Текст песни
In Völsung's hall the hearth-smoke raised and winter listened in
And I, Hjördís, held my breath back as strangers stirred the din
A wanderer in a hood of dusk came silent through the firelight's tide
One eye like ember, one hand bare—he smiled at feast and bride
He drove a blade into the bole where Barnstokkr roots run deep
And left it there like frozen dawn for oaths the wood would keep
Men strained and swore and cursed the bark; the hilt would not be won
Till Sigmund's grip was iron-calm—the sword came out like sun
Gram sang bright as morning steel, Gram drank the torchlight clean
And I believed the world had weights that even gods must mean
Years turned; that blade kept answering before a question formed
He walked through feud and wolf-hour nights as if his blood were stormed
They praised his hand, they praised his luck, they praised the gleam he bore—
But I heard something colder in the cheer of men at war
A gift can shine like certainty, yet still be only lent
And every vow the ravens love is paid in what is spent
Gram in his hand—how could he fall, how could the daylight dim?
I watched him wear the god's bright favor like a cloak that clung to him
But fate is older than our songs, and colder than our pride—
A blessing given can be taken, and none may step aside
Then Lyngvi gathered iron men; their shields were dusk in rows
The field was wide, the salt wind sharp, the horn-call thick with crows
Steel spoke in bursts, the ground shook hard, the pulse stayed stern and tight
And Sigmund cut a road of sparks through clamor into night
I stood where banners choke the sky, where cries are swallowed whole
And prayed to any listening power to spare his fearless soul
Gram in his hand—how could he fall, how could the daylight dim?
I watched him wear the god's bright favor like a cloak that clung to him
But fate is older than our songs, and colder than our pride—
A blessing given can be taken, and none may step aside
The battle surged—then, all at once, a hush cut through the gore
As if the world drew in its breath and would not give it more
A hooded elder stood ahead, one-eyed, calm, and known
Not as a tale beside the hearth—alive in blood and bone
Sigmund raised Gram like judgment's star; the stranger lifted spear
And in that instant I understood: the end was standing near
The strike came down—too sure, too fast—then lightning split to pain
For Gram screamed once and broke in half like ice on spring-fed rain
Gram in his hand—now it is two, and all the world turns grim
The god who set the blade in wood has turned his face from him
No shield can stop what Odin wills, no courage buys us time—
Only the shards, and what we keep, and what we dare to rhyme
They carried him from trampled grass where iron flowers grew
His breath a thin, receding tide, his lips gone winter-blue
He found my hand, and in his gaze the war grew far away
He did not rage against the dark—he named it, and it stayed
"The giver takes," he whispered low, "and I must pay the cost
Odin does not wish my hand to hold what once he lost
Take these two shards—wrap them in cloth—keep rust and thieves at bay
Our child will bind the broken edge and walk a farther way."
I bore the halves of broken Gram from field to hearth-lit room
Two slivers of a promised sun, asleep inside their doom
Under my ribs, a child grows, a heartbeat learned to rise—
Sigurd, unborn, the dragon's death; his fate is in his eyes
One day the hammer's patient song will stitch what fate once tore
And Gram will wake, and in his grip be whole as once before
Not for a king's last, bitter stand, but for a wyrm's red breath—
A blade for Dragonslayer's hand, forged out of love and death