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He was born in blood.
He was unrefined iron, nourished by his mother’s crimson blood. Her tears fell upon him, and she said:
“My child, I cannot love you. In you, I feel only pain.”
Sorrow was perhaps the first emotion he knew. Then came anger, and confusion.
Who was it that made his mother weep? For whom was he born, and whose blessing would he receive?
His mother’s blood slowly pooled around him, forming a shallow puddle. The red blood seemed to build a wall, enclosing him tightly. He grew ever redder, like flames burning in a hearth.
Then one day, his mother held him gently in her hands and gave him to a blacksmith.
“Mother, Mother,” he called, hoping she would turn.
But hope was always in vain. She only turned away, leaving nothing but her back.
“You shall become my sharpest sword. You will cut open his chest.”
The blacksmith pumped the bellows, igniting a fierce fire in the furnace, ready to cast him in.
“Who is he? Why must I kill him?” the iron asked, confused.
The blacksmith fell silent for a moment, then spoke:
“He killed your brother. He is your enemy. That is why you were born.”
He understood.
He was born for revenge, destined to receive no blessing.
He suffered in the fire, growing soft and malleable. He glowed orange-red, his body like tender dough.
The blacksmith pulled him out and forged him into a long sword. Still not satisfied, he began to brew a liquid to temper the metal.
A snake slithered silently to the sword, unseen by the blacksmith.
“What a fool he is. If you wish to fulfill your mission, you need more than ordinary liquid.”
“What do I need, then?” the sword asked politely.
“My poison.” The snake flicked its tongue, revealing long fangs.
“I can drip it into the liquid. Only a drop, and you will become the sharpest sword.”
Before the sword could reply, the snake secretly dropped its poison into the liquid while the blacksmith was distracted.
The blacksmith prepared to pour the liquid over the sword.
“Wait,” the sword urged. “There is poison in it.”
But the blacksmith did not hesitate. He poured it over him anyway.
Agony swept over him, as if he had been thrown back into the fire — only far more painful.
He realized the poison’s name: hatred.
A flame burned inside him, screaming to burn everything down.
“May I go fulfill my duty now?” the sword asked.
The blacksmith shook his head.
He swung the sword at trees; they crashed to the ground.
He swung it at stones; they split in two.
Finally, he faced a brown bear and drove the sword deep into its skull.
The bear howled in pain, rolled, and lay still.
“Now you are the strongest and sharpest sword. You may face your enemy.”
The blacksmith took the sword deep into the forest, where a man stood waiting.
He had long black hair, empty eyes, tattered clothes, and plant debris in his hair — a broken, wretched figure.
At the sight of him, the sword was consumed by boundless rage.
The sword cut open the man’s chest.
The man fell lightly, without resistance, like a falling feather.
Yet the sword felt unbearably heavy.
Blood sprayed all over him.
Suddenly, he found the blood familiar.
They shared the same blood.
Just as the man had killed his brother, he had killed his own kin.
He sank weakly into the pooling blood, as if back in his mother’s arms when he was first born.
He did not know how long he lay there — a day, three days? Ten years, a hundred?
Until one day, he realized the sun would no longer rise. The world fell into panic.
The snake’s venom had seeped into the earth after all.
The entire forest, perhaps the whole world, burned as if in a giant furnace.
The sky-wide fire forged him anew. His body softened.
The poison called hatred was burned away by the flames.
For the first time, his mind was clear.
He thought: I must be dying soon.
Suddenly, a pair of hands lifted him again.
They carried him back to the worn furnace and reforged him.
He felt lighter, harder.
His once-sharp blade twisted into winding patterns.
He had become a scabbard.
“Revenge is no longer needed. And I will never leave you again.”
He noticed the world had gone quiet. The fire was gone.
The sun rose once more, and light glinted off his body.
At last, he fell into the first peaceful sleep of his life.
～～
“That was more or less the dream,”
Vali said, relaxing on his brother’s lap, letting him tidy his messy hair.
“Weird, isn’t it?”
Vidar said nothing. He looked down at his younger brother’s face and smiled softly.
Laughter drifted in from outside the window.
“Freya, do we really have to wear these?”
The blond and dark-haired young men stood obediently, letting the woman before them dress them as she pleased.
“You lost the bet,” she chuckled, her smile mischievous.
Vidar looked at the sunlight outside.
For no reason, he thought of his brother, fallen in a pool of blood that day.
Back then, he had prayed that fate would not be so cruel, that he could keep his last blood kin safe.
At least now, they could both have a peaceful afternoon, bathed in sunlight.