The Valkyrie’s Teaching

On Hindarfjall, Sigurðr saw a light like fire shining toward heaven. As he approached, he found an enclosure of shields with a banner above it. Inside lay a sleeping figure in full armour. He removed the helmet and discovered a woman. Her coat of mail fitted as tightly as though it had grown into her flesh.

With Gram he cut down from the neck-opening and along both sleeves, then lifted the armour away. She woke, sat up, and asked what blade had bitten through the mail and released her from sleep. Sigurðr named himself and his father. She said she had slept a long time because Odin had prevented her from breaking the spell that bound her.

He sat beside her and asked her name. Before giving her account, she offered him a horn of mead and greeted the day, the sons of day, night, and its kin. She asked the powers to look on them without anger and grant victory to the two seated there. She greeted the gods, goddesses, and the fruitful earth, asking for speech, understanding, and healing hands for as long as they lived.

Her name was Sigrdrífa, and she had been a valkyrie. Two kings had fought: the old warrior Hjálmgunnarr, whom Odin had promised victory, and Agnarr. She caused Hjálmgunnarr’s death against the god’s intention. Odin punished her with a sleep-thorn and decreed that she would never again decide victory in battle. She must marry. She answered with a vow of her own: she would marry no man who knew fear.

Sigurðr asked her to teach him wisdom from the worlds. She offered a drink mingled with strength, glory, songs, helpful signs, good spells, and joyful runes. The meeting changed from rescue into instruction. Cutting the mail had opened the way to knowledge that neither possession of the treasure nor the killing of the dragon could provide by itself.

She began with victory-runes, to be carved on parts of the sword while naming Týr twice. Ale-runes guarded against treachery in a drink, with signs placed on the horn, the hand, and the nail. The imagery recalled the danger that had killed Sinfjötli: hospitality could conceal poison, and a warrior needed more than courage at the battlefield’s edge.

Other runes belonged to bringing children safely into the world. They were to be marked on the palms and around the joints while the dísir were asked for help. Sea-runes protected ships, placed on the prow, the steering blade, and the oars. However steep the breakers or dark the waves, their knowledge promised a safe return. The categories moved through the vulnerable passages of life: birth, drinking, travel, and conflict.

Healing-runes belonged to the bark and wood of a tree whose branches bent eastward. Speech-runes helped a person at the assembly, where arguments and judgments could turn grievance into punishment. Mind-runes brought understanding. Sigrdrífa traced their wisdom toward Odin and the speaking head of Mímir, placing the practical arts within a larger story of divine knowledge.

She named places where runes had been carved: the shield before the sun, the ear and hoof of its horses, Sleipnir’s teeth, a bear’s paw, Bragi’s tongue, a wolf’s claws, and an eagle’s beak. They appeared on gold and glass, in wine and brewing, on the point of the spear Gungnir and the breast of Grani. The world was crowded with signs, extending from cosmic objects to the horse waiting outside.

The carved runes had been scraped away, mixed into holy mead, and sent far and wide. Gods, elves, Vanir, and human beings possessed portions of that knowledge. Their benefit depended on learning and using them without corruption. The speech did not offer a modern alphabet lesson or claim that any casually drawn mark could command these powers. It described named kinds of knowledge embedded in a poetic account of the world.

Sigrdrífa then offered a choice between speech and silence. Sigurðr chose to hear more, even if the knowledge concerned his fate. She began a further series of counsels. He should not provoke wrongdoing against his own relatives, and he should swear only truthful oaths. Broken promises brought terrible consequences. Coming after Grípir’s prophecy, these instructions make the future betrayals especially painful to recognise.

He should avoid foolish quarrels at the assembly. A foolish man might say more than he understood, yet a false accusation could not always be left unanswered in a society where public reputation mattered. Her advice could be severe, even violent. It was not a collection of harmless encouragements detached from the world of feud and retaliation.

She warned him about malign magic on the road and about those who could blunt both sword and courage. He should not let another man’s beautiful wife master his sleep or draw her toward a kiss. Nor should he quarrel when drunk: ale and song had brought sorrow, disaster, and death to many. The examples repeatedly locate danger inside pleasure, companionship, and apparently ordinary encounters.

The surviving Codex Regius passage reaches advice about conflict with fierce opponents: better to fight openly than burn men inside a house. Then the manuscript’s missing gathering interrupts the text. Other witnesses preserve further counsels, and printed editions often continue beyond this point, but those lines do not survive here on the lost leaves.

We therefore leave Sigurðr listening, with the woman he has awakened still teaching him how to live. This chapter does not invent a farewell or a marriage vow to close the gap. The last surviving instructions concern the conduct of a person who can already win battles. They ask what he will do with strength among relatives, guests, rivals, and people whose trust can be broken.