Come nearer the fire, kinsman of the North, and let the flames paint gold upon thy face while I, Brynhildr, weave for thee the deepest roots of our people’s heart. These are not mere words of law scratched upon a runestone. These are the very bones of the world we build with axe and oar and blood-oath.
Above all gifts of the gods, courage is the one no man or woman may live without and still be counted among the living.
To stand in the shield-wall though the spears fall like winter rain, to laugh when the storm tears the sail to ribbons, to look upon one’s own death and call it “a good day” – this is the first and greatest virtue.
A coward’s name rots faster than his body. A brave soul, though he fall, feasts forever in Valhalla or Fólkvangr.
Honor is the golden ring that may not be bent.
It is kept by speaking truth though the sky fall, by keeping oaths though the world burn, by giving even an enemy the death-gift of steel rather than poison or treachery.
To break one’s word is to become nídhing – a thing of naught, lower than the worm that gnaws the roots of Yggdrasil. A man without honor may own a hundred thralls, yet he himself is thrall to shame.
Loyalty binds shield to shield, son to father, wife to husband, jarl to his sworn men.
It is warmer than any cloak in winter.
The man who deserts his lord in battle, the woman who betrays her hearth-kin, both are driven into the forest with wolves at their heels and the mark of the outlaw burned upon their brow.
Yet loyalty given freely is returned a hundredfold: the jarl who dies shieldless so his last man may live will be sung of until the sun grows cold.
A stingy man is a dead man who still breathes.
The true lord is he whose hands are ever open: silver rings broken from his own arms to reward a skald’s song, meat and mead poured without count for his hearth-troop, a ship gifted to a faithful follower.
Freyja’s tears are called “the tears of Freyja” because they fall freely and bring joy. So must the gifts of a great one fall.
The niggard hoards gold in his grave and wakes in Náströnd with nothing but dust between his teeth.
When the body is burned and the soul flown, only the name remains.
Therefore every deed is done with an eye to the skalds who will sing it.
A woman who weaves a sail that carries her husband’s dragon-ship to Miklagard, a boy who stands over his fallen father though he himself is weaponless, a jarl who refuses ransom and dies laughing – these live forever.
Better a short life bright as a shooting star than nine hundred winters dim as marsh-light.
The North does not forgive weakness.
The farmer must wrestle the frozen earth each spring, the sailor must bend the oar until his palms bleed, the mother must bear child after child though each birth is a battle.
Yet strength is not only of sinew. The widow who keeps her husband’s farm alive through seven lean winters, the blind skald who remembers ten thousand verses in his head – these too are strong as ancient yew.
Blood is thicker than the whale-road.
To avenge a kinsman is duty sweeter than mead. To protect the women and children of one’s hearth is the first law written upon every man’s heart.
Yet the hearth-troop – the chosen brothers and sisters of the oath-ring – are kin as surely as those born of one mother. Their wounds are felt in every breast.
The door of the hall must open to any wayfarer, be he prince or beggar, friend or hidden foe.
Three nights of meat, mead, and warm furs are owed to every guest beneath the sky-cloak. On the fourth morning he may be asked his name and business, but never before.
He who turns a stranger from his gate invites the wrath of Odin the Wanderer himself.
The gods help those who help themselves.
When the crop fails, the wise one trades, raids, or moves the household across the sea rather than starve whining.
Cunning is not dishonor – Loki himself is feared, yet his wit has saved Asgard more than once. A sharp mind behind a calm face is worth ten swords.
Even under the shadow of Ragnarök we drink deep, love fiercely, sing loudly.
A feast is not complete without laughter that shakes the rafters, a saga without tears and roaring mirth, a bedding without cries that waken the household.
To live grimly is to hand victory to the giants before the last battle has begun.
These ten strands are plaited together into the rope that hauls our ships across the storm, that binds our shields into the wall, and lifts our souls to the gods when the pyre is kindled.
Carry them in thy breast as thou wouldst carry Mjölnir itself, for they are heavier than gold and brighter than the Bifrost.
Thus speaks Brynhildr beneath the ancient rafters, with the wind singing the old songs through the smoke-hole and the ravens of thought wheeling overhead.
May thy life be long in honor, or short in glory, but never dull in shame.
Hail the living, hail the brave, hail the North that shall never yield.