Hey Reader. Today is commonly known as Imbolc, or Nos Gwyl Fair to some Welsh. It is a festival in preparation for growth and renewal. Imbolc is a time to see the first signs of returning life in a frozen Winterland. It marks the time when trees are beginning to bud, the first wildflowers are appearing, and ewes begin to lactate, all of which herald the coming of Spring and the return of life to the land. In many places, the crocus flower is one of the first to show itself popping up through the snow, and so it is also a symbol of this Sabbat.

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The Winter Wyrm and the Lightbearer

In the deep forests of the Harz Mountains, where the old gods still whispered in the wind, there was a legend of Brigga, the Lightbearer. She was a spirit of renewal, waking the earth from its icy slumber each year on Imbolc, the first day of February.

But one winter, the earth did not stir. The rivers lay frozen, the trees stood barren, and no green shoots peeked through the snow. The people, fearing an endless winter, gathered in the village square, whispering of Nachtwyrm, the Winter Wyrm, an ancient serpent said to hoard the last ember of the sun in his icy cave beneath the Brocken mountain.

Brigga, knowing that life could not return without the ember, wrapped herself in a cloak woven of starlight and set out for the mountain. She climbed through the snow-laden pines, her footsteps melting the frost beneath her. When she reached the mouth of the cave, she called out "Wyrm of Winter, yield the ember! The earth must wake!"

From the darkness, a voice rumbled like breaking ice. "Why should I?" hissed Nachtwyrm. "Winter is peaceful. The world sleeps. Let it remain so."

Brigga stepped forward, her presence casting a golden glow in the cavern. "Without light, there is no life. Without spring, there is no renewal. Release the ember, or I shall take it myself."

The Wyrm laughed, cold and hollow. "Then face my challenge, Lightbearer. Melt the ice around my heart, and the ember is yours."

Brigga knew what he meant. Nachtwyrm was not merely a beast of ice; he was the spirit of winter’s deep sleep, of stillness and silence. She knelt before him and began to sing—an ancient song of warmth, of firelit hearths, of mothers’ lullabies, and children’s laughter in fields of green. Her voice wove through the cavern like a golden thread, and as she sang, the ice on the Wyrm’s scales began to crack.

For the first time in centuries, Nachtwyrm felt warmth. A single tear of molten gold fell from his eye, landing at Brigga’s feet—the ember of the sun.

She took it in her hands, cradling it like a newborn flame. As she carried it from the cave, the frozen rivers began to flow, buds swelled on the trees, and the first snowdrops broke through the frost-kissed earth.

The people of the valley awoke to birdsong and the scent of damp earth. They knew then that the Lightbearer had triumphed, and Imbolc had brought the promise of spring once more.

But high in the mountains, in his darkened cave, Nachtwyrm curled into slumber, dreaming of the warmth he had felt, waiting for the time when winter would come again.

I hope you enjoyed my short story. You'll also be able to find this on my website very soon.

May the life stirring underground stir new dreams to life within you. 💙

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