The Saga of Astryd
Hearts Never Lie
This story is my entry into both the Literotica Pink Orchid 2025 Story Event and the Literotica Valentine's Day 2025 Story Contest.
In this tale, a modern-day young couple from Oslo agree to live in a re-created Viking village in northern Norway. But after her rugged-looking Viking blacksmith partner taps out, a young woman chooses to remain behind. Overcoming the darkness and cold of a Norwegian winter, she learns to believe in herself and discovers that Hearts Never Lie. This lesbian story includes a sprinkling of Old Norse mythology. All characters at all times are over the age of 18.
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Chapter 1
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I stood on the shoreline of the frigid fjord in northern Norway and watched Arne climb aboard the inflatable boat with his kit. A hovercraft lay about forty meters offshore and would be returning him to civilization. Dim lights reflected in the water gently rippled with the outgoing tide. As the small engine stirred the silence, a searchlight illuminated the boat, tracing its waterborne path. Mere days after the Winter Solstice, and so close to the Arctic Circle, it meant that our daylight consisted of little more than a fleeting glow on the southern horizon. Arne and I had been living together in Oslo, where he was well-known as a legacy blacksmith who studied ancient Viking techniques. We met at a weekend Viking re-enactment when he stopped at my replica clothing stall, and I instantly fell for him. He looked like a Viking, with long blond hair, intense blue eyes, massive forearms, and a full golden beard. His costume regalia was as impressive as him, and he swept me off my feet, literally!
A Viking Heritage and History Foundation contacted Arne nearly a year ago. The Foundation owns a private fjord, and within the confines built a replica of a Viking village, complete with six longhouses, storage buildings, and a blacksmith shop. What they were missing were Vikings. After listening to their proposal Arne grew excited and agreed to live in the village for one year, starting last September. Being smitten with Arne, I offered my services as a needlewoman, combining the tasks of tailor, weaver, and seamstress. I was not into "Going Viking" as much as Arne was, but my replica clothing had won awards of excellence at craft shows and re-enactments. The foundation agreed to pay us a handsome stipend, and other than trying to survive for one year in tenth-century living conditions, all we had to do was keep a journal.
To make the experience as authentic as possible the Foundation told us to only speak to each other using the Old Norse language. Arne was almost fluent, and often spent time with other re-enactors conversing in that language. I barely knew any Old Norse, and what little skill I possessed was used to converse with hard-core customers at my clothing stall. But now, Arne was giving up. He had stolen my heart, but could not conquer the constant cold and darkness of a northern Norway winter. Arne was leaving me here alone, and I wondered how much longer I would last myself before tapping out. Three other couples seemed to be doing fine, but all had vastly more outdoor experiences. As I turned away, it felt like Arne was a paper Viking, pretty to look at, but without the heart of a true Viking.
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Chapter 2
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I returned to my longhouse, lit an oil lamp, and stirred the dying embers of the central firepit. Possessing no skill at starting a fire using authentic Viking-era flint techniques, keeping the fire going needed to be an essential part of my days and nights. As the fire returned to its former glory, I sat close on a bench and remembered the early days, right after Arne and I arrived. As part of his persona, Arne took the name Viking name of Haakon. I took the name Norse name, Astryd.
Haakon and I were in our bed, and we woke from our sleep. Joining hands, we kissed and cuddled beneath the warm faux fur coverings, as I stroked his magnificent beard. Haakon would caress my bare breasts and tell me how he loved me. Each day, Haakon joined me in the byre as we fed our small flock of sheep, running our hands through their velvety soft fleece. Haakon kissed me and told me how silky my hair was as he stroked it. Outside our longhouse door, we lay upon warm sun-kissed grass, looking up at the puffy white clouds, and in the quiet stillness, imagined we had gone back one thousand years in time. On the warmest of late summer days, we would visit a peaceful fern grotto, walk barefoot over the moss, bathe naked together in the stream, and have torrid sex.
But like Cinderella's pumpkin, Haakon had turned back into Arne! I loved you Arne, but now that love lies lost, perhaps forever! Damn you, Arne! My feelings for you have grown as dark and cold as the long nights I must now endure alone.
I already planned with the other couples in the fjord to help with many things, such as cutting and splitting firewood. They even agreed to take the six Icelandic sheep I brought with me. I still wanted to pull their wool by hand in the coming spring and use it to make woolen clothing. I kept my she-goat, mostly for her milk, and successfully made soft goat cheese. The larder held a good supply of root vegetables, grains, dried fish, and dried meats, and with Arne's enormous appetite gone, the food would easily last me the rest of the winter.
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Chapter 3
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Perhaps six weeks had passed since Arne left, when on a mid-February night there came a knock on my longhouse door. I opened it and found my neighbor, Aislinn, carrying a torch, and her husband, Ragnar, with a wooden bucket and three drinking horns.
Ragnar said, "My batch of ale is ready for drinking. I thought you might join us as we celebrate Vali's Day."
They were good neighbors, and I knew they were doing this because I was alone. I agreed to their celebration and let them in. Ragnar dipped a carved wooden goose-shaped cup into the bucket and poured ale into the drinking horns, passing them out to Aislinn and me. He explained that Vali is the God of eternal light, the harbinger of brighter days, the awakener of tender sentiments, and that patron of all who are in love. Vali is renowned for his skill in archery, with the flight of an arrow like a beam of light. As I thought about the description Ragnar provided, I was reminded of St. Valentine, himself a skilled archer, or perhaps a small, winged cherub who also unleashes his arrows this time of year.
Ragnar said, "We will be performing a Sumbel, a formal drinking ritual composed of toasting, hails, and oath-taking. After each hail, we will take a sip from our drinking horns. But it must be more than that, or the hails will not pass through Yggdrasil and reach the Norse God's home in Valhalla or the elves in Alfheim. Say each hail loud, and with meaning."
Even though Ragnar resembled Arne, Ragnar felt far more authentic. At times I wondered if Ragnar believed himself to be an actual Viking. He seemed to know all the mythology and never let a Viking feast pass without a celebration.
Aislinn had become a good friend, and we tried to visit each other at least once a week. She did not appear as a typical Viking woman, with her brilliant red hair, green eyes, and freckles. She told me she was born in Ireland, but gave me few details on how she and Ragnar met. Her knowledge of Old Norse was better than mine, and she offered me words of encouragement, assuring me I would get better. We bonded, because like me, she was a carefree spirit, and together, we laughed and lamented about our lives here in the Viking Age.
Ragnar announced, "I will begin. Hail Vali! Bringer of light and sunshine to vanquish the dark days of winter! Hail Vali!"
We all repeated the final hail, then took sips. It was the first alcohol I had tasted since tasting Ragnar's earlier attempt at brewing ale during the Winter Nights feast, and this time it was, at least, drinkable. This ale was not as strong as the craft brew I prefer back in Oslo, and Ragnar's brew was a bit sweeter.
Aislinn yelled, "Hail Freyr! Lord of Alfheim. Ruler of the Elf World! May he grant us prosperity in the days ahead! Hail Freyr!"
We all sipped again. The ale was starting to taste better for some reason.
