THE GOLDEN FLEECE
Ardbeag Crafts, The Golden Fleece
Leif ran his fingers through the long curls of the heavy cloak, smiling sleepily. Outside the wind howled, its icy fingers rattling the wooden walls, but Leif was warm beneath the varafeldur’s shaggy mass, almost pinned to his bed by the weight of it.
“Father?” he called into the half-light of the longhouse.“You should be asleep, little prince,” came a gruff voice in reply.“Can you tell me the story of the Golden Fleece?” he asked, his voice soft but insistent.
He heard a chuckle, then the clank of a tankard being placed down as King Eirik stood.“That old tale again?” he asked, placing a lantern by the bed. In its dancing shadows, Leif could see the russet hues of the varafeldur, gleaming like cloth-of-gold.
Eirik sat beside his son, his weathered hand resting on the edge of the cloak. Leif looked up at his father, eyes wide with curiosity.
Eirik’s gaze grew distant as he recalled the traders from the South who had visited their hall, sharing old tales from faraway lands.
"So you want to hear about Jason," he began, "A young prince like you, from far beyond the sea. His uncle stole his throne, they say, and told him he could only be king if he brought back a magical fleece."
“A fleece that shone like the sun,” Leif interrupted.
"Aye," Eirik nodded. "But it was no easy task. Jason and his kinsmen sailed across uncharted seas. They faced storms and monsters and treacherous men. But finally, they reached a grove of strange trees. And in its centre, guarded by a terrible dragon, lay the fleece - gleaming gold, like no treasure the young prince had ever seen."
Leif leaned in closer, knowing how it ended yet eager to hear more. "But how did he get it?"
"With the help of a woman," Eirik explained, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "A witch. She cast a spell to send the dragon to sleep, and Jason snatched up the fleece and escaped. He returned home a hero, a true king, with the golden fleece draped over his shoulders."
Leif's face was full of wonder as he turned the familiar tale over in his head. He glanced down at the cloak wrapped around him, its golden hues still shimmering in the lamplight.
"Father," he whispered, "Did you steal your golden varafeldur from a dragon?"
Eirik threw back his head and laughed. The sound was startling but warm, like a battle horn. "A dragon?" He asked, ruffling the boy’s hair fondly. "Aye, lad, this cloak was taken from the fiercest dragon of all."
His eyes twinkled, but there was something else behind them - something Leif was too young to notice.
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As the boy smiled, satisfied, Eirik stood and pulled the heavy fleece cloak up to Leif's chin, tucking him in tightly.
"Enough stories," he said, his voice softer. "Time to sleep, little prince."
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Leif yawned, his eyes fluttering closed as his father extinguished the lantern. The room dimmed, the cloak’s golden threads glowing faintly in the fading light.
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Eirik lingered a moment, watching his son drift off. His thoughts wandered back from the distant lands of Jason, home to the hills and streams where his kingly cloak had come into being.
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It was true enough, he supposed: the cloak was the stuff of legend. It had begun its journey in the Highlands, where the sheep roamed freely, their wool cut free each Spring with careful hands. The fleece was washed in cold mountain streams, and soaked in great vats of dye.
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Eirik’s varafeldur danced with the hues of his wild Northern home: soft gold from the bark of the birch trees, light brown from the lichens that clung to the rocks, and deep rust from the skins of wild onions. The colours danced together like sunlight playing on autumn leaves.
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And as with Jason’s fleece, the varafeldur would have come to nothing were it not for a woman’s magic. Eirik smiled to think of his mother at work, spinning long, strong threads like a norn spinning fate. She had woven the cloak on a great, heavy loom, warp weights clinking together in the dim light of the longhouse. She had known each knot in her blood and bones, for the craft of these precious trade cloaks had been passed down from mother to daughter.
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At last the varafeldur had been freed from the loom and draped over his father’s shoulders - this one not for trade with neighbouring lords, but a tapestry of untamed nature, fit for a highland king. Hardy as the mountain sheep themselves, the cloak had seen battles and banquets, been drenched by the sea and dried by tradewinds.
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And in the end his father had died beneath it, lined hands fluttering over the same golden threads where Leif’s tiny fingers now settled. Eirik could recall the moment clearly - the cloak a final comfort as the Great Dragon’s eyes closed one last time. Kings before him had been buried wrapped in the soft folds of their cloaks, but his father had wanted his grandsons to wear it, while he watched them from Valhalla.
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Eirik sighed quietly. One day he would tell his son this tale. One day Lief would know that the highland sheep, the mountain stream, and the bright-coloured hills were all his to protect. He would feel the cloak’s warmth on a ship’s deck, its imposingness in battle. And one day, when his time came, he would die beneath it too.
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But for now, Eirik thought, gazing down at his sleeping son, those stories could wait. Let the boy have his heroes and dragons a little while longer, before the warm weight of legacy hangs from his shoulders.