In the ancient frozen reaches of the North, where the frost-giants once trod and the winds howl with the voices of forgotten gods, lived the master smith Völundr. A prince of the elves and a craftsman of unparalleled skill, Völundr dwelt in the valley of Wolf-dales with his two brothers, Egil and Slagfiðr. Their lives were changed when they encountered three swan-maidens, Valkyries who had shed their feathered cloaks to spin flax by the shore of a lake. For nine years, the brothers lived in harmony with these ethereal wives, but the call of battle and fate eventually drew the maidens back to the skies. While Egil and Slagfiðr set out on skis to hunt for their lost loves, Völundr remained behind in the lonely valley. He spent his days at the forge, beating red-hot gold into seven hundred rings, all strung upon a single cord of willow, waiting for his wife Hervör to return.
However, the fame of his craftsmanship reached the ears of Niðuðr, the greedy King of the Njars. Coveting the wealth of the elven smith, Niðuðr led a band of warriors into the valley while Völundr was away hunting. They counted the rings and, noting one was missing—the ring Völundr had kept for his wife—they stole it and lay in ambush. When Völundr returned and fell into a deep slumber after counting his treasures, the King’s men bound him in heavy iron chains. Upon waking, Völundr found himself a captive in the court of Niðuðr. The King took Völundr’s magnificent sword for himself, while the gold ring intended for Hervör was given to the King’s daughter, Böðvildr.
The Queen, sensing the smoldering rage in the smith’s eyes, warned her husband that the captive was as dangerous as a wolf. At her cruel suggestion, Niðuðr ordered that the hamstrings of Völundr’s legs be severed, leaving him permanently crippled and unable to flee. He was then imprisoned on the desolate island of Sævarstaðr, where he was forced to labor at a forge night and day, creating countless treasures for the royal family. Solitary and broken in body, Völundr’s mind became a crucible of dark thoughts. He vowed that the king who had stolen his freedom and the queen who had suggested his mutilation would pay a price far heavier than gold.
The opportunity for vengeance arrived when Niðuðr’s two young sons, driven by greed and a curiosity for the legendary treasures of the elven smith, secretly rowed out to the island. They demanded to see the contents of Völundr’s chests. Seeing the boys, Völundr felt a cold, sharp clarity. He showed them the glimmering jewels and gold, telling them to return in secret the following day so he could gift them the treasures. When the unsuspecting princes returned, Völundr struck. In the heat of the forge, away from any witnessing eyes, he slew the two boys. This was not a quick mercy; it was the beginning of a masterpiece of malice. He hid their bodies beneath the bellows of his forge, and with the skill that had once made him the envy of the gods, he began to transform their remains into artifacts of macabre beauty.
He took the boys' skulls, scouring them clean of flesh and bone-matter until they shone white. These he encased in silver, crafting two magnificent drinking goblets which he sent to King Niðuðr. From their eyes, he fashioned precious gems of such brilliance that they appeared to glow with an inner light; these he sent to the Queen. Finally, from their teeth, he wrought a series of brooches and ornaments, which were given to the princess Böðvildr. The royal family wore and drank from the remains of their own kin, entirely unaware of the horror they held in their hands. Völundr watched from his island, his heart hardening further as he prepared the final stages of his plan.
The tragedy deepened when Böðvildr, having accidentally broken the gold ring her father had stolen for her, came secretly to Völundr to have it repaired. She feared her father’s wrath and trusted only the master smith to fix the delicate band. Völundr promised to restore the ring, but first, he offered her strong beer, laced with potent herbs. As the princess drifted into a drugged stupor, Völundr took his ultimate revenge against the lineage of Niðuðr, leaving her pregnant with his child. His work was now complete: the King’s sons were dead, their bodies served as tableware, and his daughter’s honor was tarnished beyond repair.
As the sun began to set over the churning northern seas, Völundr prepared for his departure. He had secretly gathered feathers from every bird that landed on the island, binding them together with wax and wire into a magnificent pair of wings. Standing at the highest point of his forge, he tested the great pinions. With a roar of triumph, the crippled smith took to the air, his wings carrying him over the palace of Niðuðr. He hovered above the hall where the King sat in mourning, for the princes had long been missing and the King was troubled by dark dreams.