The tale begins in the aftermath of a monumental slaughter upon the Glittering Heath. Sigurd, the son of Sigmund, stood over the cooling carcass of Fafnir, a man-turned-dragon whose greed had twisted his very form. By the advice of his foster-father Regin—who had hoped to betray him—Sigurd had tasted the dragon's heart and, in doing so, gained the ability to understand the speech of birds. The nuthatches in the trees spoke of a great destiny awaiting the young hero if he would only turn his path away from the treacherous Regin and toward the peaks of Hindarfjall. They sang of a noble maiden, a Valkyrie named Brynhild, who lay in a deep, enchanted sleep, surrounded by a wall of flickering flames that only the bravest of men could ever hope to pierce.
Sigurd mounted his horse, Grani, a noble steed descended from Odin’s own eight-legged horse Sleipnir, and rode toward the southern lands. The landscape changed from the desolate, blood-soaked heath to the rugged, towering slopes of the mountains. As he climbed, the air grew thinner and colder, yet a strange, pulsating glow began to illuminate the horizon. This was the Vafrlogi, the 'flickering light' or the ring of fire that Odin had commanded to guard the Valkyrie's rest. For Brynhild had defied the Allfather; she had struck down a king to whom Odin had promised victory, and as punishment, she was pricked with the 'sleep-thorn,' stripped of her divinity, and told she must marry a mortal man. However, Brynhild had made a vow of her own: she would only wed the man who knew no fear, the man who could ride through the flames that she knew would deter all but the greatest of heroes.
When Sigurd reached the summit, he beheld a sight that would have turned back any other warrior. A wall of fire, roaring with the intensity of a thousand forges, circled a high fortress of shields. The flames leapt toward the sky, casting long, dancing shadows across the granite rocks. Sigurd did not hesitate. He spurred Grani forward. The horse, sensing the supernatural nature of the fire, initially balked, but Sigurd spoke words of encouragement, and the bond between rider and beast proved stronger than the fear of death. With a thunderous gallop, they charged into the inferno. The heat was immense, a physical weight that pressed against Sigurd’s chest, but his armor—forged by the smiths of legend—and the sheer purity of his intent protected him. The flames parted for the descendant of the Volsungs, and he emerged on the other side into a courtyard of eerie silence.
In the center of the shield-hall, Sigurd found a figure clad in full plate armor, lying as still as a statue. At first, he believed it to be a man, perhaps a fallen warrior of great renown. He removed the helmet and was surprised to find the face of a woman of extraordinary beauty, her hair like spun gold and her features set in a peaceful, death-like repose. Her mail coat, however, was so tight that it seemed to have grown into her skin, constricting her breathing as she began to stir from the change in the atmosphere. Sigurd drew his sword, Gram—the blade that had been reforged from the shards of his father's weapon and had easily sliced through the dragon's hide. With a hand as steady as the mountains themselves, he slit the mail from the neck down to the hem, and then along both sleeves. The metal fell away like the skin of a shed snake.
As the pressure of the armor vanished, Brynhild drew a deep, shuddering breath and opened her eyes. Her gaze, blue and sharp as a winter sky, met Sigurd’s. She did not scream or shrink back in fear. Instead, she asked with a voice like ringing silver, 'What bit my armor? Who has broken my sleep? Is it Sigurd, the son of Sigmund, who carries Fafnir's bane in his hand?' Sigurd replied that he was indeed a Volsung, and that he had come to find the wisdom of the Valkyrie. Brynhild then stood and offered him a horn of mead, but it was no ordinary drink; it was a draught of memory and ancient knowledge. She recognized that the man before her was the one she had waited for, the hero who had braved the fire.
What followed was a long night of communion between the hero and the fallen goddess. Brynhild, though now mortal, retained the vast knowledge of the runes and the hidden laws of the cosmos. She taught Sigurd the 'Sigrdrífumál'—the lay of the victory-bringer. She explained the runes of victory to be carved on the hilt of his sword, the runes of the sea to protect ships from the crushing waves, and the runes of healing to mend the wounds of the fallen. She spoke of the importance of the oath, the dangers of the 'ale-runes' that could lead to deception, and the necessity of maintaining one's honor in a world governed by the threads of the Norns. Sigurd listened with rapt attention, his heart filling with a love that was as sudden as it was profound. He saw in Brynhild not just a prize to be won, but an equal in spirit and courage.