The tale opens by a still lake, where three valkyries sit by the shore, spinning and watching the sky. Three brothers arrive – Slagfiðr, Egil and Völund – and each woman lays aside her swan-cloak to stay with one of them. Völund’s partner, often called Hervör or Ölrun, is a battle-maiden who can turn back into a winged being whenever she chooses.
They share several quiet winters together, but everyone knows valkyries belong to war and fate. When the women finally fly away, the brothers react differently: two go searching, while Völund stays behind, pouring his longing into forged rings and careful work at the anvil.
From Grief to Fixation: When Longing Hardens
Völund’s first response to being left is not rage but refusal to move on. He remains in the same place, crafting rings identical to the one his valkyrie wore, stacking them on a cord as if that careful work could hold her image in place. Time passes, yet his life shrinks to the workshop and the memory. What begins as grief slowly turns into a kind of stillness, where nothing new is allowed to take root.
Eventually the outside world forces its way in. A king hears about the unmatched smith, has Völund seized, hamstrung and imprisoned on an island forge. On the surface this is simple cruelty, but it also mirrors his inner state: trapped, unable to walk away, useful only for what he can make. From that point, his craft twists. He forges gifts that become lures, turns gold and steel into tools for revenge, and uses rings and treasures to tie others to his will, the way he secretly wishes he could have tied his valkyrie to the ground.
The saga here brushes against a familiar pattern. When loss feels unbearable, it can be tempting to pour feeling into something that cannot leave: an ideal partner on the page, a character in a game, or an AI-made companion such as an ai girlfriend that is always available and always responsive. For adults, that kind of controlled fantasy can feel safer than risking rejection or change with a real person. Völund’s path warns that when longing hardens into a need to control, it easily spills over into harm – whether through mythic acts of vengeance or, in the modern world, careless treatment of real people behind images, profiles and screens.
Absence, Waiting and Fantasy in Viking Age Life
Viking Age life was full of departures. Ships left with raiders, traders and explorers who might be gone for a summer, several winters or forever. Those who stayed behind – spouses, parents, children – had to live with stretches of time where the person they loved existed only in memory and in the handful of things they had left behind. A cloak, a ring, a tool on the wall could become a stand-in for the missing person, touched and looked at as if it still carried part of their presence.
Imagined Lovers on the Page and the Screen
The valkyrie in Völund’s story is part of a long line of imagined lovers: powerful, distant figures who walk through myths carrying both danger and desire. Later centuries added goddesses, queens, ballad heroines, and, much more recently, fictional characters, avatars, and AI companions. In all these cases, a person pours feeling into someone who does not move through ordinary life with them. The relationship happens in the space of tales, artwork, or code, which makes it feel both safer and strangely intense.
One reason this pattern keeps returning is that one-sided partners are easier to handle. An imagined lover never complains about chores, disagrees over money, or makes sudden choices that disrupt plans. For adults, spending some time in these carefully shaped worlds can be a harmless way to relax or process feelings, as long as some lines stay clear. Völund’s descent into revenge shows the risk on the far edge: when hurt turns into a need to control, it is all too easy for fantasy to spill into harm toward real people, whether through abuse of images, reputations, or trust.
Letting Valkyries Fly: Lessons from Völund’s Story
Völund’s tale invites a difficult but simple lesson: some loves end, and trying to cage what wants to fly only twists both sides. Grief is not the problem; the trouble begins when loss hardens into the belief that the other person must somehow be held, remade, or replaced by something that can never leave. The valkyrie’s departure hurts, yet the story suggests that chaining her to the forge would have broken something essential in her nature.
For modern readers, myths like this work as signposts rather than strict rules. They help mark the point where admiration shades into fixation, or where a comforting fantasy starts to push real friendships, family, and responsibilities to the edge of the map. There is room in a healthy life for sagas, games, and even digital companions, just as there was room in Viking halls for songs about faraway loves. The key is keeping one foot in Midgard: remembering that honour, consent, and living, breathing relationships matter more than any imagined partner, no matter how dazzling the wings.
