Again, just so we're clear, I'm painting this society as a very pre/early-medieval Celtic society. Most of my 'research' on this chapter, came from historical fiction I read in my teens by Rosemary Sutcliff. If anybody's interested.

Also, when I say 'less time' translate YEARS. Not decades…I think, but YEARS, at least.

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It took less time than one might have thought for Bolverk Vegtam, wandering warrior, lore master and mage, to win the heart of Frigga Billingsdottir, and scarce time after that, her hand.

Frigga herself crafted the Bridescake. Saga, her elder sister, served in the place of their mother and helped her dress. The spears were polished and bedecked with feathers from the birds that stood one-legged among the reeds by the river. The feast was had, and the cake, then Billing took each by one hand and led them from their places at opposite ends of the fire to the center. The Cup was passed from one to the other, the fire winking in its bound rim, flashing in Frigga's blue eyes. Two young men of Odin's nearer acquaintance rose silently from the back and made for a side door. Odin pretended that he had not noticed it. The ribbon was bound once, twice, three times about their joined wrists, flamingly scarlet against the cream of Frigga's skin. The horses were made ready. Frigga's brother-by-marriage stood in the place of a brother behind her with his spear ready. Gefjon, her maiden sister served as her handmaid. Outside, the horses were led by the two young men to a place appointed. The vows were spoken on the Ring and the Hearth.

A crash as the door swung open. A shout was raised as Odin caught Frigga about the wrist and dragged her forward, to the beckoning, laughing faces of the young men at the door. He hauled her behind him and she stumbled on her foot, catching at her mantle, out into the light of the setting sun and he thrust her up onto the back of his horse. Then he swung up behind her. He drove his heels into the horse's flank and the stallion reared back before shooting out from the shelter of the dun and across the heath. Clutching his arm, Frigga gave a breathless laugh.

To his left one of the young men shouted. He pointed and Odin followed his laughing directive.

Behind them, the men, headed by Frigga's brother-by-marriage, had flown to horse and followed in pursuit. Most had broken with tradition – as was more commonly the way now – and they'd saddled their mounts in anticipation of the 'raid'. In the old days, no such thing would have been allowed.

Odin drove the white stallion out across the rolling hills to the place appointed by the two who directed him. There, hidden in a stand of trees, was an enclosed shelter built. And within sight but distant from it a second feast was spread and a bonfire awaiting its lighting.

As they alighted from their breathless steeds, the sun slipped below the horizon. One of the young men, grinning cheekily, took the bridle of his horse. The other had stopped by the mound of dry timbers to meet their pursuit that was just cresting the last ridge now. Their leader held aloft the bride's torch.

It was his duty to make sure the bride was well cared for in that night – in promise of protection for her future – by keeping watch with the other men of their dun by the great fire and to escort the bride and her husband home for the feast the next morning.

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The sun rose pale and pointed and Odin opened the door to the cheers of those just waking and those who had not slept where they were by the dying fire. He showed Frigga's hand, clasped within his as high as the length of her arm wound reach above his head.

Flushing, she laughed, "Bolverk,"

There was much she did not know. But that was as it should be. The dead need not be raised.

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Oh, and on a semi-related note. – SHAMELESS plug. – I've been working this week on the 'Loki' installment of this exercise. I'm gonna risk the accusations of hubris and say that *I* think it's a new take. I think you guys are gonna like it. I can't wait.