Winter passed quickly, and when the birds and spring flowers started waking up, Hrut’s fancy, rather than awakening, took a nosedive and burrowed in after the groundhog.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” said Gunnhild, concerned.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Hrut. “Just homesickness.”
“You want to go home?” Gunnhild clucked sympathetically.
“Yeah…”
“And see your girlfriend?”
“How- uh, what girlfriend? I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Oh, she lives in Iceland. I wouldn’t know her.”
“There isn’t any girlfriend,” pleaded Hrut.
“Sounds like a lie,” said Gunnhild, leaning casually against her magic mirror. An uncomfortable silence wrapped itself around them, and no man alive can outlast a witch under such circumstances. Hrut escaped to Harald’s throne room, which now seemed less awkward in comparison.
“What is it now?” sighed Harald.
“I want to go back to Iceland,” said Hrut bluntly.
“Is Iceland better than Norway?” Harald looked hurt. “Will the Icelanders treat you better than I have, or my mom has?”
“Probably not, but it’s still home.”
“Let him go,” said Gunnhild, popping her head in the door. “It’s not like you can stop him.”
In Harald’s head, the gears clunked into place. “And if I keep you here, I take it this palace will become ten times as awkward for all concerned?” He hopped briskly off his throne. “To the docks with you, Hrut.”
As the king loaded Hrut’s ship down with bags of flour, Gunnhild held up a glittering golden bracelet. “This is for you. It definitely doesn’t carry a curse.” She slipped it onto his arm.
“It’s beautiful,” said Hrut. “Just like everything you’ve given me – why is it shaped like an enormous fertility symbol?”*
“Alright, I admit it,” said Gunnhild, putting her arms around his neck in a vaguely threatening manner. “It’s extremely cursed. You’ll never be able to have sex with your girlfriend back home.”
“Impotence?” gasped Hrut.
“Oh, sweetie,” Gunnhild shook her head. “As if I’d ever do that to you! You’ll do fine with any other woman – just not the one you’re cheating on me with.”
“Technically I’m cheating on her with you,” laughed Hrut, and brushed her off on his way to say goodbye to Harald.
“Have a nice trip,” said Harald, trying not to look at the bracelet. “You’re not a bad guy, Hrut. Hope you make it to Iceland, and preferably stay there.”
Hrut did indeed have a safe trip, and when he landed, he left Ozur to do the unpacking and rode home at once. Hoskuld was overjoyed to see him, and for once there had been no natural disasters, and the brothers were officially rich.
The wedding was that winter. It was a lavish affair – the men sat around the walls, drinking and laughing at Hrut’s bracelet, and the women sat in the front, covering for the bride as she sniffled. But Unn went through with it, saying nothing, and the half-happy couple rode back that night.
“My love, you’re the new boss of the farm,” said Hrut grandly, handing over his keys. “Your word is law, etc, etc. Everybody! Respect my wife!”
But, despite the surprisingly good start, the next morning Unn looked depressed again. She and Hrut barely spoke all winter, and in the spring Hrut was glad to get out of the house on a business trip.
“Will you come back before the Thing?” asked Unn.
“Why do you want to know?” asked Hrut cagily.
“I want to go to the Thing and see Dad.”
“Sure, no problem.” Hrut did up his bootlace. “In that case, I’ll be back on time. See? I’m trying.”
Unn burst into her father’s booth, and into tears.
“Sweetie?” asked Mord, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
Unn hesitated. “I don’t like being married.”
“Why not?”
Unn didn’t answer.
“You need to tell me why, or I can’t help you.”
“No reason, I just hate it,” she sobbed. “I’d give anything to go back in time and never marry him.”
“There, there,” said her father, patting her head. “I’ll go have a chat with your husband.”
Soon, Hrut and Hoskuld arrived, the former looking rather nervous. Mord shook their hands and made small talk, then brought out the big guns.
“I hear my little girl’s unhappy. Any idea why that might be?”
“No idea,” said Hrut, looking as innocent as possible. “Have you tried asking her?”
Unn just shook her head, so Hrut shrugged. “She’s the queen of the farmhouse. Just ask anyone! I never yell at her, I’ve never hit her…”
The neighbours and servants confirmed that Hrut was a perfect gentleman, so Mort turned back to Unn. “If you don’t have actual grounds for divorce, sweet pea, you’ll have to make the best of things.”
So the couple went home, and that summer things seemed to be a little better, but by winter their marriage was on the rocks again.
“I’m going to the West Fjords on a business trip,” announced Hrut. “Screw the Thing.”
“You do you,” said Unn, not looking up from her magazine.
* Archaeologists will speak of a widespread ancient fertility cult that left its near-life-sized idols in all sorts of places. They tend to tut over these in a puzzled fashion, alluding darkly to fertility rites. This is in fact one of the few ancient cults that has survived to modern times, and you too can find a fertility idol in any number of discreet shops, along with detailed instructions for various fertility rites. These have yet to be published in any respectable journal of archaeology.
Saxo Dramaticus 