Bolverk Vegtam did not bide long at Billing's Dun after the dragon that had advanced upon them was slain. Once the rebuilding had been completed, he took up his weapons and, bidding farewell to the Chieftain, he went on his way.
Odin travelled far. He wanted the power he had touched in the dragon's lair. The power that had allowed Frigga to hide herself from it. The power that touched his own mother's blood and had no flush of warmth in his own.
There were other ways to get that power. Other means.
He would not be bested again.
Three years later, it was a different man who returned, through the crashing of a wild storm, to Billing's Dun. He was soft-spoken and apologetic. He had not intended to stop, but the sky was dark and the gale fierce.
"Bolverk?" the old Chieftain sat straighter in the High Seat, "Bolverk Vegtam?"
The bedraggled traveler gave half a smile, "I've travelled long."
Billing laughed and he demanded that Bolverk remain a fortnight at least. Billing's heir was his daughter, Saga, and she had born her first son only the night before. The line was secured and the celebrations were only just beginning.
Graciously, Odin allowed that – having no greater quest upon him – he might stay a while.
He took a place amid the warriors around the long fires as he had sat among them three years before, and he took the drink a young girl – in the first flush of her new womanhood – offered to him. She blushed as he smiled at her. The talking and the laughter rang to and fro along the walls and mingled with the smoke and the thrusting, hairy noses of the hunting dogs. And Odin listened to it all. New scars were on his hands and arms and he spoke little.
A slender hand came across his shoulder to refill his glass.
"We missed you,"
Odin gave a dry laugh. "You told me once," he traced one finger on the rim of the goblet as she returned it to him, "that you never miss."
She did not answer, but when Odin lowered the goblet from his lips, in the flickering firelight, he saw that Frigga had smiled.