The legend of the reforging of Gram begins not in the heat of the forge, but in the halls of ancient kings and the shadows of a family curse that spanned generations. Sigurð, the son of Sigmund, was raised in the house of King Hjálprek after the death of his father in battle. His foster-father was Reginn, a man of great wisdom and even greater skill in the arts of smithing and lore. Reginn was of the race of dwarves, or perhaps a being of similar ancient lineage, whose heart was heavy with a history of greed and betrayal. He saw in Sigurð a tool for his own vengeance, for Reginn’s brother Fáfnir had murdered their father, Hreiðmarr, to claim a hoard of cursed gold and had subsequently transformed into a monstrous dragon to guard his ill-gotten wealth.
Reginn spent years tutelaring Sigurð, teaching him languages, the carving of runes, and the ways of the world, all while sowing the seeds of ambition in the boy’s mind. He spoke constantly of the dragon Fáfnir and the immense wealth that lay on the Gnita-heath, mocking Sigurð’s contentment in the hall of a mere king when he could be the master of a treasure that would buy the world. Eventually, the young hero was moved by Reginn’s goading. He agreed to seek out the dragon, but he demanded a weapon that would not fail him in the face of such a beast. Sigurð knew that a common blade would snap against the hide of a dragon, and so he charged Reginn with forging a sword of unmatched strength.
Reginn set to work in his forge, using all the secret arts known to his kind. After many days, he presented Sigurð with a magnificent blade. It was polished and sharp, gleaming in the torchlight of the smithy. Sigurð took the sword and walked to Reginn’s anvil, a massive block of solid iron that had withstood centuries of hammering. With a mighty cry, the youth brought the sword down. The steel shattered into a thousand pieces upon the anvil’s surface. Sigurð looked at the shards with disdain and told Reginn that he was a liar and a poor smith, for such a blade was useless for the task at hand.
Reginn, stung by the insult and fueled by his own desire for the gold, returned to the fire. He labored longer this time, folding the steel, tempering it in the blood of beasts, and chanting songs of power over the glowing metal. He produced a second sword, larger and more imposing than the first. Again, Sigurð tested it against the anvil. With a thunderous strike, this blade too snapped, though it bit slightly deeper into the iron before failing. Sigurð’s frustration grew. He realized that Reginn’s skill, though great, was limited by the materials of the present age. If he were to kill Fáfnir, he would need something from the glorious past—something that belonged to his father, Sigmund.
Sigurð went to his mother, Hjördís, and asked her if it were true that she kept the broken shards of his father’s sword, Gram. This sword had a divine history; it had been given to Sigmund by the god Odin himself, who had thrust it into the great tree Barnstokkr in the hall of the Völsungs. No man could pull it out until Sigmund did so with ease. The sword had served Sigmund through countless victories until Odin himself, appearing on the battlefield as a hooded wanderer, shattered the blade with his spear Gungnir to signal that Sigmund’s time had come. Hjördís had carefully gathered the two broken pieces and kept them wrapped in silk, knowing that one day they would be the inheritance of a son who would surpass his father.
When Sigurð brought the shards to Reginn, the smith’s eyes widened. He recognized the divine aura of the metal. He spent weeks in isolation, working with the ancient steel. He did not merely weld the pieces back together; he used the old metal as the core and heart of a new weapon, blending the remnants of the past with his own masterful craftsmanship. The forge burned with a blue flame that seemed to respond to the rhythm of his hammer. When the work was finally complete, Reginn emerged from the smoke, holding a sword that seemed to bleed fire along its edges. It was Gram, reborn, and it was so bright that it seemed as though the sun itself was being held in his hands.
Sigurð took the sword and felt its balance. It was light as a feather but heavy with the weight of destiny. To test it, he once again approached the iron anvil. Reginn watched with bated breath. Sigurð raised the blade high above his head, the light of the forge catching the runes carved into the steel. He brought it down with the strength of a king. This time, there was no sound of shattering steel. Instead, there was a clean, high-pitched ring as the sword sliced through the anvil as if it were soft tallow. The blade passed through the iron and buried itself in the wooden block beneath, leaving the anvil split perfectly in two, from its top to its base. Sigurð withdrew the blade and inspected the edge; there was not a single notch, scratch, or dull spot on the steel.