The Wyrm of Lagarfljót

A Fisherman’s Fate

Einar had spent his whole life in Egilsstaðir, the small village that lay nestled in the valley near the lake. He was a fisherman by trade, just like his father before him, though the lake was not where he earned his living—few dared to fish in its treacherous waters. Instead, he took his boat downriver toward the sea, where the fish were plentiful and the risks more predictable.

That evening, as he walked along the edge of Lagarfljót, the wind carried a strange scent—something earthy and old, like rotting wood mixed with brine. The water, usually dark and calm, had an eerie glow under the fading light. He paused, watching as an unnatural ripple disturbed the surface. At first, he thought it was just the wind. But then, something large moved beneath the waves.

His breath caught in his throat.

A shadow, long and sinuous, curled beneath the water before vanishing just as quickly as it had appeared.

Einar took a step back, his heart hammering against his ribs. Was it an illusion? A trick of the light? He had heard the stories, but standing there at the edge of the lake, he felt something primal stir in his gut—something that whispered of danger.

That night, he lay awake, unable to shake the image from his mind.

The Warning

The next morning, he sought out his grandmother, the oldest woman in the village. If anyone knew the truth about Lagarfljót, it was her.

"You saw it, didn’t you?" she said before he even spoke.

Einar hesitated. "I—I'm not sure. It could have been—"

She shook her head. "No. The Wyrm has awakened. It does not show itself unless something is wrong."

His throat tightened. "What do you mean, 'wrong'?"

His grandmother sighed, gazing out toward the lake. "It has been restless before. When the settlers first came, they tried to tame the land, cutting down forests and building their homes. The Wyrm did not take kindly to it. Storms came. Crops failed. People disappeared. Then, years later, when men grew greedy and dug too deep into the hills, the lake rose, swallowing the land whole."

She turned back to him, her eyes sharp as flint. "Something has disturbed it, Einar. And if you saw it, then it has seen you too."

The Descent into Darkness

Determined to uncover the truth, Einar set out to the lake the following evening, this time bringing his fishing boat. The air was thick with mist as he rowed toward the center, the lake stretching out like an endless abyss.

As he reached the middle, the water grew unnaturally still. The silence pressed against him, heavy and suffocating. Then, without warning, the surface broke.

A massive shape surged upward, its ridged spine slicing through the water like a mountain rising from the deep.

Einar froze, his oars slipping from his grasp.

The Wyrm’s body was immense, coiling like a serpent as it rose higher. Its scales were the color of old silver, glistening with the wet sheen of a creature that had lived for centuries unseen. And its eyes—cold, ancient, intelligent—locked onto his with an unnatural intensity.

Einar could not move. He could not breathe.

Then, the creature let out a sound—a deep, guttural noise that vibrated through the very marrow of his bones.

The boat lurched violently as waves crashed against it. Einar scrambled to grab the oars, but before he could react, the Wyrm struck.

The Guardian of the Lake

The boat shattered beneath him, and he plunged into the icy depths.

For a moment, all was chaos—water filled his lungs, the freezing cold shocking his system. He kicked, struggling to break the surface, but something moved beneath him, faster than anything so large should be able to.

And then, just as he felt himself sinking, something grabbed him.

Strong hands pulled him upward, and he gasped for air as he was dragged onto the shore. Coughing violently, he looked up to see a woman standing over him. She was tall, wrapped in a dark cloak, her long hair wild in the wind. In her hand, she held a staff that seemed to hum with an energy he could not name.

"You are lucky to be alive," she said.

Einar stared at her, his mind still reeling. "Who—who are you?"

She tilted her head. "I am Freyja. And if you wish to live, you must listen to me."

The Truth of the Wyrm

Freyja led him to a secluded part of the shore where a small fire crackled against the chill. She spoke in low, measured tones, telling him of the Wyrm’s past—how it had been bound to the lake by an ancient curse, how it had been both protector and destroyer, how it had remained dormant for years.

"But something has disturbed it," she said. "Something deep in the earth has shifted, and the Wyrm is no longer content to sleep."

Einar swallowed hard. "What does it want?"

Freyja's gaze darkened. "To be free."

He shivered, not from the cold, but from the certainty in her voice.

The Final Reckoning

Over the next few days, Einar and Freyja prepared. If they did nothing, the Wyrm would rise fully, and the land itself would suffer. There was only one choice—to return it to its slumber before it was too late.

On the night of the full moon, they ventured back to the lake, standing at the edge where the water glowed with an eerie light.

Freyja raised her staff, chanting words that seemed to pull the very wind toward her. The lake roared in response, and the Wyrm appeared, its massive body writhing, its eyes filled with rage.

Einar held his breath as the battle of wills began.

Would they succeed? Or would the lake, and all who lived near it, be doomed forever?

Epilogue: The Lake Sleeps Once More

What happened that night is still whispered in hushed voices in the village of Egilsstaðir. Some say Einar never returned. Others say he lived to tell the tale, but never spoke of it again.

All that is known is this—the lake is quiet now.

For how long, no one knows.

But some nights, when the wind is still, and the moon is high, if you listen closely, you can hear it.

Breathing.

Waiting.