The Song of Fafnir -- A Norse Mythology Novella

1. Siegfried the Brave

Many have heard the Song of Siegfried and how that brave warrior slew the evil dragon, Fafnir. A dragon so bloated with greed and the lust for gold, that he resorted to murder in order to curl his claws lovingly around a glittering, frigid treasure deep within the heart of the Mountain Palace.

A good song. One worthy of Siegfried. 

Unfortunately, also one woven out of nothing more reliable than pernicious rumour, and the ever-active imaginations of wispy-bearded bards hoping to ingratiate themselves with a lord in exchange for a roof over their head, and a leg of rabbit hot from the spit.

Siegfried did come, that part is true, but he never raised a hand against me. In all the hours he spent in the Mountain, drinking my mead and warming himself by my hearth, in all those hours his sword never left its sheath.

There are three Gates into the Mountain, all hidden by rock and ice, or by sea and wind. I keep the Eastern one, the lowest and most vulnerable entrance to our kingdom.

It was that Gate that Siegfried came to, seeking to decorate the tip of his sword with my blood.

I did not make him waste his time picking the Great Lock with its hundreds of springs and feathers, although I could have kept him out for months that way. I could have stood in the wide hall that houses the Gate, joking and grinning with the rest of my guards, listening to his scratchings and curses as he tried, and broke, every tool he had. Every tool he could fashion.

The truth is, The Great Lock can only be opened from the outside by one singular key: the first ray of the sun on the longest and shortest days of the year. At that moment, the huge iron bolt retracts from the dark pit in the rock were it lies sleeping for most of the year. Its springs whirl and tremble until the vibrations caused by the tickling of the slim fingers of the new sun open the Gate just a crack.

That crack is all anyone needs to find their way into our dark home. Whether by design or by accident, it makes no difference.

There are only a few individuals alive who know the correct key, and it raised my eyebrows in surprise that the one who sent Siegfried had not told him about it. Had he wanted the great hero frustrated, his bravery and renown tested? Did he want to build up the legend of Fafnir to attract more, and more self-proclaimed, heroes to my door? If the great Siegfried failed, would a hundred minor Siegfrieds eventually succeed?

As I said, I could have kept him out for months, but I chose not to. 

He came in the spring when the snows had almost melted away and laid the forecourt bare,  massive icicles hanging down like the teeth of a monster, cracking and dissipating into small streams trickling through the crevices in the rocks below.

The bronze raven I'd once fashioned as a gift for my father flew in through slits in the high Southern Gate, and was brought down to me thorough the tunnels and caverns. In the bird's limpid, glowing eyes, I saw the image of a man, tall and girded with sword and a light pack, climbing steadily towards the Eastern Gate. The runes stained into his sleeves and the mark of Thor on his brow told me who he was, but not what he wanted.

I laid aside my cup, unwound the fur blanket from my shoulders, and walked to the Eastern Gate to welcome him. I opened it for him myself, alone, a small, muscular Mountain Dwarf with blond braids and a short, blond beard gradually moulting into white. Nothing like the steam-seething worm of a dragon he was expecting, as he would later tell me, a disbelieving shake already beginning to creep into his gestures.

"Your fame proceeds you, Siegfried," I said, in a hospitable manner. "But first a question. Do you know who I am?"

Siegfried stood a good many paces away, eyeing me closely. Then, he sent his gaze on a journey beyond me to wander in a circle, taking in the Gate that had appeared out of the rock, the icicles, the thick, wooden support beams of the door and the hall beyond, the sheet rock of the forecourt, the lovely mosaic where the grey stone meets the tiles of the interior, and then back to myself.