"The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams."
Eleanor Roosevelt
Wulfgar Þēodnes shivered as the cold winds cut through his seated form, the young half-breed pulling his fur coat tighter around his shoulders in the hopes of keeping grasp of what little warmth he could retain. Despite wanting to hear what his cousin was about to reveal, the young Lord couldn't help but think that Valdimárr could have picked a better location than an iceberg in the middle of nowhere to do so.
It was freezing, wet, and warming charms were utterly useless in the face of winter's wrath.
Valdimárr Slyðerin, much to his younger cousin's growing displeasure, seemed utterly immune to the cold, the elder dæmon continuing to etch intricate patterns into the pristine white canvas between them with a stick in his ungloved hand like he were enjoying nothing more than a beach on a hot summer's day. Yet the frigid air seemed to crackle with the anticipation of what his cousin wanted to impart, and Wulfgar found himself unwilling to move; unsure but curious as to what it was Valdimárr wanted to share.
"It's called the Eldhvítr's Ēð," the dæmon finally begun, breaking the silence that had descended over himself and his cousin and momentarily causing Wulfgar to forget his discomfort and the cold as he snorted.
"White-Fire's Oath?" the half-breed repeated, unable to stop himself from thinking that the name was rather melodramatic. Yet his sarcastic remark only earned Wulfgar an eyeroll from his cousin, who otherwise chose to ignore the half-breed as he continued to work on the patterns he was carving into the snow.
"Yes, Eldhvítr's Ēð," Valdimárr affirmed seriously, causing whatever retort that had been about to follow Wulfgar's first to become lodged in the half-breed's throat as he watched his cousin pause, as if the dæmon was gathering his thoughts before he then began to weave a tale that seemed almost to fantastical to be true.
"It is said that in a time long past, when the seas whispered their secrets to those who dare listen and the creatures of the deep had no qualm in dealing out the will of the gods, there roamed a legendary group of seafaring peoples known as the Ísjórmaðr. They were the ancestors of the Frostmariners; Vikings of whom to this day continue to recount the adventures of old and follow the customs created so they are not lost to the annuals of history."
"Among these legends, there is one that stands out more than any other - the tale of Eldhvítr's Oath," Valdimárr continued, his gaze fixed onto the snow as if the very ground held the secrets of the past. "Eldhvítr was an Ísjórmaðr who held immense power and prestige; having come to achieve all there could be achieved in life, except for one thing. He had yet to catch the eye of the one he did so love."
Wulfgar's scepticism began to wane as his cousin's words took on a more solemn tone, and he leaned in, his curiosity having been piqued. "Go on," he urged.
"For the Ísjórmaðr, life at sea was the norm. For months - years - they could be away from the safety that was land, journeying across Njord's vast realm. And so, as a token of their dedication to the lands they did derive from, as well as with the hopes that their loved ones would return to them safely, the families of these Ísjórmaðr would gift them a single white rose; a bloom that was highly revered among the men who not often glimpsed land. This rose was believed to embody the purest of intent, heart, and soul of the giver, and when they embarked on these journeys, the Ísjórmaðr would carefully preserve their blooms in a flask of cold water."
Wulfgar listened intently to his cousin's tale, his eyes focused on the intricate designs Valdimárr was still tracing in the snow. The half-breed's mind pained vivid images of the scenes his full-blooded cousin did share; of the families bidding farewell to those they loved before they took off on their journey with a single white bloom, a symbol these Ísjórmaðr clearly saw as a representation of the love and hope their families held for them as they faced the treacherous seas.
"They say that her hair had been as golden as the sun, her eyes like glittering sapphires, and her laughter as melodious as the seagulls that soared high above the cliffs near their home." A small smile begun to pull at Valdimárr's lips as he continued to recount the tale, his own mind providing him with an image that was similar, yet completely different to the words he shared. "Cælipsa was the Hersir's daughter and V ǫ lva of their village, yet Eldhvítr had become utterly captivated by her; something of which Cælipsa was unaware of. And as much as he wanted to tell her, to pledge his love and devotion to Cælipsa, there was a shadow that did linger within his heart; a doubt that did fester in his mind. He wondered if his feelings could be returned, or if the smiles and laugher sent his way were nothing more than a mere courtesy."
"As the years passed, however, Eldhvítr found that despite his doubts, the love he felt for the Hersir's daughter never wavered. And so, before a particularly dangerous expedition, the Ísjórmaðr visited the ancient rose garden that did dwell on the outskirts of his village. It was one nestled amidst the rocky cliffs, a sanctuary of white roses that glistened with frost, yet of which were untouched by its cold. Eldhvítr took great care in selecting the perfect bloom, wanting it to be absolute, pure, and untouched by life's decay; something of which the Ísjórmaðr believed to be the perfect representation of the devotion and love he felt for his beloved Cælipsa. He selected the most pristine and radiant rose he could fine, its petals said to have been as white as the driven snow."
"What did he do with it? Did he give it to Cælipsa?" Wulfgar questioned curiously even as he realised, with some mysticism, that while Valdimárr had been telling his tale out loud, the dæmon had also been doing the same in the snow between them; the designs and patterns he'd been etching into the canvas of white beginning to look more like the very rose in the story.
"No," his cousin replied, shaking his head as his art was put on pause for but a moment as he glanced at Wulfgar. Though Valdimárr was soon continuing with his tale once more, his gaze returning to the depictions that marred the snow between them as he revealed what happened next. "On the morning of his departure, Eldhvítr placed the rose into a flask of frost-cold water, sealing away his silent commitment and intent inside."
"For years he travelled with this rose, much to the confusion of his comrades. They did not know of his love for Cælipsa, and of his reasoning for traversing with such a bloom. Yet, and before each expedition, Eldhvítr would aways make certain that the flask containing his pristine white rose rested always close to his heart. The Ísjórmaðr watched often as their Leiðangr would often gaze at the bloom, each knowing of its significance, yet unaware of what that was for Eldhvítr as, with each journey, he would whisper his prayers and promises to the one he cherished, each word going unheard, though building upon his determination to overcome all trials of life - including earning the right of courting Cælipsa - as he waited for a sign that it was time... whatever that may be."
"It was on one of these expeditions wherein these Ísjórmaðr were said to have faced horrors and hardships unseen before. They encountered fierce storms, menacing sea creatures, and treacherous waters. However, and with their unwavering faith in their Leiðangr, the Ísjórmaðr did press on; fuelled by their loyalty to not only Eldhvítr, but to each other, along with the promised hope to return to those they did so love."
Wulfgar, his eyes having widened as he listened to his cousin's tale; anticipation having caused what cold he'd been feeling to go unnoticed, couldn't stop himself from asking, "What happened? What became of them?" and his question had Valdimárr frowning, the dæmon's eyebrows furrowing as, in the snow, and as he replied, he begun to create a new drawing, one that seemed to resemble a half-sun, half-moon.
"It was the very sea, they say, the very waters of Njord's realm these Ísjórmaðr had braved for so long, that became their final battleground. A massive storm arose, fierce and unyielding; battering Eldhvítr's ship and testing the mettle of his crew. Waves the size of mountains crashed down upon them, and a maelstrom of chaos begun to surround their vessel. The Ísjórmaðr fought with all their strength, but it was a battle they could not hope to win."
"Their ship was swallowed by the raging sea, taking each of the brave Ísjórmaðr down into its watery depths," the dæmon continued with a growing frown, the stick in his hand moving to draw three wavey lines through the rose he had so expertly etched into the snow. "Though as they sank beneath the waves, life slowly slipping away from their grasp, their thoughts turned to the lands they'd left behind. The faces of their loved ones, the warmth of the hearth, and the touch of their families flashed through each Ísjórmaðr's mind."
"Eldhvítr, however, clung to one image and one image alone - the radiant smile of Cælipsa that had been gifted upon him the last time he had seen her. She had been the beacon of hope that had kept him going through all his travels, and it is said that because of his unwavering love for Cælipsa, Eldhvítr's fate was far from sealed..."