dottir of pious Gorm, does sing her Valsung calls for all of the gaudr to hear. And with her soothing voice, even those who were felled in violent death, cannot help but to be made serene.' Is it not beautiful, my silent soldier?" But, as Liv watched their face, she found no familiarity. And so, her heart sank. "What is it?" she finally asked, "Why won't you open your heart to me? Why won't you even open your lips?"
The soldier took Liv's hand, in such a gesture as to make the jarl's daughter blush. They looked into her eyes, and then, guided her hand to the parchment. Over the words, as if to graze them. "Cannot." And then, slightly higher on the page. "Hear."
Time passed, as it is known to do. With the news of the soldier's deafness, it was decided that they would not fetch a price that was worth selling. And so, Liv would continue to spend time with them. She began to discover ways to communicate with the bondebillung; through writing, she learned that their name was Eden. They also learned to communicate through gestures, or through what she considered their own secret language. A stroke of the arm, to invite them to follow her. A tap of their cheek, to praise them. And, in time, a tilt of her head, to express her desire for a kiss.
Still, through their silence, Liv could feel the conflict within the soldier. In their quiet, tender evenings together, she would feel both the love of her companion, and the distance of their heart.
"How complicated it must be," she mused softly, as she let her fingers dance across the palm of their calloused hand, "to miss your home, and to love your captor."
With time, though, even this wound would show the promise of healing. Through the years spent together, the memory of the soldier's home would fade, and their bond to Liv grew stronger. They could laugh at her teasing, and play little lovers' games with her, and feel not an ounce of melancholy in those precious moments. The jarl cared little for his daughter's affections for the bondebillung, and even grew fond of Eden as well, as they seemed an honest and capable sort, and pleasant enough company. And when the raiders took their shields from the palisade wall, Liv did not feel lonesome anymore, as she had the only company she longed for.
And tragically, it was on such an afternoon, when the Jarl and his bannermen were away, that the fortress was besieged. The guards who remained with the Jarl's family took to their weapons, and held the fort, despite their diminished numbers. Eden led Liv to the library, deep within the keep, and set her there to hide- though, when they tried to join the guards, the girl would not release their hand.
"It isn't your duty," she pleaded, watching Eden's eyes, "No bondebillung is conscripted to fight- not even one who was once a soldier. Stay- please, stay!"
Eden's fingers tightened in her grip. They faced their lover, and brought their foreheads close, to rest thereupon. But, as they had guided her fingers so long ago to the written words of the scroll, they guided her once more. This time, to their chest, and over the pounding of their frightened heart. And then removed their clasped hands, to place against Liv's breast, and to settle them there, above her own. With only a final kiss, Eden departed, to join the guards in defense of their home.
When the Jarl returned, it was to a sight of ruin. The palisade was partially destroyed, with smoke rising from the land-facing side of the keep. And yet, his own guards were mixed among the destruction and the blood, standing on their own feet, and recovering their fallen comrades. As if by divine intervention, the guards had held against the attack, and driven the enemies away. The Jarl was concerned only with recovering his family, and eventually, located the room where Eden had stashed away his daughter.
He found three corpses in the hall, and the bondebillung, who had collapsed with their back against the door, and sword yet in hand. It was difficult to know whether the blood was that of the soldier, or their quarry. Yet when the Jarl roused them, they awoke with a cry, and lifted the sword again- only to drop it to the floor, and begin to weep with relief. Liv was pounding on the door's opposite side, unable to leave the room for Eden's body resting against it, and calling out their name.
With the fires quelled and the living collected, Eden once more was confined to the medical cot, and Liv remained beside them. This time, there were no glares nor scowling from the others, and only the wary eyes of concern for the soldier's recovery. One of their legs had been twisted and crushed so brutally, that it was Liv's duty to tell them that they were not to walk upon their own two feet again, until the day they died and would become whole once more in the Valleys of Speillørgard. And yet, with this harrowing news, came also the truth of all bondebillung who fight for their master's home, as the Jarl knelt beside their bed.
"Eden," he spoke their name, and Liv made the purpose of his words clear to her lover, "You were brought to this place, a captured slave. But through your service to this family, your freedom is earned. In fair Soldi, and respect among men- You are bondebillung no longer, but free of obligation, unbound." With that, the Jarl glanced upon their ruined leg, and could only sigh. "Would that it was possible, you would be free to return to your homeland. But as you cannot make the journey, you are permitted to remain with us, as dear to me as family, our most dutiful Eden."
The nights that followed were not of celebration for her lover's freedom, then, but of sorrow for their loss. For the home they might never see again, and for the body which would no longer allow them to serve as a soldier. And yet, in the deepest pits of her heart, Liv felt almost a flicker of a selfish joy. Of a relief she had not realized would affect her so strongly. That Eden was no longer a slave, but that they would also never dream again of that homeland, far away. Never before had she questioned the soldier's devotion, but now, knowing that it was an impossibility for them to abandon her, she considered it for the first time. Had they been free and capable, would they have stayed?
One night, Liv took Eden's leg into her hands, and tended it. The effort was not simple, nor comfortable for either of the two. Many days, Eden wept through gritted teeth, and pale knuckles clutched the side of their bed, while Liv's painstaking process continued. And while the sound of their cries was torture upon the girl's heart, it was none so torturous as the question which burned within her. Of the guilt that might overtake her, if she denied her lover this care, and ultimately, this choice.
The crones were so aghast of Eden's recovery, that once more it was lauded as divine. For with many weeks of healing, and more afterward of agonizing rehabilitation, the time had come when they would stand upright, and take their first steps once more, since the attack. Their first steps, free from the bonds of slavery. And as would be the case forever more, they did not step away from Liv, and back to the memories of a distant home; but toward their dutiful healer, bound eternally to love.
---------------------------------------------------------
Editorial note: Discourse of this tale
Unlike other Legends of the Gods, which tend to end in ambiguity or with some unspoken mystery, The Unbreakable Chain is staunchly direct with its messaging. While there is discussion to be had, either on the complexities of love and its conflicts, or on the nature of duty and trust, there is almost nothing considered 'debatable' in this particular tale. Those who enjoy to discuss old religious folklore, then, might focus on the meaning of this zealous truth. After all, who but the Union of duty and love might so firmly plant their beliefs into a simple and natural truth- that of all virtues, the care of another is most sacred.
"That is the mark of Sten Erikson," the Jarl would explain, "whose cleverness upon the sea did weave his longship through the crags of jutting cliffs, like one passes a thread through the eye of a needle." Or, "This is the banner of Signe Lysøy, who turned the tide of battle even when her enemies outnumbered her soldiers three-to-one." And on and on, until Liv had memorized the tales of every color and shape that was painted on those round, wooden shields.
On the days when the raiders were abroad, the wall was bare. Those loyal to the Jarl would lift their shields, and have blessings placed upon them by the Staargir. And off they would sail, leaving Liv alone in a home which felt half-desolate, and lacking in their familiar colors and company. Where she would recall her friends, by painting their stories into her books, and writing their legends in songs and poetry. And when the raiders returned, Liv was among the first to greet them. Those carrying wounds would be tended, and she would sit among the crones and watch, and learn. Even as a child, it did not burden her heart to sit beside the dying and the agonized. In her heart, the burden would have been far heavier, if she were to turn deafly from their suffering. And, in time, she grew into a young woman who could bear the most grievous injuries, and tend them with grace.
On such a day as this, when the companies of raiders returned with their spoils of war, both in riches and with freshly won wounds, Liv was seeing to her usual duties. Changing bandages, fetching water, grinding herbs for medicine- when she found herself in the company of a stranger.
"Do not linger on the captured slave," chastised one of the crones, "Tend our fellows, first. And the spoils of the raid, secondly. They may fetch a fair price at market, but there are just as many here who may wish to see that one die, for all the comrades lost to their blade."
It was difficult for Liv to imagine the creature before her to be a soldier, despite the crone's words. How many had they killed? She saw no blade. Only wounded hands, and rags where there might once have been proud clothing. Cropped hair of flaxen gold, curled around their forehead and clinging to it with sweat. A spattering of freckles on a pale face, disguised by dirt and soot.
"You are not abandoned," Liv whispered to their grimacing face, before she continued with her duties elsewhere, though always keeping an eye to the wounded slave. Their injuries were severe, so much that they spent days asleep on the medical cot. In this time, Liv learned that this soldier had felled many of her friends, and the loyal bannermen of her father. It became her habit to rest beside the cot, as if her presence would abate the leering gazes, or hostile feelings of the others. It would be of poor soldi to destroy a rightly-won spoil of war, but even the anger of the Gods may not have prevented an impassioned show of vengeance. And so, by the sleeping soldier's side, Liv remained.
The slave made a quicker recovery than anyone might have expected. Despite their wounds of battle, it was only days before they were upright. Still, no words came from their stoic lips. Liv explained where they were, what had happened. Told them of how the others depicted their battle, of the courage they showed. How any other might have perished from such grievous wounds, but that their body must have been blessed by the gods, for its resilience. Still, none of this brought joy to the soldier, who remained captured by their enemy, and bound to the cot.
In time, the slave could walk again. Liv showed them of her favorite places in the fortress. Of the medicinal herb garden, which was warmed by the waters of an underground spring. The slave took little care, but tended the garden as instructed. She showed them of the Helbolwen, and the resting places of her ancestors. The slave gave no prayer, but swept the cavern floor. On and on this went, as Liv shared with them the love she held for her home, and yet earned no word from her silent bondebillung.
It became so that her father took notice, and would begin to chastise Liv for her affinity with the slave. "Teach them their tasks, and let them alone," he would say, or, "Show not affection to the soldier. When their injuries heal, we will trade them for livestock." But, even this, Liv did not heed. For if time was to be short, then indeed, she would make the most of what little time there was.
After some weeks of this, when the soldier was nearly healed, and tending to their domestic tasks, Liv had decided to share with them a final wonder of the fortress. A personal place, to her: the library she kept, of her stories and paintings. If this did not impress the soldier, she thought, then there would truly be no hope to capture their attention at all. And so, despite their mild reluctance, Liv took them to the library.
The room was small, and lit with only a few meager candles. But when she laid a scroll upon her desk and showed the illuminated writings to the slave, it was as if life had entered their eyes for the first time. Their lips parted, and Liv could only begin to grin.
"Do you enjoy stories?" she asked, "This is the tale of Arne Gormsdottir. Can you read, quiet bondebillung? I will read it for you- 'Arne, dottir of pious Gorm, does sing her Valsung calls for all of the gaudr to hear. And with her soothing voice, even those who were felled in violent death, cannot help but to be made serene.' Is it not beautiful, my silent soldier?" But, as Liv watched their face, she found no familiarity. And so, her heart sank. "What is it?" she finally asked, "Why won't you open your heart to me? Why won't you even open your lips?"
The soldier took Liv's hand, in such a gesture as to make the jarl's daughter blush. They looked into her eyes, and then, guided her hand to the parchment. Over the words, as if to graze them. "Cannot." And then, slightly higher on the page. "Hear."
Time passed, as it is known to do. With the news of the soldier's deafness, it was decided that they would not fetch a price that was worth selling. And so, Liv would continue to spend time with them. She began to discover ways to communicate with the bondebillung; through writing, she learned that their name was Eden. They also learned to communicate through gestures, or through what she considered their own secret language. A stroke of the arm, to invite them to follow her. A tap of their cheek, to praise them. And, in time, a tilt of her head, to express her desire for a kiss.
Still, through their silence, Liv could feel the conflict within the soldier. In their quiet, tender evenings together, she would feel both the love of her companion, and the distance of their heart.
"How complicated it must be," she mused softly, as she let her fingers dance across the palm of their calloused hand, "to miss your home, and to love your captor."
With time, though, even this wound would show the promise of healing. Through the years spent together, the memory of the soldier's home would fade, and their bond to Liv grew stronger. They could laugh at her teasing, and play little lovers' games with her, and feel not an ounce of melancholy in those precious moments. The jarl cared little for his daughter's affections for the bondebillung, and even grew fond of Eden as well, as they seemed an honest and capable sort, and pleasant enough company. And when the raiders took their shields from the palisade wall, Liv did not feel lonesome anymore, as she had the only company she longed for.
And tragically, it was on such an afternoon, when the Jarl and his bannermen were away, that the fortress was besieged. The guards who remained with the Jarl's family took to their weapons, and held the fort, despite their diminished numbers. Eden led Liv to the library, deep within the keep, and set her there to hide- though, when they tried to join the guards, the girl would not release their hand.
"It isn't your duty," she pleaded, watching Eden's eyes, "No bondebillung is conscripted to fight- not even one who was once a soldier. Stay- please, stay!"
Eden's fingers tightened in her grip. They faced their lover, and brought their foreheads close, to rest thereupon. But, as they had guided her fingers so long ago to the written words of the scroll, they guided her once more. This time, to their chest, and over the pounding of their frightened heart. And then removed their clasped hands, to place against Liv's breast, and to settle them there, above her own. With only a final kiss, Eden departed, to join the guards in defense of their home.
When the Jarl returned, it was to a sight of ruin. The palisade was partially destroyed, with smoke rising from the land-facing side of the keep. And yet, his own guards were mixed among the destruction and the blood, standing on their own feet, and recovering their fallen comrades. As if by divine intervention, the guards had held against the attack, and driven the enemies away. The Jarl was concerned only with recovering his family, and eventually, located the room where Eden had stashed away his daughter.
He found three corpses in the hall, and the bondebillung, who had collapsed with their back against the door, and sword yet in hand. It was difficult to know whether the blood was that of the soldier, or their quarry. Yet when the Jarl roused them, they awoke with a cry, and lifted the sword again- only to drop it to the floor, and begin to weep with relief. Liv was pounding on the door's opposite side, unable to leave the room for Eden's body resting against it, and calling out their name.
With the fires quelled and the living collected, Eden once more was confined to the medical cot, and Liv remained beside them. This time, there were no glares nor scowling from the others, and only the wary eyes of concern for the soldier's recovery. One of their legs had been twisted and crushed so brutally, that it was Liv's duty to tell them that they were not to walk upon their own two feet again, until the day they died and would become whole once more in the Valleys of Speillørgard. And yet, with this harrowing news, came also the truth of all bondebillung who fight for their master's home, as the Jarl knelt beside their bed.
"Eden," he spoke their name, and Liv made the purpose of his words clear to her lover, "You were brought to this place, a captured slave. But through your service to this family, your freedom is earned. In fair Soldi, and respect among men- You are bondebillung no longer, but free of obligation, unbound." With that, the Jarl glanced upon their ruined leg, and could only sigh. "Would that it was possible, you would be free to return to your homeland. But as you cannot make the journey, you are permitted to remain with us, as dear to me as family, our most dutiful Eden."
The nights that followed were not of celebration for her lover's freedom, then, but of sorrow for their loss. For the home they might never see again, and for the body which would no longer allow them to serve as a soldier. And yet, in the deepest pits of her heart, Liv felt almost a flicker of a selfish joy. Of a relief she had not realized would affect her so strongly. That Eden was no longer a slave, but that they would also never dream again of that homeland, far away. Never before had she questioned the soldier's devotion, but now, knowing that it was an impossibility for them to abandon her, she considered it for the first time. Had they been free and capable, would they have stayed?
One night, Liv took Eden's leg into her hands, and tended it. The effort was not simple, nor comfortable for either of the two. Many days, Eden wept through gritted teeth, and pale knuckles clutched the side of their bed, while Liv's painstaking process continued. And while the sound of their cries was torture upon the girl's heart, it was none so torturous as the question which burned within her. Of the guilt that might overtake her, if she denied her lover this care, and ultimately, this choice.
The crones were so aghast of Eden's recovery, that once more it was lauded as divine. For with many weeks of healing, and more afterward of agonizing rehabilitation, the time had come when they would stand upright, and take their first steps once more, since the attack. Their first steps, free from the bonds of slavery. And as would be the case forever more, they did not step away from Liv, and back to the memories of a distant home; but toward their dutiful healer, bound eternally to love.
---------------------------------------------------------
Editorial note: Discourse of this tale
Unlike other Legends of the Gods, which tend to end in ambiguity or with some unspoken mystery, The Unbreakable Chain is staunchly direct with its messaging. While there is discussion to be had, either on the complexities of love and its conflicts, or on the nature of duty and trust, there is almost nothing considered 'debatable' in this particular tale. Those who enjoy to discuss old religious folklore, then, might focus on the meaning of this zealous truth. After all, who but the Union of duty and love might so firmly plant their beliefs into a simple and natural truth- that of all virtues, the care of another is most sacred.
