The Song of Fafnir -- A Norse Mythology Novella

3. Injustice

I was chewing on my pen during a school lesson when the King unexpectedly summoned me. I rose from the trestle table, grinning internally at the irritated look on my tutor's face and the vague, jealous glances from the other students. I took the opportunity to cuff one of the older boys as I made my way through the pools of light and shadow all the way down to the dark end of the cavernous royal hall where my father sat on his golden throne, observing the industrious activities of his subjects.

I approached and knelt before him. "You summoned me, Father?"

Other dwarves moved in the darkness, servants and advisors, but I was so used to them that I paid their shadowy figures no attention. They were nothing to me, for I could never tempt any of them out for a game of my own devising.

The king leaned forward, the distant light from the nearest hearth frosting the outline of his arm and beard against the blackness.  Although I could not see his eyes, I knew they were trained on me, and only me. I felt uncomfortable there on the tiles, but thought I would get nothing more than a vague reprimand over some insignificant joke or tussle I hardly remembered. I could not have guessed at the words which were about to come out of his mouth, but when they came, I felt as if I'd been struck hard across the face. 

The king cleared his throat and spoke directly to me. A rarity. 

"Boldness and bravery are one thing, Fafnir, unchecked violence another. I have heard enough distressing reports of your activities in the outer world for a lifetime. Youth sits badly on you, I am ashamed to admit, and I am no longer proud to call you my son.  You are now more of an embarrassment to me and your family than a blessing. The aggression in your blood must find a channel, and there is none here."

He paused and I could only just make out the contours of his face as he shook his head with regret. Or perhaps disgust. 

"Therefore hear me, Fafnir: you will descend into the forges, deep into the forges where the earth glows hot, to take out your aggressions on the anvil, instead of on the bones of your fellow creatures. And it is there you will stay until you have fully mastered the dragon within and are no longer a threat to yourself . . . or to anyone else."

I stared at my father with an open mouth. The forges, the deep forges, were no place for a prince like myself. They were foul, horrible pits filled with the most vicious and corrupt of dwarves. Dwarves so brutal they barely deserved the name of dwarf. That was where my father was sending me? That was the place he thought I belonged?

Leaping to my feet with a howl, I balled my fists at my father, who leaned slowly back, fading into the darkness where I could no longer see his outline. 

"I have done nothing wrong!" I screamed. "Why am I to be exiled like a criminal? Who has blackened my name? I am innocent. I have done nothing to deserve such a punishment. This is unjust, Father, nothing but unjust!"

I continued my childish protests. Loudly. Far too loudly.

I know that now.

From this vantage point, I can see how the small joints of fate are laid together and soldered into tragedy. How emotions knot themselves into actions, actions into events and events into disasters that change the entire world in the time it takes a stray cinder to burn itself out upon a stone floor. 

So invisible and unforeseen by those who stand witness to such disasters being forged, ignorant of their impact or longevity. Unforeseen by everyone, that is, except for a certain grey-bearded traveller on a mountain slope who knew each detail centuries beforehand. And had had the audacity to speak my own name to me, knowing that I would only understand the warning long after his plan had come to fruition.