Imaginary interview with Sigurd
by Charactorium · Sigurd · Mythology · 6 min read
In the great wooden hall where an oak fire crackles, a warrior with a pale gaze turns a gold ring between his fingers. Outside, the dark forest keeps watch. He agrees to speak of Gram, the dragon, and the sleeping valkyrie — of all that made his glory and prepared his downfall.
—How did you prepare to face a creature like Fáfnir?
You don't walk toward a monstrous serpent with another man's sword. Regin, the smith, had handed me blades that shattered at the first strike on the anvil. So I demanded the shards of my father Völsung's sword, and I had Gram reforged. When the blade was ready, I cut a tuft of wool thrown into the river, and the thread gave way like smoke. That was the weapon I needed. I dug a pit on the path of Gnitaheiðr, where the dragon dragged his bulk to drink, and I crouched in the earth. When his belly passed over me, I struck upward, to the heart. The mountain trembled with his agony. A man does not kill Fáfnir by the strength of his arms: he kills him by cunning and by a blade that only dwarves can make.
A man does not kill Fáfnir by the strength of his arms: he kills him by cunning and by a dwarf-made blade.
—What happened after the dragon was dead?
Regin wanted his brother's heart roasted. He ordered me to prepare it while he slept. I reached out my finger to the flesh to see if it was cooked; the hot blood bit me, and I put it to my mouth. At once the birds' song ceased to be a song: they were voices. On the branches, the tits said among themselves that the smith was plotting my death, that he would cut my throat to keep the gold for himself. Thus I knew the betrayal before it found me. The taste of Fáfnir's blood on my tongue opened the secret of hidden things, as the Reginsmál have told ever since. There are knowledges that one receives not from a master, but from a beast one has bled.
The taste of the dragon's blood on my tongue opened the secret of hidden things.
—Much is said of your horse. What does he represent to you?
Grani is not a beast bought at market. His blood comes from Sleipnir, the steed of Odin himself, and I did not choose him: a one-eyed old man, appearing on my path, pointed him out to me from among a whole herd driven into the river. He alone did not flee the current. When I ride him, I feel that I carry a bit of the All-Father on my back, and that a thread connects me to the Æsir. He walked with me through flames that no other horse would have crossed. A sword forged by dwarves, a steed born of the gods — that is what makes a man like me. Without Grani, Gram would be just a beautiful metal with no destiny to carry it.
When I ride him, I feel that I carry a bit of the All-Father on my back.
—Do you remember the moment when you discovered the valkyrie?
On the height, I saw a glow that rose to the sky, like a forest fire. Approaching, it was a wall of flames closed around a silver shield, and behind it, a lying form that I first thought was a warrior asleep in his mail. Grani passed through the fire without flinching. When I cut the armor that clung to her like a second skin, it was not a man: it was Brynhildr, the warrior maiden whom Odin had pricked with sleep to punish her. She awoke and greeted me as one greets the day. Then she taught me the runes — those carved for victory, to calm the sea, to heal. The Sigrdrífumál preserve this lesson. No dragon's loot is worth what a valkyrie pours into the ear of a man who has not feared the fire.
No dragon's loot is worth what a valkyrie pours into the ear of a fearless man.
—What did Brynhildr give you, beyond the promise you exchanged?
She gave me no gold; she gave me knowledge, which is more dangerous. She showed me how to carve runes into the drinking horn and onto the blade, how to redden them, where to hide them. She told me the sage's counsels: not to trust the words of a kinsman whose relative you have killed, to beware of mead offered by a cunning woman, to honor the dead as is fitting. We swore fidelity to each other on the mountain, and I believed that oath more solid than Gram. I did not yet know that a draught would suffice to erase an oath. That is all the bitterness: one can cross a ring of fire and remain defenseless before a cup.
One can cross a ring of fire and remain defenseless before a cup.
—Why did you take the treasure, if a curse was attached to it?
What warrior would leave a dragon's gold to rot in a pit? I loaded onto Grani all the treasure of the Nibelungs, and among it a ring, Andvaranaut. I knew what was said: that the dwarf Andvari had cursed it, that this gold would bring misfortune to whoever possessed it. But one never believes a curse is for oneself. One takes it for a story told to others. I slipped the ring onto my finger, and I kept the gold as one keeps proof of one's worth. Today I know that this ring has not finished claiming blood — mine will come after Fáfnir's and before that of my kin. The dragon's gold is not possessed: it is the gold that possesses the man.
One never believes a curse is for oneself: one takes it for a story told to others.
—Did this wealth change how others saw you?
Before the treasure, I was seen as the son of Völsung, the dragon-slayer. Afterward, I was seen as the man who held the gold of the Nibelungs — and that draws other eyes than those of friendship. Such a treasure does not sleep in a chest: it sits at the table, it weighs on alliances, it gives rise to marriage promises and blood-brother oaths. Each coin of that cursed gold was a spark, and a whole princely house would burn because of it. I thought I had conquered a wealth; I had gathered a brazier. That is what Andvari's curse truly does: it does not strike at once, it slowly poisons everything one loves.
I thought I had conquered a wealth; I had gathered a brazier.
—How do you explain having forgotten such a sacred oath?
I do not explain it: I was made to forget it. Among the Gjúkungar, I was handed a cup prepared by the queen, a brew mixed with spells, and Brynhildr faded from me like a footprint under snow. I no longer knew that I had awakened her, nor that I had sworn fidelity to her in the fire. I married Gudrun with a light heart, my soul emptied of its own past. Then, to serve my brother-in-law Gunnar, I even crossed the flames again in his guise, to conquer the one who belonged to me. When the potion wore off, the harm was done, and two betrayed women demanded justice. A man can guard against sword and venom; he can do nothing against what is poured into his mead.
Brynhildr faded from me like a footprint under snow.
—You speak of your end as something already decided. Do you see it coming?
I know my path, for the birds taught me to hear what is hidden from me. Brynhildr, wounded in her honor, will not forgive that another won me in her place. She will push Gunnar and his brothers until blood flows, and since none of them will dare raise a hand against a sworn brother, they will arm the youngest, Gutthorm, who swore no oath. He will come while I sleep beside Gudrun, and he will pierce me in my bed, where neither Gram nor shield protects me. A warrior dreams of falling weapon in hand, to gain Valhöll. I will be killed asleep, by the curse of a ring. But the sagas told around hearths will speak my name long after my murderer is forgotten.
I will be killed asleep, where neither Gram nor shield protects me.
—What would you say to someone who wants to follow your hero's path?
Let him look well at everything I carry before envying my glory. A sword reforged from the shards of a dead father, a steed descended from Sleipnir, runes learned from a valkyrie, a treasure torn from a dragon in the pit of Gnitaheiðr. All that shines. But beneath the gleam, there is the ring Andvaranaut that never releases its prey, the potion that erases oaths, and the blade of a kinsman in the back during sleep. Wyrd, fate, is not bargained: one accomplishes what is woven for oneself, even when one sees the tragic thread. I do not regret killing Fáfnir. But let it be known that a great feat always opens a great wound, and that the same hand that takes the dragon's gold signs its own end.
The same hand that takes the dragon's gold signs its own end.
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Sigurd's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.