The Song of Fafnir -- A Norse Mythology Novella

11. Trap

We all were to be king.

I was slung into a chair, staring into the dancing flames of a fire of one of the great hearths in the Royal Hall and reordering my thoughts, shifting them this way and that, attempting to take in this new reality. Even if I sat there still as the slope of fjord on a windless day, my insides were a mixed and spinning slough of emotions. When some of them rose, I felt the hobgoblin in me stir and my fists flex involuntarily. When others rose, I felt nothing but relief and a form of deep contentment.

The exceptional burden and responsibility of single kingship had been wrenched from my shoulders. In its place, however, had been set the rulership of a distant gate with several problematic, and possibly fatal, flaws.

Handing me the Eastern gate looked like nothing more than a renewed attempt to keep me at arm's length from the rest of my family, as well as keeping me away from actual power. And yet – both Regin and Otr had received gates, just as I had. How and where could I protest? 

On the surface, no one could raise their voice claim it was another exile, least of all me, but in practice it could very well develop into just that.

The hobgoblin shifted and sent a wave of acidic exhilaration through my arms and legs. I thumped it hard on the skull and told it to be silent. I had no irrefutable evidence that I would soon be suffering another humiliating round of injustice. It was my wounded pride speaking, that was the long and short of it. 

I stared into the fire, not really seeing it. 

With my feelings removed from the situation, only the question of joint rulership of the Kingdom remained.

How would we brothers who barely knew each other be able to adequately govern together? Otr I was beginning to value greatly and a sense of friendship was developing between us, but Regin? How was I to deal with a dwarf who had been doing his utmost to replace me all this time?

Not only did he dress as if he were the firstborn son of the King of the Mountain-- in his wolf cloak, jewel-studded shoes and fancy rings and necklaces -- he also behaved as if he were me,  after a certain fashion. 

I recognised that combination of haughty self-confidence and blind entitlement he so enjoyed putting on display, and it did not agree with me in the least. I had no doubt that hidden under all of his finery and industriousness, Regin was after being king just as a mature wolf is after being the leader of his pack. If he could not alone rule in name, than he certainly would see to it that he would rule alone in practice. 

And just how might he weedle me out of any real governance? No fingernail of doubt remained in my mind that he would. Were my long absence and ignorance reasons I should not be trusted with anything? Would I simply not be informed of important details and then called disinterested and ineffective? Would have to rely on Otr to function at all?

For the first time, wished myself back in the forges. Not in the Lowermost, never there again, but in one where my work and position was clear and uncontested. Where all there was was the anvil, the hammer, the metal and myself. Where there were no distractions or obstacles.

Where I felt comfortable.

Where I felt safe.

All around me my kinsmen were relaxing from their day, and the sound of rolling dice, faint curses and laughs and the murmur of gentle conversation created a background wash to my thoughts. It was as soothing as any domestic sounds could be, and yet I was not soothed.

I can't say how long he stood there observing me or if he had spoken before, but a loud voice made me jump and I jerked in the direction of the noise.