Doesn’t it seem like Brynhild might have a really messed up sense of what love really is? At least by our standards today? So, what does she do? She plots his murder, gets him killed (which was no small amount of effort), and then after he’s killed “Brynhild laments her cruel fate, and the role she had in the destruction of Sigurd”.
This suggests, as does the Opera Dido and Aeneus by Purcell (libretto by Tate) below that there might be something called fate which is something that affects us but is not us. Here are the words:
When I am laid, am laid in earth, May my wrongs create
No trouble, no trouble in thy breast;
Remember me, remember me, but ah! forget my fate.
Remember me, but ah! forget my fate.
If we are not our fate, a thought I like, then we are distinct to what is taking place in our lives, as though a series of events are happening (e.g. a play) to which we are participants (i.e. actors) – at the time fully embodied and engaged in the action, but distinct and not identical to the action.
I still like the idea we are responsible for our every action. But there’s something about fate that suggests not only are we not in control of the surrounding circumstances within which our actions unfold, but that some sort of dramatic objective correlative* is at play. This also suggests, with your earlier observations about Stoicism, that our inner emotional equanimity is vital as we encounter the external world of events and provocations.( * noun, the artistic and literary technique of representing or evoking a particular emotion by means of symbols that objectify that emotion and are associated with it. (Dictionary.com)).