Long ago, in the cold, pine-scented lands of the far north, there was a time when the world was younger, harder, and filled with a strange, wild magic.
This is a story from the Norse world, the lands of Scandinavia, where the winters are long, the mountains are carved by ice, and the sea crashes against towering stone cliffs.
The people of this world, whom we sometimes call the Vikings, sat around roaring fires in great timber halls to listen to their poets, the scalds.
They told stories of gods and giants, of courage and fate, and of the choices that define a human life.
The story they loved best of all was the legend of the Volsungs, a family of great heroes, and of a young man named Sigurd.
But to understand Sigurd, we must first understand the dragon he was destined to meet.
And to understand the dragon, we must understand that he was not always a monster.
Once, long before Sigurd was born, there was a family of three brothers.
They were not quite men, but rather of an older magical race that could shapeshift and work wonders.
The youngest brother was named Otter, because he loved nothing more than to swim in the cold rivers, catching fish in the form of a sleek brown otter.
The middle brother was Regin, a master blacksmith whose hands could shape iron and bronze into things of breathtaking beauty and terrible power.
The eldest brother was Fafnir, a man of immense strength and a cold, protective heart.
One afternoon, a terrible mistake occurred.
The great gods of the Norse world, Odin, the one-eyed father of all, Loki, the clever and mischievous trickster, and Honer, the quiet traveler, were wandering near the river.
Loki, seeing what he thought was an ordinary otter eating a salmon on a rock, threw a stone.
His aim was true, and the otter was killed.
When the gods sought shelter that night at the hall of Hreidmar, the father of the three brothers, they showed off the beautiful otter pelt they had taken.
Hreidmar and his sons recognized the skin of their beloved otter instantly.
Overcome with grief and fury, they bound the gods with magic ropes that even Odin could not break.
To buy their freedom, the gods had to agree to a ransom.
They must cover the inside and the outside of Otter's skin with pure gold.
It was Loki who went to find the ransom.
He knew of a dark pool deep beneath a waterfall where a dwarf named Andvari lived.
Andvari had turned himself into a fish to guard his secret treasure, a mountain of gold, and most precious of all, a small golden ring that had the power to multiply wealth.
Loki, using a net woven by the sea gods, captured Andvari and forced him to hand over every single coin, every cup, every crown, and finally, the tiny ring itself.
As Loki snatched the ring from the dwarf's finger, Andvari cried out a terrible curse.
"That gold," the dwarf hissed, "will be the ruin of whoever owns it.
The ring will bring death to its master, and the treasure will bring only betrayal, sorrow, and greed."
Loki did not care.
He took the gold back to Hreidmar's hall.
The gods stuffed the otter skin with gold and piled more gold around it until not a single hair could be seen.
But Hreidmar, looking closely, saw one tiny whisker still showing.
To cover it, Odin had to place Andvari's golden ring over the spot.
The ransom was paid, the gods were freed, and Loki laughed as he left, warning them of the curse.
The curse did not wait long to do its work.
The gold sat in the middle of the hall, glowing with a warm amber light that seemed to whisper to anyone who looked at it.
Hreidmar refused to share a single coin with his surviving sons, Regin and Fafnir.
He sat on his bench, staring at the gold, his eyes wide and unblinking.
One night, as Hreidmar slept, Fafnir crept into his father's chamber.
The curse had already taken root in Fafnir's heart.
He did not see his father anymore.
He saw only an obstacle between himself and the shining hoard.
With a cold, silent stroke, Fafnir took his father's life and claimed the gold for his own.
When Regin woke and saw what had happened, he begged his brother for his half of the inheritance.
But Fafnir only bared his teeth.
"If you do not leave this hall," Fafnir growled, "I will lay you beside our father."
Regin, who was small and feared his brother's great strength, fled into the wilderness, his heart burning with a quiet, bitter hatred.
Fafnir was left alone with the gold.
He took the treasure far away, high up onto a barren, rocky plateau, known as the Nita Heath.
There he piled the gold in a deep cave.
He did not spend it.
He did not buy land or build a kingdom or feast with friends.
He only watched it.
Greed is a quiet, heavy thing.
It starts as a thought, but if you feed it, it grows until it fills your whole mind.
For Fafnir, the greed was so great that it began to change his very body.
Over years of lying upon the cold metal, his skin began to harden.
It grew thick and bumpy, like the bark of an old oak tree, and then turned into gray, iron-like scales.
His fingers elongated, his nails curling into sharp, curved talons.
His legs grew short and thick, and his spine stretched out, growing a long, heavy tail that dragged through the dirt.
His breath, once warm and human, became a foul, poisonous vapor that hissed from his nose, and his eyes glowed with a pale yellow light.
Fafnir had become a dragon.
He was greed made visible.
He spent his days coiling his massive, scaly body around the gold, protecting it from a world he no longer trusted.
Once a day, he would crawl down a wide, worn path from his cave to a nearby river to drink, leaving a trail of scorched earth and dead grass behind him.
No one dared to go near the Ganita Heath.
The world forgot the man Fafnir had been, and remembered only the monster that slept upon the gold.
Years passed, and the story of the dragon on the heath became a legend, a tale told to frighten children.
Meanwhile, in the kingdom of Denmark, a boy was growing up in the court of a king.
His name was Sigurd.
Sigurd was a boy of remarkable grace and strength.
He had bright, clear eyes that seemed to look right through a person, and hair that shone like spun copper.
He was the son of Sigmund, a king of the Volsung line, who had died in battle before Sigurd was born.
Sigurd's mother had kept the broken pieces of his father's sword, waiting for the day her son would be old enough to carry them.
As Sigurd grew, he was given a tutor, a quiet, clever blacksmith who lived on the edge of the king's estate.
This blacksmith was none other than Regin, the brother of Fafnir.
Regin had lived a long, bitter life.
He had never forgotten the gold, and he had never forgiven his brother.
But Regin was not a warrior.
He was a planner.
He had waited decades for a weapon strong enough to kill a dragon.
And when he saw young Sigurd, he knew his wait was over.
Here was a boy with the blood of heroes in his veins, strong, trusting, and eager to prove himself.
Regin began to whisper in Sigurd's ear.
As they sat by the forge, the bellows sighing and the orange sparks dancing up into the dark rafters, Regin would tell stories of the great heroes of old.
"A true king," Regin would say, his voice low and scraping like gravel, "does not sit at home and grow fat on his father's lands.
He wins his own glory.
He rids the world of monsters."
"And where are these monsters, Regin?" Sigurd would ask, his eyes reflecting the fire of the forge.
"Not far from here," Regin said, leaning closer.
"On the Nita Heath, there lies a hoard of gold so vast it could buy ten kingdoms.
And upon it, lies a beast that was once my brother, turned to a dragon by his own greed.
If you had the courage, Sigurd, you could slay him.
You could free the world from his poison, and the gold would be yours."
Sigurd's heart beat faster.
"I do not care for the gold, Regin," he said honestly.
"But I do care for glory, and I would gladly rid the world of a monster.
But to face a dragon, I need a sword.
Forge me a blade that will not break."
Regin smiled, a small, dark pulling of his lips.
"I am the master of the forge," he said.
"I will make you a sword that can cut through stone."
The next day, Regin went to work.
He selected the finest steel, heated it until it glowed like the setting sun, and hammered it with all his might.
When the blade was finished, he handed it to Sigurd.
Sigurd held the sword.
It was beautifully balanced, its surface polished like water.
But Sigurd looked at Regin's anvil, the massive block of iron upon which the blacksmith hammered his steel.
Sigurd raised the sword high and brought it down upon the anvil with all his strength.
With a loud clang, the sword shattered into a dozen pieces.
Sigurd sighed and shook his head.
"This blade is weak, Regin.
It cannot bear my strength.
Try again."
Regin frowned.
He took even better steel, spent three days and three nights at the forge, singing ancient songs of power over the metal as he worked.
He handed the second sword to Sigurd.
Again, Sigurd raised it, and again, he struck the anvil.
The blade snapped like dry pine.
Sigurd stood in the quiet forge, the smell of coal and hot iron hanging in the air.
He realized then that no ordinary steel, forged by ordinary hands, would ever be enough to pierce the iron scales of Fafnir.
He went to his mother, Queen Hjortis.
He knelt before her and asked for the gift she had kept safe for so many years, the shards of his father's sword, Gram.
His mother led him to a heavy wooden chest bound in iron.
From the bottom, wrapped in soft silk, she pulled the broken pieces of the ancient sword.
The blade had been shattered in Sigmund's final battle, but even in pieces, the steel seemed to hum with a faint blue light.
It was a sword made by the gods themselves.
Sigurd took the pieces to Regin.
"Here," the young hero said.
"We forge these shards.
If your skill is as great as you say, make my father's sword whole again."
Regin looked at the broken steel, and his eyes widened.
He knew the history of this blade.
He took the shards to his hearth.
This time, he did not use his usual tools.
He worked with a quiet, almost fearful reverence.
He melted the shards down, purifying the metal, and hammered it with a rhythm that sounded like a heartbeat in the quiet valley.
When the sword was finished, it did not look like the others.
It was long and dark, and along its edge, a pale light seemed to flicker like a cold flame.
Sigurd took the hilt.
The sword felt as light as a feather in his hand, yet he could feel the immense power vibrating through the steel.
He walked over to the anvil.
He did not raise his arm high this time.
He simply let the sword fall.
With a clean, whispering sound, the blade sliced through the massive iron anvil, splitting it all the way down to the wooden block beneath it.
The edge of the sword was completely unmarked, as smooth and sharp as glass.
To test it further, Sigurd took the sword down to the river.
He stood in the cold water and held the blade still, its edge facing upstream.
Regin threw a handful of fine wool into the water above him.
As the current carried the wool down, it touched the edge of the sword.
Without a sound, the wool was sliced into two perfect halves, which floated away on either side of Sigurd's boots.
Sigurd smiled.
"This is Gram," he said.
"Now, Regin, show me the way to the dragon."
The journey to the Nita Heath was long, and as they traveled, the land changed.
The green forests of Denmark gave way to gray, jagged hills.
The birds stopped singing.
Soon there were no trees at all, only cracked black earth and the smell of sulfur drifting on the cold wind.
Regin rode beside Sigurd, but as they drew closer to the dragon's territory, the blacksmith's courage began to fail.
He looked around at the lifeless landscape, his hands shaking on his horse's reins.
"We are near," Regin whispered, his voice trembling.
"This is the heath.
Fafnir lies in a cave at the top of the ridge.
Every day he crawls down this very valley to the river to drink.
He is a mountain of scales and poison, Sigurd.
You cannot meet him face to face.
His breath will melt your shield and his eyes will freeze your blood."
"Then how am I to slay him?" Sigurd asked, looking up at the gray cliffs.
"You must be clever," Regin said, his eyes glittering with a strange nervous light.
"You must dig a pit in the path he takes to the water.
Dig it deep enough that you can stand inside it, hidden from his view.
When the dragon crawls over the pit, his soft underbelly will be right above you.
You must strike upward into his heart."
Sigurd looked at the path.
It was a wide, deep groove carved into the stone by centuries of the dragon's heavy body dragging over it.
"And what of you, Regin?
Will you stand with me?"
"I am a smith, not a warrior," Regin squeaked.
"I will wait for you by the river.
Do not fail, young Volsung, or we are both dead."
With that, Regin turned his horse and rode away, leaving Sigurd alone in the gray silence of the heath.
Sigurd dismounted his horse, Grani, a magnificent gray beast descended from Odin's own eight-legged steed.
He patted Grani's neck and walked to the center of the dragon's path.
The ground was hard and scorched, but Sigurd had a strong spade and the strength of his youth.
He began to dig.
The work was exhausting.
The earth was dry and mixed with sharp rocks that cut his hands, but he dug a deep, rectangular pit, just as Regin had told him.
As he was finishing, he heard a soft footstep behind him.
Sigurd spun around, his hand on the hilt of Gram.
Standing at the edge of the pit was an old man.
He wore a long, dark blue cloak that was frayed at the edges, and a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his face, casting his eyes into shadow.
When the wind blew the hat back slightly, Sigurd saw that the man had only one eye, which shone with the brightness of a winter star.
"You are digging your own grave, young man," the stranger said.
His voice was deep and resonant, like the tolling of a distant bell.
Sigurd did not lower his hand from his sword.
"I am digging a pit to slay the dragon Fafnir, as I was advised."
"And who gave you this advice?" the old man asked.
"Regin, the master smith."
The old man let out a soft, dry laugh.
"Regin is a clever smith, but he is a fool in the ways of dragons, or perhaps he wishes to see you drown.
If you stand in that pit and strike the beast, his blood will pour down like a rushing river.
It is not ordinary blood, Sigurd.
It is hot as boiling oil and filled with a poison that will consume your flesh.
If you stay in this single hole, you will be drowned in the very blood you spill."
Sigurd felt a chill go down his spine.
He realized the truth of the old man's words.
"What should I do then?"
"Dig more pits," the stranger said, pointing with a gnarled wooden staff.
"Dig trenches leading away from the main pit, like the branches of a tree.
When the blood falls, it will flow into the side trenches and drain into the earth, leaving you safe.
Do this, Sigurd, and trust in your father's sword."
Before Sigurd could thank him, the old man turned and walked into the gray mist.
In the blink of an eye, he was gone, as if he had never been there at all.
Sigurd knew then that he had been visited by Odin, the Allfather.
With renewed energy, Sigurd went back to work.
He dug deep trenches branching out from his pit, creating a system to channel the dragon's blood away.
When the work was done, he climbed down into the central pit.
He pulled a wooden cover over the top of the hole, leaving only a small gap through which he could see the sky.
He held Gram in both hands, the blade pointing upward.
Then he waited.
The hours passed slowly in the dark, damp earth.
The air inside the pit grew cold.
Sigurd listened to the silence of the heath, a silence so deep he could hear the beating of his own heart.
He thought of his father, Sigmund, and the long line of heroes who had gone before him.
He knew that today, his life would either end in this dark hole, or he would rise as a legend.
Late in the afternoon, the silence broke.
The earth began to tremble.
It started as a faint vibration beneath Sigurd's boots, then grew into a steady, rhythmic thudding that shook the walls of the pit, sending showers of dirt down onto his shoulders.
Then came the sound, a horrific, heavy scraping, like a mountain of iron chains being dragged over rough stone.
The air grew hot.
The smell of sulfur and ancient rotting things drifted down through the cracks in the wooden cover, so thick and foul that Sigurd had to cover his mouth with his sleeve to keep from gagging.
Fafnir was coming.
Through the narrow gap in the wooden cover, the sky suddenly went dark.
It was not the darkness of night, but the massive, scaly body of the dragon blotting out the sun.
Sigurd looked up.
Above him was a landscape of horror.
The dragon's underbelly was covered in thick, yellowish scales, but between the plates of armor, the skin was softer, gray and wrinkled, like the hide of an old elephant.
The heat radiating from the beast was like standing before an open furnace.
The ground groaned under Fafnir's immense weight.
The dragon moved slowly, confident in his power, unaware of the small human waiting in the earth beneath him.
Sigurd waited.
He knew he had only one chance.
If he struck too early, he would hit the hard scales of the chest.
If he struck too late, the blade would miss the vital organs.
He watched the massive body slide over him, foot by foot.
Then he saw it.
The area just behind the dragon's left shoulder, where the skin pulsed slightly with the heavy, slow beat of a monstrous heart.
Sigurd drew a deep breath, gripped the hilt of Gram with both hands, and thrust the sword upward with all his might.
The divine steel of Gram did not fail.
It pierced the dragon's hide as easily as if it were soft wax.
The blade sank deep, all the way to the gold-wrapped hilt, burying itself in Fafnir's heart.
For a second, there was a terrible, frozen silence.
Then the world erupted.
Fafnir let out a scream that shook the mountains, a sound of pure agony and rage that shattered the rocks on the cliffs above.
His massive tail thrashed, striking the ground with the force of thunderbolts.
The earth caved in around the pit, but Sigurd held fast to the hilt of his sword.
A torrent of black, smoking blood poured from the wound.
Just as Odin had warned, it was hot and hissed with a deadly poison.
But as it flooded into the pit, it caught the channels Sigurd had dug and rushed away into the side trenches, leaving him unharmed in the center.
Fafnir, in his death throes, dragged himself forward, pulling the sword from Sigurd's hands.
He rolled onto his side on the rocky path, his great legs twitching, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps that sent plumes of black smoke into the gray sky.
Sigurd climbed out of the pit.
He was covered in dirt and soot, but he was alive.
He walked slowly toward the dying monster, Gram still protruded from the dragon's chest, its blade shining through the dark blood.
Fafnir's massive head, as large as a carriage, turned slowly toward Sigurd.
His pale yellow eyes, once filled with malice, were now dimming, but they held a strange, sad intelligence.
"Who are you?" the dragon rumbled.
His voice was no longer a roar, but a low, hollow whisper that sounded like the wind in a cavern.
"Who is your father, and what is your kin that you have the courage to bring me down?"
In the Norse world, it was believed that the words of a dying man, or beast, carried great weight, and that to name oneself to a dying foe could allow them to lay a final curse upon you.
"I am a traveler," Sigurd said cautiously.
"I have no father or mother, and I walk this world alone."
Fafnir let out a weak, wheezing laugh that ended in a cough of black blood.
"Do not lie to me, young hero.
A boy who carries such a sword and strikes with such strength is no nameless wanderer.
You are of the Volsung line.
I can see the light of Odin in your eyes.
You are Sigurd, son of Sigmund."
Sigurd bowed his head.
"I am Sigurd."
"Listen to me, Sigurd," Fafnir said, his voice growing fainter.
"You have won a great victory today, but hear my words before the darkness takes me.
The gold I guarded is cursed.
The ring of Andvari will bring death to whoever possesses it.
It turned me from a man into a monster, and it will do the same to you.
It will bring betrayal from those you trust most."
Sigurd looked at the dragon.
He felt a sudden, unexpected wave of pity.
He saw not just a monster, but a brother who had lost his way, a soul twisted by the love of lifeless metal.
"Every man must die, Fafnir," Sigurd said softly.
"And every hero wishes to die with gold in his hands.
I do not fear the curse.
I will take the gold, and I will use it as a king should."
"You are young," Fafnir whispered, his great eyes slowly closing.
"And you do not know the weight of what you carry.
Beware of the smith, Sigurd.
He sent you here to do what he could not, and he does not mean to share the prize."
With one final long sigh, the dragon's breath went cold.
The great beast was dead.
The silence returned to the Ganita Heath, but it was a different silence now, lighter, as if a great weight had been lifted from the earth.
Sigurd stepped forward and pulled Gram from the dragon's chest.
He wiped the blade clean on the dry grass.
As he did, Regin appeared at the edge of the valley.
The blacksmith crept forward slowly, his eyes darting from side to side, until he saw the massive, lifeless form of his brother.
A look of pure, wild triumph washed over Regin's face.
He ran forward, falling to his knees beside the dragon's head.
He did not weep for his brother.
Instead, his fingers clawed at the air, as if he could already feel the gold.
But then, Regin looked up at Sigurd, and his expression changed.
The old bitterness, the cold calculation returned to his eyes.
"You have slain my brother," Regin said, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and anger.
"He was my flesh and blood, and though he was a monster, his death is a heavy thing.
You must pay a price for this, Sigurd."
Sigurd was astonished.
"I did this at your request, Regin.
I risked my life while you hid by the river."
"Still," Regin said, waving his hand dismissively.
"It was my brother.
I ask only one small thing to settle the blood feud.
Take your sword and cut out the dragon's heart.
Roast it over a fire and let me eat it.
If I eat my brother's heart, I will have my inheritance, and we shall be even."
Sigurd, wanting to be fair and wishing to put an an end to the bitterness between them, agreed.
Regin sat down by a rock, claiming he was exhausted and needed to sleep.
He closed his eyes, but Sigurd could see his hands twitching.
Sigurd gathered what dry scrub and wood he could find on the barren heath.
He built a fire, its orange flames crackling bravely against the gray sky.
He cut out the dragon's heart, a massive, heavy thing that seemed to hold the heat of the fire even in death.
He fashioned a spit from a green branch, skewered the heart, and held it over the flames.
As the heart roasted, the fat sizzled and dripped into the fire, sending up a thick, sweet-smelling smoke.
Regin lay nearby, pretending to sleep, but his breathing was shallow and uneven.
After some time, Sigurd wanted to check if the meat was fully cooked.
He reached out and touched the heart with his bare thumb.
The meat was boiling hot.
A drop of the dark, roasting juices sizzled onto his skin, burning him.
"Ah!" Sigurd cried out, instinctively pulling his hand back.
To cool the burn, he popped his thumb into his mouth.
He tasted the hot dragon blood.
For a moment, the world seemed to stand completely still.
The sound of the wind died away, the crackle of the fire grew quiet.
Sigurd felt a strange tingling sensation run from the tip of his tongue up through his head and down into his chest.
It was as if a veil had been torn away from his senses.
From the bushes near the edge of the heath, a group of small gray nuthatches were flitting from branch to branch.
Suddenly, their chirping was no longer just noise.
It was speech.
It was a language as clear and sharp as his mother's tongue.
Sigurd held his breath, listening.
"Look at him!" one of the birds chirped, its voice high and musical.
"Look at the young hero sitting there, roasting the heart for another."
"Yes," replied another bird, preening its feathers.
"He is a fool.
He does not know that if he ate the heart himself, he would gain all the wisdom of the world.
He would know the secrets of the earth and the sky."
"And he does not see the serpent sleeping beside him," a third bird sang.
"The smith Regin is only waiting for the heart to be cooked.
He plans to strike Sigurd down while he sleeps, so that he may keep all the gold of the Ganita Heath for himself.
He has always intended to betray the boy."
"If Sigurd were wise," the first bird said, "he would take his sword Gram and cut off the smith's head.
Then he could eat the heart, take the gold, and ride away to win a kingdom."
Sigurd sat perfectly still, his thumb still in his mouth.
He looked over at Regin.
The smith was indeed pretending to sleep, but through his half-closed eyelids, his eyes were fixed not on the sky, but on Sigurd's back.
One of Regin's hands had crept slowly toward the hilt of his own dagger.
Sigurd felt a cold clarity wash over him.
The warnings of Fafnir, the advice of the one-eyed stranger, and the song of the birds all came together in his mind.
He saw the web of greed that had trapped this family for generations.
First Hreidmar, then Fafnir, and now Regin.
The curse of the gold was already working on the smith, turning him into a betrayer.
Sigurd stood up.
He did not feel anger, only a deep, profound sadness that it had come to this.
But he was a Volsung, and he would not allow himself to be slaughtered like a sheep in the night.
He drew Gram.
The blade caught the light of the dying fire.
Before Regin could spring his trap, Sigurd struck.
The blow was swift and clean, ending the bitter smith's life before he could commit the murder he had planned.
Regin fell beside his brother.
Two sons of Hreidmar, united at last in the dust of the Nita Heath.
Sigurd stood alone on the silent heath, surrounded by the dead.
The fire had burned down to gray ash, and the smell of sulfur was slowly fading, carried away by the cold wind from the sea.
He walked over to the roasting spit.
Following the advice of the birds, he ate a portion of the dragon's heart.
As he did, a wave of ancient knowledge flooded his mind.
He understood the paths of the stars, the secrets of the runes, and the thoughts of the wild things.
He felt the world around him, not as a collection of separate things, but as a great, interconnected tapestry.
Then, he walked up the ridge to Fafnir's cave.
The air inside the cavern was cool and heavy with the scent of old gold.
Sigurd stepped inside, and his eyes adjusted to the darkness.
There, piled in a glittering mountain, was the treasure of Andvari.
There were coins from lost empires, crowns of forgotten kings, swords with hilts of solid jade, and cups carved from single massive emeralds.
And there, lying on the very top of the pile, was the small golden ring and a magnificent helmet, the helm of terror, which Fafnir had worn to strike fear into the hearts of his enemies.
Sigurd did not feel the wild, feverish excitement that had ruined Fafnir and Regin.
He felt only the weight of it.
He knew the story of the curse.
He knew that this gold had been bought with the blood of Otter, Hreidmar, Fafnir, and Regin.
Yet, he also knew he could not leave it here.
A hero must have wealth to build a court, to reward his followers, and to do great deeds.
He took two large chests, filled them with the gold, and strapped them to the back of his faithful horse, Grani.
He placed the helm of terror upon his head and slipped Andvari's golden ring onto his finger.
As he led Grani down from the Ganita Heath, the birds in the trees began to sing once more.
But their song was no longer a warning.
It was a song of destiny.
They sang of the great adventures that lay ahead for Sigurd, of how he would ride through a wall of fire to awaken a sleeping warrior maiden, of the great court he would build, and of the fame that would make his name live forever.
But beneath the triumph, their song held a note of deep, lingering sorrow.
They sang of the curse that was now riding out with him.
They sang of the jealousy, the broken vows, and the tragic end that would eventually come to the house of the Volsungs because of the gold he carried.
This story, which the Norse people told for hundreds of years, is the foundation of many of our modern legends.
If you have ever read of a brave hobbit facing a greedy dragon named Smaug on a mountain of gold, or of a magic ring that corrupts anyone who wears it, you have heard the echoes of Sigurd and Fafnir.
It is a story that reminds us of the power of greed to change who we are, and how easily we can become the very monsters we set out to fight.
Sigurd rode away from the heath, a young king with a heart of gold and a mountain of treasure.
He had won his glory, but he had also accepted his fate.
And so we are left with a question to keep, a thought to carry with us into the quiet of the night.
Would you take the gold?
If you found a treasure that you knew was gained through selfishness and betrayal, a treasure that carried a history of pain, would you leave it behind and walk away?
Or would you take it, believing that your own strength, your own goodness, and your own choices could finally break the curse?