In the ancient mists of the North, there lived a master smith named Völundr, known to the Saxons as Wayland. He was a prince of the Elves, a man whose hands possessed the divine gift of shaping metal into forms that defied the imagination. Völundr lived in the valley of Wolfdales with his two brothers, Egil and Slagfiðr. One morning, they discovered three women spinning fine flax on the shore of a lake; these were Valkyries, who had shed their swan skins to rest. The brothers took the women as their wives, and for nine years, they lived in harmony. However, the call of the battlefield and the nature of the Valkyries could not be suppressed forever. On the tenth year, the women flew away to follow the fates of war, leaving the brothers in a state of profound grief. While Egil and Slagfiðr set out on skis to hunt for their lost loves across the frozen wastes, Völundr remained in Wolfdales, hunkered in his forge. He spent his days crafting seven hundred rings of gold, binding them together in wait for his wife’s return, believing that she would one day recognize his handiwork and find her way home.
But the fame of Völundr’s craft reached the ears of Niðuðr, the greedy King of the Njárar in Sweden. Niðuðr was a man of cold ambition who craved the wealth Völundr produced. Under the cover of a moonless night, the king sent his warriors to the Wolfdales. They found Völundr asleep in his hall, his seven hundred rings hanging on a rope of bast. The soldiers took one ring for the king’s daughter and bound Völundr in heavy chains. When Völundr awoke, he found himself a prisoner in the court of Niðuðr. The king’s queen, a woman of sharp instincts and a cruel heart, looked upon the smith and recognized the burning embers of hatred in his eyes. She warned her husband that the captive elf would not be easily tamed. On her advice, the king ordered a horrific act: the hamstrings in Völundr’s legs were cut, permanently laming him so that he could never run or walk away. He was then banished to a small, isolated island called Sævarstaðr, where he was forced to labor day and night at a forge, creating jewelry and weapons for the royal family.
On the island of Sævarstaðr, Völundr became a ghost of his former self, a crippled artisan fueled by a singular, icy resolve for vengeance. He worked in the heat of the forge, the rhythmic striking of his hammer echoing across the waves like a heartbeat. The king kept the smith’s own sword for himself, and the king’s daughter, Bodvild, wore the gold ring that had been intended for Völundr’s swan-wife. These thefts were insults that Völundr could not forgive. He waited patiently for the right moment to strike. The opportunity arrived when the king’s two young sons, driven by a child's greed and curiosity about the legendary treasures of the forge, rowed secretly to the island. Völundr greeted them with a false smile, showing them the chests filled with gold and gems. He told them to return alone the next day, promising to give them all the treasure they could carry. When the boys returned, Völundr decapitated them as they leaned over the treasure chests. From their skulls, he fashioned silver-rimmed drinking bowls for King Niðuðr; from their eyes, he made precious gems for the queen; and from their teeth, he crafted brooches for Bodvild. The king and his household accepted these gifts, never suspecting the grisly source of the materials.
The final part of Völundr’s plan involved Bodvild herself. One afternoon, Bodvild broke the golden ring her father had given her—the ring stolen from Völundr. Fearful of her father’s temper, she rowed to the island in secret, seeking the smith’s help to repair it. Völundr, seeing his moment of ultimate leverage, welcomed her into the forge. He told her the repair would take time and offered her strong, drugged beer. As the princess drank, her senses dulled, and she fell into a heavy stupor. In her defenseless state, Völundr seduced her, ensuring that he would leave behind a legacy that Niðuðr could never wash away. When Bodvild awoke, she wept bitterly, realizing the gravity of what had occurred, but Völundr offered her no comfort. His vengeance was nearly complete. He had taken the king’s sons, he had corrupted the king’s daughter, and now he only needed to reclaim his freedom.
Throughout his long months of captivity, Völundr had not only been crafting jewelry for the king; he had been secretly gathering feathers. Some versions of the legend suggest his brother Egil, a master archer, helped him by shooting birds and bringing the plumage to the island. Using his unparalleled skill as a smith and an engineer, Völundr fashioned a suit of wings, bound together with wax and wire. As Bodvild rowed back to the mainland in tears, Völundr donned his creation. He felt the weight of the metal and the lightness of the feathers. With a great effort of his powerful arms, he beat the air and rose from the island. He did not fly straight to the horizon; instead, he flew to the very hall of King Niðuðr. He perched upon the high wall of the palace, his winged form casting a long, dark shadow over the courtyard. The king looked up in amazement and dread, calling out to the smith. Völundr, hovering above his former captor, laughed a cold, hollow laugh.