In the ancient and frost-rimed territories of the North, there lived three brothers who were the sons of the King of the Finns: Egil, Slagfiðr, and Völundr. They were men of exceptional talent, known for their prowess on skis and their ability to hunt in the deepest snows of the Wolf-dales, a remote and rugged valley where the wind whistled through the pines like the howling of the beasts for which the land was named. Among them, Völundr was the most gifted in the arts of the forge. He was not merely a blacksmith; he was a master of the hidden properties of metal, a man who could coax beauty from the cold earth and strength from the dancing flames.
One morning, as the sun began to peel back the grey shroud of dawn over the shores of Lake Wolf (Úlfsjár), the three brothers discovered three women sitting by the water’s edge. They were spinning fine linen, their movements graceful and otherworldly. Beside them lay three cloaks made of pure white swan feathers. These were swan maidens—supernatural beings who possessed the power of flight and the wisdom of the Valkyries. The brothers were instantly enamored. Egil took Ölrun to be his wife, Slagfiðr took Hlaðguðr svanhvít, and Völundr took Hervör alvitr, whose name signified her great wisdom.
For seven years, the three couples lived in the Wolf-dales in a state of profound peace and domestic harmony. Völundr’s life was enriched by Hervör’s presence; her intelligence matched his skill, and her beauty inspired his craft. However, the nature of a swan maiden is not easily tamed by the comforts of a human hearth. They were creatures of fate and battle, bound by invisible threads to the great conflicts of the world. In the eighth year of their residence, a restlessness began to stir within the women. They looked to the horizon with longing, hearing a call that the brothers could not perceive. In the ninth year, the call became irresistible. While the brothers were out hunting, the three maidens donned their feather cloaks once more and took to the sky, flying away to seek the turmoil of war and the fulfillment of their ancient duties.
When the brothers returned to find the hall empty and the hearth cold, they were devastated. The silence of the Wolf-dales, once comforting, now felt like a suffocating weight. After waiting for a time, Egil and Slagfiðr decided they could not endure the isolation. They strapped on their skis and departed, one heading east and the other west, vowing to scour the world until they found their lost loves. But Völundr chose a different path. He believed that if he remained in the place where they had been happy, Hervör would eventually find her way back to him. He also knew that he lacked the speed of the wind to chase a swan, but he possessed the endurance of the mountain and the fire of the forge.
Völundr retreated into his smithy, a dark chamber illuminated only by the rhythmic pulsing of the bellows and the orange glow of the furnace. His grief was channeled into his hammer. He began to forge gold, specifically choosing the most precious of metals to honor the memory of Hervör alvitr. He did not create weapons or armor, for his heart was not set on war, but on the restoration of his home. He began to forge rings—perfect circles of gold that symbolized the eternal nature of his devotion and the cycle of the seasons he hoped would bring his wife back to his side.
Day after day, the sound of Völundr’s hammer echoed across the frozen expanse of the lake. He worked with a singular focus that bordered on the divine. Each ring was crafted to be identical to the others, a masterwork of precision. He would draw the gold into thin wires, braiding them with a dexterity that no other living man could replicate. He set into the gold subtle patterns that mimicked the flow of water and the delicate structure of a swan’s feather. As each ring was finished, he would quench it in the icy waters of the lake, the steam rising like a ghostly messenger into the air.
He forged exactly seventy rings. This number was not arbitrary; it represented the countless hours of his vigil and the depth of his commitment. He did not intend to sell these rings or use them as currency. Instead, he took a long cord made of linden bark and strung the rings upon it, hanging them in his hall. He would sit in the evenings, the golden hoard shimmering in the firelight, and count them over and over. Each ring was a prayer, a hope, and a memory. He believed that the brilliance of the gold would act as a beacon, a shining light that Hervör could see from high above, guiding her back to the Wolf-dales.
As the years passed, Völundr’s reputation grew. Travelers and hunters spoke of the lone smith in the dales who possessed a hoard of gold and a skill that surpassed the dwarves. These rumors eventually reached the ears of King Niðuðr, the ruler of the Njars. Niðuðr was a man of insatiable greed and little honor. He did not care for the story of the lost swan maiden or the devotion of the smith; he saw only an opportunity to enrich his treasury and harness a master craftsman for his own ends.