As Thorsten closed the space between himself and his future bride, he suddenly found himself struck by and inability to think of anything intelligent to say.

The muscles in his neck seemed to tighten around his throat as he drew near to her. Just as he came within range to reach out and touch her hand, she ran after her little brother who was off to the toy maker’s cart. Angrboða grabbed her little sister around the waist and lifted the child onto her hip, running after the boy who was much quicker than appeared with feet nearly back with frostbite.

Angrboða caught up with her brother Bjornvin at the toy stand. She smiled at his enthusiastic squeals of delight at the wonders created by the skilled craftsman. Little Kirsten on her hip marveled at the beautiful wooden dolls dressed finely in bright colorful clothes, the likes of which she’d never seen before. Angrboða looked at the toymaker with an apologetic smile.

“We have no money to spend on toys today,” Angrboða whispered softly, a tear welling up in her eye. “What little we have must be saved for shelter and food.”

The kindly toymaker looked her in the eye and reached out his hand to brush the tear from her cheek.

He smiled a wide and toothy smile and said “Today dearie is your lucky day. For one day only, that wee one on your hip can have any doll she likes in exchange for a smile.”

Kirsten’s face lit up like the new year’s aurora-filled sky – her eyes wide, cheeks lifted, and mouth agape in awe at what she had just heard said by the kindly craftsman.

“The beauty of your sweet young smile warms my weary heart,” he said with a sense of heaviness in his tone. His hands went to retrieve the doll Kisrten’s eyes were leading him to. It was a doll made of birch wood he had carved that summer when the sun was warm and the days were long. The doll was dressed in a fine pink dress with a blue apron and yellow ribbons in her golden hair.

“My wife made the clothes you so admire,” he said smiling as he handed her the doll. “She makes all the clothes of my creations. Long ago, she lost the ability to walk and has been lame these past thirty years. I wish so very much she could be here with me to see how greatly you admire her handiwork, but I will be sure to tell her all about you. We live just down the lane if by chance you like like to stop by and tell her yourself how much you appreciate her skill with a needle and thread.”

“Oh thank you,” said Angrboða with tears streaming down her face by now. “We will most certainly come to call and thank her in person just as soon as we can.”

“My name is Marvin,” he said warmly. “And my wife Violet will be delighted to greet such young and grateful guests into our home. There is a shingle over our door with my maker’s mark.”

Turning to little Bjornvin, the toymaker could see him reaching for a toy that lay just out of his reach.

“Ah,” said the toymaker. “A little warrior boy we have here.”

Bjornvin was reaching for a wooden toy sword. The hilt was painted a golden-brown to playfully mimic the look of bronze. The wood blade was stained a deep red, bringing out the natural colour of the tree from whence it came.

“A very fine specimen of wood that was,” the toymaker beamed. “Came from across the sea that it did. Never worked with such a wood before or since, so this piece is quite special.”

Bjornvin looked downcast, thinking himself unworthy of such a prize.

“It’s a good thing you’re a very special boy,” Marvin said assuredly bringing the sword down from it’s shelf and placing it in the little boy’s small and dirty hands.

“A fine sword for a fine future swordsman,” he said with pride.

Little Bjornvin stood still, the wooden sword in his small hands. His mouth agape, he could only gaze at the treasure that had been bequeathed him.

“Tell toymaker Marvin how much you like it,” said Angrboða softly.

“Oh,” the boy sputtered. “Oh, oh, oh, I do like it. I like it very much!”

“When you come by with the ladies of your house, I will have to show you how to care for it,” Marvin said with a hopeful look. “You’ll have to oil the wood to keep it from getting too dry.”

Bjornvin continued to look at his prize in stunned silence.

“Tell Marvin you will be sure to take care of your sword,” Angrboða urged him.

“Yes, yes I most certainly will,” Bjornvin said with firm determination.

“Your father can show you how it’s used,” Marvin said humbly. “It’s a father’s job to show his boy how to fight and teach him when it is right to do so.”

Bjornvin nodded silently, still dumbstruck.

“We mustn’t forget the lady of the house,” Marvin said, looking Angrboða right in her tear-filled eyes.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” she said quietly. “Your generosity towards the children is more than enough.”

“Nonsense,” Marvin exclaimed. “A pretty piece for a pretty young lady.”

Marvin pulled open a drawer from his side of the cart and began to rummage around in it.

“Now let’s see,” he continued. “Which one will do her beauty justice.”

Angrboða had always been beautiful, but she was never told as much. Beauty was of little value in the lives of people in her social rank, the thralls. At most, it could win a young woman a marriage to a man of her choosing. Most times, the bridegroom was chosen by a bride’s parents based on how strong and healthy he was. The life of a thrall was often short given their being prone to illness and injury. So when this generous toymaker called her “beautiful” she could hardly acknowledge the compliment.

Not knowing what to say, it was her turn to stand dumbstruck. It was little Bjornvin who gave her a nudge this time, prompting her to speak.

“You are too kind,” Angrboða said sweetly. “Once we get settled in a place we will be sure to visit you and your wife as often as we are able. Your kindness today is something we can never repay.”

“Your gratitude is thanks enough for me,” Marvin said matter-of-fact. “Your visits will be a bonus and my wife just loves having children in the house. She will be making you children all manner of sweets and showing you about it too. Our little warrior may become a candy-maker if she has her way.”

Angrboða now understood why Marvin’s smile was missing a few teeth. If his wife was skilled at making sweets, he surely had indulged in her creations over their years together.

“How long have you and Violet been together,” Angrboða asked politely.

“Oh, I met the love of my life and treasure of my heart some forty years ago,” he said whimsically. She was daughter to a jarl and I was just a lowly thrall at the time.”

“Go on,” said Angrboða with curiosity.

“My father, Odin rest his soul, apprenticed me to a local craftsman who taught me the trade of woodcarving – the results of such a skill you see on display today. I was a quick study and worked hard to become the best at what I do. I was then and still am the best,” Martin said beaming with pride. “I never would have the life I do if not for my father making that apprenticeship. To him I owe my life, my trade, and my beautiful Violet.”

“Were you ever able to thank you for father for what he had done,” Kirsten asked plaintively.

Marvin stooped down to her level and gently placed his hand on the young girl’s shoulder.

“I never saw him again,” Marvin said. The man began to tear up and Kirsten threw her little arms over his broad wiry shoulders and hugged him tightly.

“I’m sure your father knows somehow,” Kirsten said with comfort in her voice. “Ratatoskr the squirrel can run messages from as high as Asgard, down to the depths of Hel and back again – all before he can twitch his whiskers twice.”

Lowly as they were, Angrboða did possess the skill to read and write. This was a skill passed on by their mother before her passing. It was a skill she swore on her mother’s deathbed that would be taught to Kirsten and Bjornven. Angrboða made good on her promise and saw to it personally that both children could read and write proficiently for their age.

In their small village, Angrboða became known for telling the children stories. From that daily tradition a school sprung up and the gift of Angrboða’s mother was given to all the children to create and commit their own stories to the page with pen and paper – both of which were scarce, yet highly valued among the thralls. It was a beautiful legacy mother Róse left to the children of the village. Róse had left behind great knowledge and wisdom in her eldest daughter. Angrboða was grateful she could honor her mother’s legacy by building a brighter future for the children of their humble village. With the skills to read and write, they had every hope of one day obtaining an apprenticeship with a member of the karls. An education was the key to a better life for them all, and Róse knew this to be true. Her legacy was one of hope and that legacy was alive and well in all the children Angrboða had the chance to teach.

Angrboða walked away from the toymaker’s cart feeling a lightness in her spirit and her step. The journey from their village had been an arduous one and she was weary from carrying the children as well as her own body trudging along the ice-ridden roads. In such a giddy mood, she failed to take notice of the icy patch right in front of her feet.