Hervor: The Viking Shield-Maiden and the Cursed Blade

Hervor survived the curse... or so she thought.

After claiming the legendary sword Tyrfing from her father's burial mound, Hervor seems to accomplish everything a Viking warrior could dream of. She wins battles, earns fame, gathers wealth, and becomes one of the most celebrated shield-maidens in Norse legend.

But cursed things rarely destroy their owners immediately.

Sometimes they wait.

In this episode, we continue the unforgettable story of Hervor from the Hervarar Saga, exploring her victories, her family, the birth of King Heidrek, and the devastating moment she realizes the curse never disappeared. It simply chose a different victim.

We'll also examine why Norse sagas mattered to Viking society, what they reveal about Viking ideas of fate, courage, and legacy, and how this remarkable saga helped inspire the imagination of J.R.R. Tolkien.

If you haven't yet listened to "The Dark Side of Viking Burial Mounds," start there before diving into this continuation of Hervor's story.

Transcript

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You stood here before. The wind cuts across the barrel mound, calm and cold, like it remembers something you've already forgotten. Hervor is standing. The earth breathes beneath her feet. The dead have finished speaking. She stands alone. Now you remember. The grave that opened, fire coming from the gaping wound in the dirt. Anguntir's voice from the depth roared in fury. He had been dragged from death by his daughter who would not be denied. The sword, Tirfing. It rose from the flames with power and a promise. She was warned, because the promise was one of a curse. The blade that was destined to ruin her. She took it anyway, and then she walked away. She was bold, and it was almost like the sword respected her because there was no immediate downfall, no tragic end waiting just beyond the cliffs. For a time it almost looked like she had escaped it, like the curse had missed. Her father must have misspoke. But here's what no one tells you about curses. They don't always strike when you expect, and they don't always come from the one who takes the blade. Sometimes it waits, sometimes it makes its move unnoticed until it's too late. Which means the most powerful curse is the one the person believes doesn't exist. The reality is, Ervor survived the curse. She lived. And that's exactly why when the rent of the curse came due, she would not have what it takes to pay what she owed. If you haven't heard the moment Ervor stood at the grave and took the sword, go back. Listen to the dark side of Viking burial mounds. Because today, we're not just telling that story. We're standing where she stood next, on the edge of the sea, winding her face, the weight of Tirfing in her hand, and asking, What's next? Today we're going to look at the answer. We'll hear of her victories, how she fights, how she earns respect in a world that doesn't hand out participation trophies. She becomes something rare, something feared, something the sagas remember. But what makes her story dangerous is she feels like she did it. She broke the curse. But then we'll see that's not how curses work. We'll look exactly what the story meant to the Viking Age and why it is preserved and what it means for us. You're gonna walk away with a good grasp on Ervor Saga, the fact that she is considered a Viking shield maiden. She gave birth to King Heydric and how King Heydrich inspired Tolkien. Because this isn't just a story about a sword, it's about what happens when you think you've won and the cost still needs to be paid. She stood on the edge of the cliff, sword in hand, looking out over the sea beyond the horizon. When Ervor came down from the burial mountain with Tyrfing in her hand, the world did not bow to her, the sky did not fall, she didn't have magic power. The birds sang, the wind blew, the waves crashed along the beach as they had for thousands of years. On the shore near the ship was a group of men. They were waiting for her. She approached. They could see the sword in her hand. One called back to those resting in the boat. She did it. She got the sword. She is the boldest, most crazy of us all. The men cheered for her as she approached. These were her men. She commanded them and led them on journeys across the sea into many battles. They had journeyed with her to this island, but they refused to venture any further than the shore itself. They wanted no part of the walking dead. Ervor looked at one of the men and said, Give me your sheath. He drew his sword, removed the sheath from his belt, and handed it to Ervor. She raised the sword and the sheaf to gauge whether it would suffice. She attempted to slide the sword into its new home, but the sword refused. Not that it wouldn't fit, it simply wouldn't allow it. An old warrior, the ship's helmsman, stood watching from the deck. Astair. Astair served with Ervor's father and uncles. He had witnessed the sword in action many times. He had tried to talk her out of coming to this place. He spoke, and everyone hurt. You can't retire your sword because you haven't killed anyone yet. Ervor looked up. Their eyes met. He continued, Every time you draw the sword, a life must be taken before you can put it away. I'm afraid we won't be leaving this island until the sword is satisfied. Ervor had no idea. All she knew was that she wanted the sword, and she wanted the power that she knew it would bring. The battlefield was home to her. It was where she felt most alive. She thought the sword would bring her an edge in the fight and make the risk of every battle disappear. She hesitated in her heart, in her mind for just a moment. She knew that leading warriors like these men require swift action, bold responses, and confidence. Even if she was struggling with the decision inside, she had a decision to make, and she made it. She walked towards her men standing on the shore at the front of the ship. One by one they parted. There stood Toki, leaning against the prow. He wasn't a warrior like the rest. He was more of a deck hand, a slave that had become part of the crew, responsible for menial tasks setting up camp, loading cargo, and fetching supplies. He was everyone's favorite person to pick on and tease. Toki wasn't sure what was happening, he didn't pay much attention to warrior speak. But when he saw the look in Ervor's face and the sword in her hand, he knew something was not right. Hervor stood standing with a look of disappointment, sadness, and a hint of determination. I'm sorry, Toki. She thrust the sword through the center of his chest, his eyes became wide just for a moment. A tear began to form, but by the time Ervor removed the sword, he was dead. His body fell limp. Ervor sheathed the sword and turned to the men and said, He receives a warrior's burial, but not here. No one deserves to be buried here. The men moved to gather the body. There was no more cheering, but rather a sense of dread that was the result of Ervor and her new blade. Ervor's men had always followed her because they respected her, but now they weren't sure what she would become or who might be the next victim of the sword. Ervor and her men pushed off from the beach. The men rode in unison, turning, gliding beyond the surf before they let the sail down. Ervor looked over the men. They sat watching. Waves lapped against the hole and gently rocked the boat. This sword, she said, will bring us fame and glory. Her eyes moved across the crew. It will bring us more silver than you could dream of. She stepped forward. You followed me to this island of dead because you believe we were meant for more than fishing in frigid waters and surviving frozen winters. Why should we be left with little when kings and yarls grow rich behind their wealth and high walls? No one moved, no one interrupted. She continued, Toki's death was not meaningless, she continued. The sword demands blood, and blood is what we will give it, but only that of our foes. Toki's death means we can all live. The gods do not hand greatness to cowards, and there are no cowards on this ship. With Tirfing in our hands, there is no lord in the north who can stand against us. Men will fear our sails on the horizon. More warriors will join our ranks, the Yarls will pay us silver to fight for them, and the kings will know our names. For a brief moment, everyone believed her. They sensed that maybe the sacrifice of Toki was reasonable, and many of them had regained their desire for what lay ahead. Ervor shouted to Astier at the rear of the ship, To Eastland! To Aistland came the reply. The sail was lowered, and the crew rowed until the wind grabbed hold of the fabric and carried them on their way. The ship cut across the grey water like a blade with a destiny. The rest of the journey, no one spoke of Toki. They made sure he received a proper burial on the edge of Denmark before continuing up the coast to Aistland. The men never forgot Toki, but they had all learned long ago in this life that they chose to live how to bury their thoughts, how to detach from death in order to keep moving forward. They kept their minds occupied with the idea of silver that lay ahead. The men passed the time envisioning battle or imagining reveling and earned reputation. And standing there with her own thoughts and dreams was Ervor, daughter of the grave mound legend, sole possessor of Tirfing. Her deep navy blue cloak snapping in the wind, her coarse blonde hair whipping to the side as she looked on to the horizon. She didn't know what was waiting, but she could sense the possibilities, and she was eager to find out just how powerful this sword was. Before we hear about Ervor's exploits and victories, we need to pause and capture the history of the Viking Age and what stories meant to them and what it meant for listeners over a thousand years ago. You see, the strange thing about power is it doesn't destroy a person instantly. If it did, no one would pursue it. It also doesn't tell a person the true cost of possessing it, because no one would pay the price up front. But if it makes you stronger at first, feel something, feel important, feel value, a sense of potential, unlimited potential. Well, that's exactly where people begin to forget the curse exists, because on the surface it feels like only good will come from taking that initial risk. And that's exactly why stories like Erebor were told during the Viking Age and why they've survived. The Vikings themselves didn't survive through brute force and iron weapons alone. They survived because their stories held more than fanciful tales. See, during the long winters of the North, families gathered inside timber long houses. During the long winters in the north, the fire would pop and crack in the center of the room. Smoke curled into the rafters, and somewhere near that fire sat a storyteller, in many cases a scald, not merely an entertainer, a keeper of memory and distributor of wisdom. In the Viking world, stories carried the identity of an entire people group. Stories didn't just teach courage, they set the standard. Stories warned people what kind of choices had consequences, which virtues were worth pursuing, and which had the potential to destroy entire families. And that is why sagas mattered. But here's something to remember about sagas. They aren't like modern history books, they don't focus on facts. You see, facts allow for very little imagination, which is why for most people it's tough to remember random facts about history. But storytelling, that has a way of capturing the imagination and conveying truth that is remembered. Most sagas were fiction but rooted in historical truth. The scenes communicated elements of truth and they were rooted in the culture of the Viking Age. Many of them would be considered historical fiction. And maybe leaning more towards the fiction side. But most times what you get is a real place, and many times real families, real conflicts, and the real tension that the people of the age felt and experienced. And to that, many of the stories were extremely believable, taken as truth. Even ghost stories, cursed swords, undead warriors, prophecies of the end of the world, they weren't just stories, they were mysterious truth that helped explain the unknown elements of their world. Sagas are, you could say, truth wrapped in story. The principles and the truth from the stories mattered more to the Norse than factual precision. Facts tend to tell people what happened. Stories can communicate fact, but they have a way of connecting you to what it meant. That's why these tales survive. That's why we still talk about them, and that is why this podcast still seeks to share them with you. Hervor's story has a few ideas the Viking Age took to heart and believed deeply. And one of those is that fate cannot be escaped. That reputation, it outlives everything. Wealth, status, comfort, reputation carries on. And courage, it matters more than safety or comfort. Power, it always, always demands a high price. When it comes to the Viking Age belief in fate, and there's called fate weird. Don't think of it like a force controlling luck, and don't think of it like everyone is a puppet on a string being controlled and all the movements are being controlled from somewhere else. Fate was pictured as a woven tapestry where when the time came and the threads of man's choices, victories, and failures were tightened into a pattern, it was a pattern that they were always becoming. That's because the norns were the spinners of the threads of life, creating the boundaries and determining the destiny. If you were a warrior, then the Valkyrie would stand there at the loom and they would pull that final thread, and they would make the choice of who would stand or who would fall in battle. So then the question is, did Ervor have a choice whether to take the sword? Or was that part of fulfilling her destiny? Was Ervor stepping into the ghostly fiery mound to claim Tyrfing bravery, or was it acceptance of something that was predetermined? She understood the danger, she was warned, and she took the sword anyway. Then we shift back to the mindset of the Viking Age. A short life with honor was better than a long life that was forgotten. Even from the Havamal, one of the most famous lines is cattle die, families die, you yourself will die, but a good reputation never dies. And Ervor understood it perfectly. The sword was not merely a significant piece of steel, it was access to legacy, a chance to give herself a name that would live on. And here's a subtle element of Viking Age story, and perhaps the most interesting of all. The sagas respected courage more than gender. Viking society definitely favored men, but Viking storytelling favored bravery. That distinction matters because the sagas don't admire weak men simply because they're men. Cowards get mocked constantly in Norris literature. Meanwhile, bold women, wise women, fierce women, prophetic women, politically brilliant women, they're all remembered and honored. The Norris respected capability. If someone could command a room, survive hardship, speak wisely, or walk into danger when others froze, the sagas gave them the attention they earned. Which is exactly why figures like Ervor still stand out a thousand years later. She earns her place not because people suddenly became progressive after several cups of fermented honey, but because she walked into terror when others wouldn't, and that mattered to them. And finally, there's a lesson since still sitting underneath almost every cursed object in Norse literature. Be careful what you reach for, thing that you pursue no matter the cost. Realize that power and blessing are rarely the same thing. The sword Tyrfin grants victory, but it drags destruction behind it. And you see, pursuit and possessing are both part of the story, and both are very hard to walk away from. Before we continue Herver's story, here's one more thing that's fascinating. You see, centuries after the Viking Age concluded, an Oxford professor named J.R.R. Tolkien became obsessed with the stories of the North, and particularly this one. We've already done a couple episodes on Tolkien and his influence with Norris literature. A warning of a curse, ancient bloodlines, buried kings, riddles, a powerful sword carrying generational consequences, the impossible task of resisting the draw of power. It sounds familiar. See, Tolkien loved the Northern sagas because he understood something timeless, that the greatest battles aren't just physical, they're moral, they're spiritual, and they reveal human weakness and tendencies, and we all feel them. Many believe that Riddles in the Dark, a chapter in The Hobbit, was influenced by the saga Ervor is part of. The reason why these stories still breathe is because human beings still wrestle with the same things the Vikings did. The desire for power, legacy, fear, choices matter. Is it fate or is it agency? The temptation to reach for something dangerous because we believe we can control it. All those principles, all those truths transcend time. Well let's return to Ervor and her men and see exactly how this story unfolds. With the wind at their back and unusually calm Baltic waters, the men had taken a moment to rest. Astier waited until the sun had risen over the horizon. He shouted, Wake up, we're here. Everyone moved into position for whatever orders came next. Ervor and Astier spoke from the stern. The men couldn't hear, but they could see Ervor giving instructions, pointing and telling the helmsman exactly what she needed from him. He gave a nod just before she turned to address the crew. Men, today is the first step towards our destiny. We will travel the coastline and we will raid the first trading outpost we come to. What you can carry, you can keep. Remember, the Usalians are not weak. Assume that they are all armed. These are not Christians we're raiding. She raised her hand in the air. Are you ready? A roar from the ship echoed across the waters. Soon they would see a trading post, light smoke ascending from multiple campfires. They lowered the sails and the men began to row. The trading post didn't sound an alarm as Erevor's ship approached. It looked just like any other ship that stopped for supplies or to offload a few goods. But when the ship slid onto the beach, what happened next was anything but normal for this outpost. Three women, they made their way from the market to the beach. They navigated the rocky path towards the ship. They were looking to make coins, sell goods before the crew had a chance to spend all their money in the market or the tavern. But what they met instead was Ervor, Tirfing, and the rest of her men. There was no thought, no threat assessment, just death to anything that moved. The band of raiders moved quickly up the path to the market. They struck everyone in their path. Their strategy wasn't to allow the men of the village to mobilize and form a defense. What they didn't know was that there was a war band of Usalians camped just beyond the edge of town. They were preparing for a raid in Sweden. They were heavily armed and ready for a fight, and they would get it. Ervor moved about, wielding Tierfing. It was balanced, it cut clean, and she could feel with every swing that the sword was special. As the attack moved into the village, people either locked themselves in their homes or fled to the edge of the woods. It was one such runner that alerted the Usalians camping nearby as to what was happening. The raiding party was now the town's defense against a small Viking band. A hundred Usalians with shields and weapons moved as a unit, split into two groups, fanned out to surround Ervor and her men. The fighting stopped for a moment. Ervor and everyone with her knew this was not going to end well. They were outnumbered five to one. Ervor didn't give a speech, and she didn't wait for the Usalians to attack. She lifted the sword in the air, yelled, and ran at the closest section of human wall that surrounded them. Everyone paused to see if the battle would end before it started. If Ever fell, that would be it. Her men would have no choice but to surrender. Ervor swung Tierfing with a long swipe from right to left. The result shocked everyone and changed the entire tone of the situation. Ervor's men gained confidence. The Usalians were confused at what had just happened. Three of their comrades fell down dead with a single strike from a woman warrior. Hervor didn't wait to see if anyone noticed. She continued to swing. With a backhanded slash, she took out another Usalian who had lifted his shield in plenty of time, but the shield was no different than the leather armor he was wearing. The sword cut clean through. The rest of the men engaged in fighting, shields crashing, metal on metal, slow, methodical warrior on warrior, but not Eivor, not her sword. When she swung, that sword landed every time, and every time at least one life was taken. Soon she was running to her men who were held up in their own fights, where normally stamina and precision were a factor until Tyrfing entered the picture. Soon the numbers evened out, and the tide of the battle was shifting. Ervor's face was painted red, her eyes wide and focused. She was so locked in that after the last Usalin fell, she was ready to kill the next person that moved. Her men put their hands up and called her name, trying to get her to snap out of it. Eventually, she did. She shook her head to clear her mind and blinked, and she looked around and she was almost as amazed at the scene as the men beside her. She looked at her men. They stared at her. She looked at the sword, smiled, and raised it in the air with a shout of victory. Her men followed and cheered as well. For the first time since the Forbidden Island, the crew stopped thinking about the curse and started thinking about glory. Ace Land was only the beginning. At first, the sword seemed to justify everything. A coastal ruler hired Ervor and her men to hunt raiders who had been burning villages and choking trade routes along the Baltic coast. Ervor met them on a wet black beach with gray skies and mist in the air. When Tyrfin came free from its sheath, the battle ended almost before it began. She and the sword moved like they already knew where the men would die. She felt like a Valkyrie in that moment, choosing who would live and who would die in battle. In this case, everyone died. Word spread fast about Eivor and her army. Enemies who had stood across the battlefield from Erevor began to hesitate. Some still attacked, but many tried to flee. They won countless victories. Not barely, but completely. Silver poured into their hands. More warriors joined their ship. Stories spread across the Baltic of a woman carrying the blade of the dead. Victory came too easy, and that is what should have frightened them. But success has a way of ignoring caution. Soon, rulers who once would have dismissed Ervor now welcomed her into their halls. A powerful lord from the southern Baltic coast sent for her personally, offering her silver, land, a reputation if she would crush his enemies. Kings who would never have listened to her before now poured her wine like she was the queen. It was all because of the sword that once horrified. It was all because of this sword, a sword that had once horrified them when it was buried on an island, but now it had gained them all riches, more than they could have ever imagined. And slowly, dangerously, the crew stopped speaking of the curse or the original tragedy. Years passed just like this. Battles, raids. One ship turned into a fleet. They all returned heavier with silver each trip, and Ervor herself began to change. She no longer carried Tierfing like a burden. She wore it like proof that she had been right all along. Maybe the sword had chosen her. Maybe weaker men had simply failed to master it. Maybe power only destroys those too weak to carry it. And that is the lie that gets whispered before the payment comes due. The first hint that something wasn't right came during a winter battle along the frozen coastline of Aiseland. Ervor's army arrived, sword in hand. Everyone marched with the highest level of confidence, knowing the outcome would be the same. But the enemy was aware of the outcome as well. And instead of finding out if they were correct, they fled. The line didn't break, it never formed. The troop across the field from Ervor and her men left the moment they saw her and the sword in the distance. The battle was over before it started. The spoils of victory without even breaking the sweat. But the sword wasn't done. Ervor tried to sheathe it, but it would not allow. Her breath began to tighten. Not again. Not here. Around her, her men celebrated victory, unaware of the panic rising in her chest. The blade seemed almost alive in her hand now, vibrating slightly as though demanding something unfinished. It always required blood. One of her trusted warriors approached, smiling, snow crunching beneath his boots as he moved towards her, and for the first time since the haunted island, Ervor feared the thing in her hand because in the moment she understood the curse was real. It had never left. Whether it was the sword or Ervor, no one knows for sure, but the soldier fell right there in the snow. The weight of what had just happened crushed Ervor. She sheathed the sword, dropped to her knees, and wept for her fallen companion and friend. It wasn't supposed to be like this, she said with a tremble in her voice. The men stood frozen around her. Snow drifted through the silence. The battle cries were gone now. The wind blew across, stirring up snow dust. Ervor stared down at her companion laying motionless. This was no frightened deckhand standing near the prow of the ship. This was one of her warriors, a man who had fought beside her for years, a man who had trusted her enough to follow her into battle after battle, and Tirfing had taken him away. That night no songs were sung, no toasts, just speaking in whispers. Some blamed the sword, others blamed the Norns. A few quietly blamed Ervor herself. Ervor sat apart from them all, distant and distracted by the replay of the moment. Before dawn came, Ervor made a vow. No more. No more battles with this sword. The hardest part wasn't pulling the sword away, it was feeling like she was becoming weaker without it. No more boldness, success no longer a given, and reputation fading to normal. The crew noticed. Only the most loyal stayed, others left to find opportunity elsewhere. Ervor left the sea behind. Eventually she married. She settled down into a quieter life. Tyrfing was set aside, wrapped in cloth, tucked away, and years passed. No more blood, no more craving of power, her new life was enough. Not tolerable, but good. She laughed more, she slept peacefully, dreamed of a family. She learned the strange new rhythm of ordinary happiness, the kind warriors rarely get to experience. Two sons were born to her. First Ongentier, named for her father, then Heydrich. Two boys with strong builds and a sense of adventure. She taught them everything she knew. She watched them run, play, and wrestle when they disagreed. She couldn't think of a better outcome for her life. The boys continued to grow, they learned how to fight, military tactics, and what it meant to lead men into battle. Tyrfing remained untouched in the corner of their home, lost in the shadows. One day Heydrich noticed something in the corner. He touched the cloth and instantly felt the weight. He pulled back the fold of the linen, and he could tell it was a sword. He thought, that's odd, what's a sword like this doing set aside, collecting dust? But he left it alone for now. The two brothers found themselves feasting in a hall with tons of other loud boasting and endless drinking. Men told stories of battles and feats of strength. They tried to eke out every ounce of reputation and honor by telling their own stories well. But when brothers who have keen insights to truth clear up the facts and bring inflated egos back to Earth, well that's when sibling rivalries can take a turn. Heydric was not happy with his older brother for ruining the mood of the party. But Ungentir wasn't backing down. Words became insults. Insults became a challenge. That's it. Let's settle it. Heydric snapped. He stormed from the hall. A few minutes later, he returned with Tirfing. He entered the hall and pulled the sword from its sheath. The entire hall fell silent. Uncontir lifted his hands calmly. Brother, brother, this is foolish. But the moment the sword left the sheath, the end was already written. Heydrich hesitated just for a moment. Ungontir stepped closer, trying to calm him. Come on, put away the sword. You had too much to drink. Before Heydrich could even consider the words, the sword moved. One strike. Ongontier collapsed to the floor. Heydrich was shocked at what had just happened, at what he had just done. He walked slowly backwards out of the hall. He put the sword in the sheath and returned home, scared, unsure of how or why he went through with it. Wren rushed to tell Ervor what happened. Ervor entered the hall to see her oldest child lifeless. She fell beside her dead son, her hands shaking. How? How did this happen? Tears running down her face. It was Heydrich. He came in with the sword and he struck Unguntier and left. The realization of what happened came over her like a flood. No, no. It can't be in that moment Ervor understood her dead father had not lied. The curse was real, and it never wanted her dead. It wanted her to feel the worst kind of curse a mother could ever experience. All those years the curse wasn't dormant. It was simply waiting. Ungontir's death led to Heydrich being exiled the next day. He was instantly judged guilty and ruled an outlaw. Ervor was shattered beneath the weight of what had happened. Angontir was buried, Heydrich was gone, and Tyrfing remained a reminder of all that she had lost, and how a single choice led to unbearable consequences. And all the silver in the world didn't weigh as much as the pressure pressing in on her chest. She had crossed bravely into the grave mounds seeking greatness. What she got in return was ruin. And that is the terrifying thing about curses. By the time you finally realize how the curse works or what it actually costs, it's too late. Here's the truth. Not every curse looks like a sword. Some look like patterns, some look like habits, some look like uncontrollable anger. Curses take on many forms. The worst part, it can look like success or power or a stellar reputation. A curse can take on many forms. The worst though is when pride thinks it can handle the curse or it's not as bad as people say it is. The key is that we're never naive. Just because the payment isn't due today doesn't mean it's not coming. And realize that every action it affects not just us but others as well. The most dangerous kind of curse aren't the ones that are easy to identify, it's the ones that are wrapped in what culture calls success. And at first, those things can feel like victories. Again, respect, influence, and power, all weapons to be wielded. And that is the lesson sitting inside of Hervor's story. Be careful what you pursue, and then once you've got it, be careful how you wield it. There may be even more morals to her story. If you heard something, saw something, it made you think of something, well, share it in the comments. But these old stories, they matter because they touch on something very human. But realize this, no one is forced to permanently walk the path of the curse. You see, blessing is an option that's on the table for you as well. If you want to hear the moment where it all began in the burial mound, the ghost fire and the moment Ever called for the dead and the dead answered back, then go listen to the dark side of Viking Burial Mounds, because that's exactly where today's story began, and probably should have ended with the sword stained buried in the ground. I want to thank you for taking the time to listen to this episode. If you're up for a challenge, here it is. Click the follow button. Or set the Viking Legacy and Lore podcast to auto-download. That's usually an option in podcast apps. And thank you again for your continued support. Until next time, be bold, be strong, and awaken the Viking in you.