A völva travels to a chieftain’s hall to set luck and ward a union. Freyja and Eir honored in blót, vé tended, red thread bound, friðr kept.

A personal chapter on útiseta during a drought, keeping friðr with the landvættir, and how belonging steadied my hands more than any sign.

Lately, my body has been its own battlefield. Some days the pain sits quiet. Other days it’s a storm I can’t outrun. When it gets bad, I...

Come close. Let me tell you what the old ones knew, and what most have forgotten. You don’t own the land. You were never meant to. You borrow it. You tend it. You answer to it. The landvættir are not symbols.