Imaginary interview with Sigurd
by Charactorium · Sigurd · Mythology · 5 min read
It is on Mount Hindarfjall, where a ring of flames still licks the bare rock, that the valkyrie Brynhildr receives Sigurd at dusk. The smell of heated iron and burnt heather drifts over the moor; below, Grani paws the ground, indifferent to the fire. They have known each other since the hero crossed those same flames to awaken her and she taught him the runes — before a cup of forgetfulness undid everything. She questions him tonight as one reopens a wound: with the voice of one who loved and was betrayed.
—Sigurd, do you remember the day you crossed my flames on this rock? Tell me what you felt when you awakened me.
How could I forget, Brynhildr — you alone know what it is, that wall of fire no coward crosses. I spurred Grani into the flames and he did not flinch, for he carries the blood of Odin's horse. I found you sleeping in your mail-coat, and at first I thought I had awakened a fallen warrior. When you rose, you gave me the welcome mead and taught me the runes of victory, of the sea, and of speech. I had never received such a gift: not a dragon's treasure, but knowledge. That day I knew our fates were bound together in the fire.
Not a dragon's treasure, but knowledge: that is what you gave me in the fire.
—Before coming to me, a blade was needed. Tell me about that sword said to be reforged from your father's shards.
My sword is called Gram, and its story is that of my lineage. Odin himself had driven a sword into the trunk of Barnstokk, in the hall of the Völsungs, and only my father Sigmund could pull it out. It broke on the day of his death. Regin, the smith, welded the shards for me, and the new blade cut the anvil in two, then split a tuft of wool carried by the river current. No armor can withstand it. With Gram I opened Fáfnir's belly, and it, more than my arm, makes me what I am. A sword that comes from the gods is not wielded: it leads you.
A sword that comes from the gods is not wielded: it leads you.
—They sing everywhere of the heath of Gnitaheiðr and the serpent. Tell me truly about that night, without the skalds' pomp.
Regin had shown me the trail Fáfnir followed to drink, a furrow carved into the heath of Gnitaheiðr by the monster's belly. On his advice, I dug a pit across the path and lay in wait. When the dragon passed over me, the earth trembled and his poisoned breath flowed like a river. I raised Gram and plunged it to the hilt into his heart. He writhed, spoke still — for dragons speak when dying — and warned me that his gold would ruin me. I was not afraid of the beast, Brynhildr. It is his last words that I have never been able to forget.
Dragons speak when dying; it is his last words that I have never been able to forget.
—And then, the blood. They say you tasted Fáfnir and heard what no man hears. Is it true?
It is true, and it was against my will. Regin had asked me to roast the dragon's heart for him to eat. Feeling the flesh to see if it was cooked, I burned my finger and put it to my mouth. Immediately Fáfnir's blood touched my tongue, and the song of the tits in the branches became clear speech. They warned me that Regin wanted my death to keep the gold alone. I understood the betrayal before it fell, and I cut off the smith's head. Since then, I sometimes still hear the birds. But do you know, Brynhildr, this gift does not console: knowing what hearts plot is a burden as much as a weapon.
Knowing what hearts plot is a burden as much as a weapon.
—You who have drunk a monster's blood and received my runes, tell me: has this knowledge made you freer, or more bound?
More bound, I fear. Your runes, Brynhildr, taught me to carve victory and calm the sea; Fáfnir's blood opened the language of birds to me. But none of these gifts teach me to escape what is written. I see the traps, I guess the traitors, and yet I walk toward them like the river toward the fjord. The birds warned me against Regin and I could strike him; but against the misfortune attached to the gold, no warning avails. Knowing is not power to avert. I learned that by tasting a dragon's heart: one can hear one's doom announced and change nothing.
One can hear one's doom announced and change nothing.
—On this rock, after the runes, you made me a vow. Do you still remember it, Sigurd, or was it erased?
I remember it now, Brynhildr, and that is my shame. We exchanged vows in the light of these flames: that I would return, that no other would take your place in my heart. I left you a ring as a pledge. I do not lie when I say that at that moment, no treasure of Fáfnir was worth your word. You had taught me more than the runes: you had shown me to whom a fearless warrior could finally speak as an equal. That vow, I swore with my whole heart. That what followed betrayed it does not make it false — only lost, like so many things among the Völsungs.
No treasure of Fáfnir was worth your word.
—You took the dragon's gold, and the ring Andvaranaut with it. Did you know, when you slipped it on your finger, what it carried?
I knew it, and I took it anyway. Dying Fáfnir had warned me that his gold would ruin me, and the ring Andvaranaut is the worst of all that plunder: the dwarf Andvari, stripped of his last possession, cursed it so that death would follow whoever owned it. A warrior does not renounce a dragon's treasure for fear of a dwarf's word — that would be unworthy. So I loaded the gold onto Grani and the ring onto my finger. But the gold of the Nibelungs enriches no one: it sets brother against brother, wife against lover. Today I believe that this ring of gold weighs heavier than all my horse's burden.
The gold of the Nibelungs enriches no one: it sets brother against brother.
—And yet you forgot me and married another. Tell me, Sigurd: what erased our flames?
A cup, Brynhildr. Nothing more, and nothing worse. At the court of Gjúki, Queen Grímhild gave me a mead mixed with herbs and black runes, a draught of forgetfulness. With the first sip, your face and our vow withdrew from me as the sea withdraws from the shore. I married Gudrun without even knowing I was betraying you; worse, I crossed your flames a second time, but in the guise of Gunnar, to deliver you to him. I do not plead innocence — a man remains accountable for his deeds, even drugged. But know that it was not my heart that left you: it was my memory that was stolen from me.
It was not my heart that left you: it was my memory that was stolen from me.
—You speak like a man who already sees his end. Does the Wyrd weigh on you so heavily, you dragon-slayer?
The Wyrd weighs on all, Brynhildr, even on him who split Fáfnir. I have heard too many warnings — the beast, the birds, the dwarf — to believe myself safe. The fate of a Völsung is not to die old by the fireside: it is to accomplish great deeds and fall young, struck by those he loved. I feel the rancor rising around me like the pit of Gnitaheiðr filled with the dragon's blood. A man like me is not killed in open field; he is struck asleep, unarmed, by a kinsman's hand. I will not flee. To face without trembling what is written is all that remains of a hero.
To face without trembling what is written is all that remains of a hero.
—One last thing, Sigurd. Of all your exploits, which do you want the skalds to sing when neither you nor I are any more?
Let them sing of Gnitaheiðr if they wish, Brynhildr, and the blade Gram in the serpent's heart; that is the feat men understand best. But it is not what I would want remembered. Killing a dragon is a matter of courage and a good pit. The hardest thing was to keep one's word, and there I failed. If I am to be sung, let it be for the warrior who was never afraid — not of fire, nor of iron, nor of announced death. The rest, the gold, the betrayals, the forgetfulness, belongs to the curse, not to me. A hero is not what fate makes him: he is what he makes of the little freedom he is given.
A hero is not what fate makes him: he is what he makes of the little freedom he is given.
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.