"The Song of Vardmýr and the Wanderer"

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Description

In the long shadows of winter’s breath, when the wind wails like wolves at the door, the hearth is the heart of the hall. Warriors sit wrapped in furs, their ale horns heavy, their eyes shining with the hunger for tales.
Upon the dais, beneath the carved beams of the roof, the scaldi rise — old singers of the North, keepers of memory and wonder.
One such singer, cloaked in a mantle of raven-feathers, lifts his voice.
He speaks of a time lost beyond the mist, when the world was young and dreams still walked beside men.
He tells of Vardmýr, the Mist-Weaver, and Eirikr, the Wanderer, whose fates met in the silent places where earth and sky are veiled.
And as the fire crackles and the hall falls still, the tale unfolds…

Hearken, hearth-keepers, heroes bold!
A mist was woven in elder mold —
Born of Breath and Spring’s first sigh,
Vardmýr rose where veils lie high.

She walked where sight is blind and still,
Where whispering winds weave the will;
No mortal eye her face could claim,
No iron tongue could speak her name.

Then came Eirikr, sorrow's son,
From broken fields where hopes were none;
Through bog and brume, through hunger sore,
He sought the Hall of the Hidden Shore.

Barefoot he carved in earth runes old,
With blood and breath, a prayer bold;
“Lady of Mists, weave me a way,
Lest grief and ghosts steal my day!”

Silent, silver as morning frost,
Vardmýr came, from nowhere lost.
No word she spoke, no hand she gave,
Only the heart’s deep, unseen wave.

She showed the boy that love must fly,
Not fettered down by fear to die;
And so he wept, and so he healed,
In mist and mud his fate was sealed.

Then like a shadow through the skies,
She vanished, hidden from all eyes;
Yet still her steps, soft on the mere,
Are heard by those who truly hear.

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