Fafnir
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Fafnir in Norse Mythology
Fafnir was a dwarf known for his powerful right arm and brave spirit. He was the son of the dwarf king Hreidmar and had two brothers, Otr and Regin. In his youth, while living in his father’s household, Fafnir served as a guard to protect their wealth. Fafnir was chosen for this role because he was the strongest and most aggressive of the three brothers. Hreidmar, being the king of the dwarves, was immensely wealthy, and their house was built of gleaming gold and shining gemstones.
Fafnir the Dragon
Regin took up his harp, and his fingers plucked the strings, producing a melody that sounded like the wailing of the winter wind through the lifeless treetops of the forest. The song he sang was full of sorrow and wild, hopeless longing for what could never be. When he had finished, Siegfried said:
"That was indeed a sorrowful song for one who sees his hopes so near to fulfilment. Why are you so sad? Is it because you fear the curse you have taken upon yourself, or is it because you do not know what to do with such a great treasure, and its possession already begins to torment you?"
"Oh, I will do many things with this treasure," Regin replied, his eyes flashing wildly, his face turning red and pale. "I will turn winter into summer, I will make deserts bloom, I will bring back the golden age, I will make myself a god, for mine will be the wisdom and the gathered riches of the world. And yet, I fear—"
"What do you fear?"
"The ring, the ring—it is cursed! The Norns have spoken, and my doom is known. I cannot escape it."
"The Norns have woven the threads of every life," replied Siegfried. "Tomorrow, we shall go to the Glittering Heath, and the end will be as the Norns have foretold."
The Journey to the Glittering Heath
Early the next morning, Siegfried mounted Greyfell and rode towards the desolate lands that lay beyond the forest and the barren mountains. Regin, his eyes flashing with longing and his steps tireless, trudged alongside him. For seven days, they pushed through the dense forest, sleeping at night on the bare ground beneath the trees while wolves and other wild beasts filled the air with their dreadful howling. Yet no creature dared approach them, for they feared the glowing rays that fell from Greyfell’s shimmering mane.
On the eighth day, they emerged into open land and reached the hills, where the ground was covered with blackened bowls and riddled with yawning chasms. Not a living thing was to be seen—no insect, no blade of grass—and the silence of the grave hung over everything. The earth was dry and parched, the sun hung above them like a painted shield in the blue-black sky, and there was no shade or water to be found. Yet Siegfried continued along the path Regin directed, unwavering even as thirst and heat sapped his strength. By the evening of the next day, they arrived at a dark mountain wall that stretched far to either side and loomed high above them, so steep it seemed to block their way.
"This is the wall!" cried Regin. "Beyond this mountain lies the Glittering Heath and the goal of all my hopes." The little old man ran ahead, climbing the rough side of the mountain to its summit while Siegfried and Greyfell toiled among the rocks at its base.
Slowly and laboriously, they ascended the steep slope—at times along a narrow path skirting the edge of a chasm, at other times leaping from rock to rock or across deep crevices, and sometimes picking their way through boulders and cliffs. At last, the sun set, and one by one the stars appeared. The moon rose, round and red, as Siegfried stood at Regin’s side and looked down from the mountaintop upon the Glittering Heath that lay beyond.
Before Siegfried's eyes lay a strange and eerie scene. At the base of the mountain flowed a white, cold, and still river, and beyond it stretched a barren plain, smooth and desolate under the pale moonlight. In the distance, he saw a circle of flickering flames, their intensity constantly shifting—sometimes bright, sometimes dim, and sometimes casting a dull, cold light like the glow of a firefly or will-o'-the-wisp. As Siegfried watched, the faint outline of a monstrous creature came into view, moving back and forth. The uncertain light made its terrible form all the more horrifying.
“It is he!” whispered Regin, his lips ashen and his knees trembling beneath him. “It is Fafnir, and he wears the Helm of Terror! Shall we not return to the forge in the great forest, to the life of peace and safety we could live there? Or would you rather go forward and face the terror in his lair?”
“Only cowards abandon a task once begun,” replied Siegfried. “Go back to the Rhineland yourself if you are afraid, but you will have to go alone. You brought me here to face the dragon of the heath, to claim the hoard of the dark-skinned elves, and to free the world from a terrible evil. Before the next sun sets, the deed you urged me to undertake will be done.”
Then Siegfried rushed down the eastern slope of the mountain, leaving Greyfell and the trembling Regin behind. Soon, he stood on the banks of the white river, which flowed between the mountain and the heath. The river was deep and sluggish, and its channel was very wide. Siegfried paused to consider how to cross it. The air was heavy with deadly fumes, and the water was thick and cold. As he stood in thought, a boat emerged silently from the mist and approached him. The boatman stood upright and called out:
“Who are you, that you dare to enter this land of solitude and fear?”
“I am Siegfried,” replied the youth, “and I have come to slay Fafnir, the terror.”
“Step into my boat,” said the boatman, “and I will carry you across the river.”
Siegfried sat beside the boatman, and without the use of oars or a breath of wind to drive it forward, the small vessel turned and moved silently toward the opposite shore.
“How will you fight the dragon?” asked the boatman.
“With my faithful sword Balmung, I will slay him,” Siegfried replied.
“But he wears the Helm of Terror, breathes deadly poisons, and his eyes flash lightning. No man can withstand his power,” said the boatman.
“I will find a way to overcome him.”
“Then be wise and heed my advice,” said the boatman. “If you follow the river upstream, you will find a path that is deep and smooth, winding across the moor from the shore. That is Fafnir’s trail, which he takes every morning at dawn to quench his thirst at the river. Dig a trench in this path—a narrow and deep trench—and hide within it. In the morning, when Fafnir crosses over it, he will feel the edge of Balmung.”
When the boat touched the shore, Siegfried leapt out. He turned to thank his mysterious helper, but neither boat nor boatman was to be seen. Only a thin white mist rose slowly from the cold surface of the river and drifted upward toward the mountain peaks. Then Siegfried remembered that the stranger had worn a blue hood with golden stars, a grey cloak thrown over his shoulders, and that his one eye gleamed with a light more than human. He knew he had spoken with Odin once again. With a braver heart than before, he walked along the riverbank until he came to Fafnir’s trail—a deep, wide groove in the earth beginning at the riverbank and winding across the heath until it disappeared into darkness. The bottom of the trail was soft and slimy, and its sides were worn smooth by Fafnir’s frequent passage.
The Battle with Fafnir
On this trail, not far from the river, Siegfried used his trusty sword Balmung to dig a deep and narrow trench, as Odin had instructed. When the grey dawn began to appear in the east, he hid himself in the trench and waited for the beast to arrive. He did not have to wait long, for as the sky turned red with the light of the rising sun, he heard the dragon stirring.
Peering cautiously from his hiding place, Siegfried saw the creature coming down the trail in the distance, hurrying to quench its thirst in the sluggish river before returning to its gold. The sound it made was like the tramp of many feet and the clatter of heavy chains. With bloodshot eyes, gaping jaws, and nostrils ablaze, the monstrous creature advanced. Its sharp, curved claws dug deep into the soft earth, and its bat-like wings, half-dragging on the ground and half-flapping in the air, made a noise like the rumble of Thor’s goat-drawn chariot through stormy clouds.
It was a terrifying moment for Siegfried, but he did not falter. He crouched low in his hiding place, and the gleaming blade of Balmung caught the morning light. The red glow from the dragon’s fiery nostrils illuminated the trench where Siegfried lay. He heard a roar and a rush like a whirlwind in the forest, and then a massive, black shadow passed over him, plunging everything into darkness. Now Siegfried’s moment had come. The bright edge of Balmung flashed once in the darkness, and then it struck true, piercing Fafnir’s heart as the beast passed over him.
Some say Odin himself sat in the trench with Siegfried, guiding his arm and his sword, for otherwise, he could not have slain the terror. Whatever the truth, the victory was soon won. The beast halted, only half its long body having crossed the trench, for sudden death overtook it. Its dreadful head fell lifeless to the ground, its cold wings beat once, then lay trembling and helpless on either side, and streams of thick, black blood poured from its heart through the wound below. The blood filled the trench where Siegfried lay hidden and flowed like a mountain torrent down the trail to the river. Siegfried was covered from head to toe in the slimy liquid and would have drowned in the rushing flood had he not leapt quickly from his hiding place.
The Death of Fafnir
The bright sun rose in the east, gilding the mountain peaks, casting its light on the still waters of the river, and illuminating the treeless plains all around. A gentle southern wind caressed Siegfried’s cheeks and played through his long hair as he gazed upon his fallen foe. The sounds of singing birds, splashing water, and joyful insects—unheard on the Glittering Heath for ages—broke the silence. The terror was dead, and nature awakened from its slumber of fear.
As the boy leaned on his sword, reflecting on the deed he had accomplished, Greyfell, his radiant mane shining with hope, stood beside him, having crossed the now-bright river. Regin, his face curiously cold, trudged across the meadows toward him, his heart filled with malice. From the mountains descended vultures to view the slain dragon, accompanied by two ravens, black as night. Seeing these ravens, Siegfried recognised them as Odin’s birds: Huginn, Thought, and Muninn, Memory. They settled on the ground nearby, and the boy listened closely to their words.
Huginn flapped his wings and said:
“The deed is done. Why does the hero hesitate?”
Muninn replied:
“The world is vast. Glory awaits the hero.”
Huginn added:
“And if he claims the elven hoard? That is no honour. Let him seek glory through nobler deeds.”
Then Muninn flew close to Siegfried’s ear and whispered:
“Beware of Regin, the master. His heart is poisoned, and he will be your downfall.”
The two birds then flew off to deliver the news to Odin in the joyous halls of Gladsheim.
Regin’s Betrayal
As Regin approached to inspect the dragon, Siegfried greeted him kindly, but Regin seemed not to hear. There was a serpent-like glint in his eyes, his mouth was stiff and dry, and he walked like one in a dream.
“Now it is mine,” muttered Regin. “The hoard of the dark-skinned elves, the accumulated wisdom of the ages—it is all mine. The power of the world is mine. I will guard it, I will hoard it, and I will let no one touch the treasure that belongs only to me.”
Then his gaze fell on Siegfried, and his cheeks darkened with rage. He shouted:
“Why do you stand in my way? I am the lord of the Glittering Heath. I am the lord of the hoard. I am the master, and you are my slave.”
Siegfried marvelled at the change in his former companion but only smiled at the strange words, giving no reply.
“You have slain my brother!” screamed Regin, his face turning black with fury, and foam appeared at his mouth.
“It was our shared task,” replied Siegfried calmly. “I have freed the world from a terror. I have righted a grave wrong.”
“You have slain my brother,” Regin repeated, “and you must pay a murderer’s ransom!”
“Take the hoard as ransom, and let us each go our separate ways,” Siegfried offered.
“The hoard is rightfully mine!” Regin shouted even more angrily. “I am the master, and you are my slave. Why do you stand in my way?”
Then, blinded by madness, Regin lunged at Siegfried as if to strike him down. But his foot slipped in a pool of blood, and he fell headlong onto the sharp edge of Balmung. The motion was so sudden and unexpected that the sword was wrenched from Siegfried’s hand and fell with a dull thud into the blood-filled trench. Regin, slain by his own recklessness, lay dead at Siegfried’s feet. Horrified, Siegfried turned away and mounted Greyfell.
Leaving the Glittering Heath
“This is a place of blood,” Siegfried said, “and the path to glory does not lead through it. Let the hoard remain on the Glittering Heath. I will find my own path from here, and the world will know me for better deeds than these.”
He turned from the dreadful scene and rode away. So swift was Greyfell that by nightfall, they stood on the shore of the great northern sea, where the white waves broke at their feet. Siegfried sat for a long time in silence on the warm, white sands of the beach, with Greyfell waiting beside him.
He watched the stars appear one by one and the moon rise, pale and round, to move like a queen across the sky. The night passed, the stars faded, and the moon sank to rest in the watery expanse. At dawn, Siegfried gazed westward and thought he saw dark mountain peaks hanging over a misty land, floating on the edge of the sea.
The Arrival of Bragi
As he watched, a white ship with full sails came speeding across the water toward him. It drew closer, and as it entered the still harbour, the sailors rested on their oars. At the bow sat a minstrel with a long, white beard flowing in the wind, and the sweet music of his harp wafted to the shore like incense. The ship touched the sand, its white sails furled as if by magic, and the crew leapt onto the beach.
“Hail, Siegfried the Golden!” called the minstrel. “From where do you come on this summer day?”
“I come from a land of terror and dread,” replied Siegfried, “and I wish to journey to a brighter land.”
“Then come with me, to awaken the earth from its slumber and clothe the fields in their beautiful garments,” said the minstrel. He plucked the strings of his harp, and the softest tones filled the still morning air. Siegfried stood entranced, for he had never heard such music before.
“Tell me who you are!” he cried as the notes faded. “Tell me who you are, and I will follow you to the ends of the earth.”
“I am Bragi,” replied the minstrel, smiling. Siegfried then noticed that the ship was adorned with flowers of every colour and that thousands of singing birds circled around it, filling the air with joyful song.
Sailing with Bragi
Bragi was the loveliest musician in all the world. Some said he lived among the songbirds and learned his craft from them. But this was only part of the truth, for wherever there was beauty, nobility, and purity, there too was Bragi. His wondrous skill in music and song was but the outward sign of an impeccable soul.
When he touched the strings of his golden harp, all nature was enchanted by the sweet harmony: wild beasts crept near to listen, birds halted in mid-flight, the waves of the sea grew still, and the winds fell silent. Tumbling waterfalls paused, rushing streams stood motionless in their beds, and elves forgot their hidden treasures to dance quietly around him. Even the forest spirits and musicians tried in vain to imitate him. He was as eloquent in speech as he was skilled in song.
His words were so persuasive that he was said to call fish from the sea, move great lifeless rocks, and—most difficult of all—sway the hearts of kings. He understood the voices of birds, the whispers of the wind, the murmurs of the waves, and the roar of waterfalls. He knew the length and breadth of the earth, the secrets of the sea, and the language of the stars. Every day, he conversed with Odin, the All-Father, and with the wise and virtuous in the sunlit halls of Gladsheim. Once a year, he travelled to the Northlands to awaken the earth from its long winter sleep, spreading music, smiles, and beauty everywhere.
Siegfried gladly agreed to sail with Bragi across the sea, knowing that the bright Asa-god would be a far better guide than the cunning and malicious Regin. He boarded the ship with Bragi, and the shimmering Greyfell followed them. The sailors took their seats at the oars, while Bragi stood at the bow and plucked the strings of his harp. As the music swelled, the white sails rose to the masts, a warm southern wind began to blow, and the small ship, surrounded by sweet melodies and the fragrance of spring, sailed joyfully over the sea.