Norse Mythology Quotes

Because,” said Thor, “when something goes wrong, the first thing I always think is, it is Loki’s fault. It saves a lot of time.

Of course it was Loki. It's always Loki.

He said nothing: seldom do those who are silent make mistakes.

The Norse myths are the myths of a chilly place, with long, long winter nights and endless summer days, myths of a people who did not entirely trust or even like their gods, although they respected and feared them.

Loki was not evil, although he was certainly not a force for good. Loki was . . . complicated.

Rebirth always follows death.

That was the thing about Loki. You resented him even when you were at your most grateful, and you were grateful to him even when you hated him the most.

Well, that's history for you, folks. Unfair, untrue and for the most part written by folk who weren't even there.

But. My hammer," said Thor. "Shut up, Thor," said Loki

And the game begins anew.

He is tolerated by the gods, perhaps because his stratagems and plans save them as often as they get them into trouble. Loki makes the world more interesting but less safe. He is the father of monsters, the author of woes, the sly god.

I’m not happy about any of this,” said Thor. “I’m going to kill somebody soon, just to relieve the tension. You’ll see.

Loki's green eyes flashed with anger and with admiration, for he loved a good trick as much as he hated being fooled.

The fun comes in telling them yourself—something I warmly encourage you to do, you person reading this. Read the stories in this book, then make them your own,

There is no end. It is simply the end of the old times, Loki, and the beginning of the new times. Rebirth always follows death.

Fair enough,” said Thor. “What’s the price?” “Freya’s hand in marriage.” “He just wants her hand?” asked Thor hopefully. She had two hands, after all, and might be persuaded to give up one of them without too much of an argument. Tyr had, after all. “All of her,” said Loki. “He wants to marry her.” “Oh,” said Thor. “She won't like that.

There were things Thor did when something went wrong. The first thing he did was ask himself if what had happened was Loki’s fault. Thor pondered. He did not believe that even Loki would have dared to steal his hammer. So he did the next thing he did when something went wrong, and he went to ask Loki for advice.

You know all your Norse mythology and chess references make you a nerd, right? Deep down under all that muscle, ink, and leather, you’re a huge nerd.

Cease your weeping!" he said. "It is I, Loki, here to rescue you!" Idunn glared at him with red-rimmed eyes. "It is you who are the source of my troubles." she said. "Well, perhaps. But that was so long ago. That was yesterday's Loki. Today's Loki is here to save you and take you home.

It is a long story, and it does no credit to anyone: there is murder in it, and trickery, lies and foolishness, seduction and pursuit. Listen.

That is how the worlds will end, in ash and flood, in darkness and in ice. That is the final destiny of the gods.

Loki makes the world more interesting but less safe.

Moderately wise each one should be, Not overwise, for a wise man's heart Is seldom glad (Norse Wisdom)

In their huge bedroom that night, Tyr said to Thor, "I hope you know what you are doing." "Of course I do," said Thor. But he didn't. He was just doing whatever he felt like doing. That was what Thor did best.

Each insult is woven with just enough truth to make it wound.

And now, if you have anything more to ask, I can't think how you can manage it, for I've never heard anyone tell more of the story of the world. Make what use of it you can.

The reading eye must do the work to make them live, and so it did, again and again, never the same life twice, as the artist had intended.

A sword age, a wind age, a wolf age. No longer is there mercy among men.

Loki was trying to look serious, but even so, he was smiling at the corners of his mouth. It was not a reassuring smile.

I tried to imagine myself a long time ago, in the lands where these stories were first told, during the long winter nights perhaps, under the glow of the northern lights,

But Loki's relations with Svadilfari were such that a while later he gave birth to a colt.

...to limit the meaning of Aslan simply to lion from Turkish is to miss its deep northern resonances and the song of the snowflakes whirling around it. Lewis admitted that, as a boy, he had been ‘crazed by northern–ness’ and there are many subtle references to Norse mythology in the story. In fact, if we treat Aslan as a word from Old Norse, it simply means god of the land. By combining that meaning with Turkish lion, it is essentially cognate which Welsh, Llew, lion, the very word from which the name Lewis is derived.

Guilt is a heavy thing, Mother Witch, she said. It's best left behind if you want to move forward.

I had forgotten that, while Thor hurls his Hammer from storm-clouds, Odin prefers his strike to come out of a calm sky.

They all laughed, except Tyr; he lost his hand.

On the day the Gjallerhorn is blown, it will wake the gods, no matter where they are, no matter how deeply they sleep. Heimdall will blow Gjallerhorn only once, at the end of all things, Ragnarok.

One of the dwarfs walked in front of Thor to get a better view of the prye, and Thor kicked him irritably into the middle of the flames, which made Thor feel slightly better and made all the dwarfs feel much worse.

Oh yes. I was telling you about my research into the old Norse sagas- the mythology of ancient Scandinavia. Have you read them?” “Uh no.” “You’d like them, Cassie.” He waved the hand with the chalk in it. “All sex and violence.” I frowned. “Why would you think that I’d-

Do you wonder where poetry come from? Where do we get the songs we sing and the tales we tell? Do you ever ask yourself how it is that some people can dream great, wise, beautiful dreams and pass those dreams on as poetry to the world, to be sung and retold as long as the moon will wax and wane? Have you ever wondered why some people make beautiful songs and poems and tales, and some of us do not? It is a long story, and it does no credit to anyone: there is murder in it, and trickery, lies and foolishness, seduction and pursuit. Listen.

I learned the Norse gods came with their own doomsday: Ragnarok, the twilight of the gods, the end of it all. The gods were going to battle the frost giants, and they were all going to die. Had Ragnarok happened yet? Was it still to happen? I did not know then. I am not certain now.

Because,' said Thor, 'when something goes wrong, the first thing I always think is, it is Loki’s fault. It saves a lot of time.

Those movies... ridiculously inaccurate. The real gods of Asgard — Thor, Loki, Odin, and the rest — are much more powerful, much more terrifying than anything Hollywood could concoct.

A squirrel, Ratatosk, lives in the branches of the world-tree. It takes gossip and messages from Nidhogg, the dread corpse-eater, to the eagle and back again. The squirrel tells lies to both of them, and takes joy in provoking anger.

Is there anything more beautiful than gold?” - Freya's question. Plain-thoughted Thor spoke. “A farm at first light Is more beautiful than gold, or A ship's sails in the mist. Many ordinary things are far more beautiful.

Here is the last thing, and a shameful admission it is. When the all-father in eagle form had almost reached the vats, with Suttung immediately behind him, Odin blew some of the mead out of his behind, a splatter wet fart of foul-smelling mead right in Suttung's face, blinding the giant and throwing him off Odin's trail. No one, then or now, wanted to drink the mead that came out of Odin's ass. But whenever you hear bad poets declaiming their bad poetry, filled with foolish similes and ugly rhymes, you will know which of the meads the have tasted.

If you survive in battle, it is with Odin's grace, and if you fall, it is because he has betrayed you.

Well, that's history for you, folks. Unfair, untrue and for the most part written by folk who weren't even there.

And so Nat stood up and joined the group, and followed, and watched, and awaited his chance as the light of Chaos lit the plain and gods and demons marched to war.

You’re the god of fishing,” Blitzen said. Njord frowned. “Other things as well, Mr. Dwarf.” “Please, call me Blitz,” said Blitz. “Mr. Dwarf was my father.

Does Yggdrasil drink from it because it is the Well of Wisdom, or is it the Well of Wisdom because Yggdrasil drinks from it?

This will be the age of cruel winds, the age of people who become as wolves, who prey upon each other, who are no better than wild beasts. Twilight will come to the world, and the places where the humans live will fall into ruins, flaming briefly, then crashing down and crumbling into ash and devastation.

They heard a distant rumbling, like thunder on the peaks, or mountains crumbling, or huge waves crashing to shore, and the earth shook with each rumble. “My husband is coming home,” said the giantess. “I hear his gentle footsteps in the distance.

I am grim of mind and wrathful of spirit and I have no desire to be nice to anyone,” said

Loki makes the world interesting but less safe.

He said nothing: seldom do those who are silent make mistakes. “I

There, that wasn’t as bad as I had feared,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve got my hammer back. And I had a good dinner. Let’s go home.

Because," said Thor, "When something goes wrong, the first thing I think is, it is Loki's fault. It saves a lot of time.

I don't understand a word you're saying," snapped Odin. "That's because you're throttlin' me, sir," said Sugar. Odin loosened his grip.

The black thing in her brain and the dark water on the page were the same thing, a form of knowledge. This is how myths work. They are things, creatures, stories, inhabiting the mind. They cannot be explained and do not explain; they are neither creeds nor allegories. The black was now in the thin child’s head and was part of the way she took in every new thing she encountered.

But if you write a version of Ragnarok in the twenty-first century, it is haunted by the imagining of a different end of things. We are a species of animal which is bringing about the end of the world we were born into. Not out of evil or malice, or not mainly, but because of a lopsided mixture of extraordinary cleverness, extraordinary greed, extraordinary proliferation of our own kind, and a biologically built-in short-sightedness.

Nobody drank from the well but Mimir himself. He said nothing: seldom do those who are silent make mistakes.

Odin’s eye remains in Mimir’s well, preserved by the waters that feed the world ash, seeing nothing, seeing everything. Time

Well, perhaps. But that was so long ago. That was yesterday’s Loki. Today’s Loki is here to save you and to take you home.

That’s the funny thing about love,” he said. “It doesn’t wait for perfection – the heart loves who it loves, exactly as they are, faults and all.

Our choices can alter the details. That’s how we rebel against destiny. - Loki

Loki was there. He drank too much of Aegir’s ale, drank himself beyond joy and laughter and trickery and into a brooding darkness.

Your wolf is eating that man. I thought you should know.

The idea of fate permeated the religion of the Vikings at every turn. Everything in the universe, even the Gods, was subject to it.

You lie, All-father. You lie in the way that some folk breathe.

I'm warning you now," said Freyja stiffly, "I have...certain issues...with Loki." (Maddy wondered briefly whether there was anyone in the Nine Worlds who didn't have issues with Loki.)

You think yourself better than me because you smile and pretend the world is filled with good men? Because you believe everything will work out for the best? Your optimism is shallow and false, and one day, Sunshine, it will get you killed.

It is better to live on the sea and let other men raise your crops and cook your meals. A house smells of smoke, a ship smells of frolic. From a house you see a sooty roof, from a ship you see Valhalla.

There must be something in here that can drill through eight miles of solid rock.” He considered a hand drill, a tape measure, a corkscrew, and the iron staff we’d almost died retrieving from Geirrod’s fortress. He threw them all to the floor. “Nothing!” he said in disgust. “Useless junk!” Perhaps you could use your head, Hearthstone signed. That is very hard. “Oh, don’t try to console me, Mr. Elf,” said Thor.

A hundred expressions chased each other across Loki’s face: cunning and shiftiness, truculence and confusion. Thor shook Loki hard. Loki looked down and did his best to appear ashamed. “It was funny. I was drunk.

Get out," said Freya. "What kind of woman do you think I am?" "But, My hammer," said Thor. "Shut up, Thor," said Loki. Thor shut up. They left. "She's very beautiful when she's angry," said Thor. "You can see why that ogre wants to marry her." "Shut up, Thor," said Loki again.

I recalled my encounter with the sea goddess Ran, who had described her husband as a hipster who liked microbrewing. At the time, the description had been too weird to comprehend. Afterward, it had seemed funny. Now it seemed a little too real, because I was pretty sure the hipster god in question was standing right in front of me.

Lit, one of the dwarfs, walked in front of Thor to get a better view of the pyre, and Thor kicked him irritably into the middle of the flames, which made Thor feel slightly better and made all the dwarfs feel much worse. “I

The Norse mythology offers no suggestions that Thor’s sacrifice would be rewarded in any way, which makes the sacrifice of Thor and his willingness to struggle to the end major reasons why his followers were attracted to him.

When the all-father in eagle form had almost reached the vats, with Suttung immediately behind him, Odin blew some of the mead out of his behind, a splattery wet fart of foul-smelling mead right in Suttung’s face, blinding the giant and throwing him off Odin’s trail. No one, then or now, wanted to drink the mead that came out of Odin’s ass.

I happen to know that history is nothing but a spin and metaphor, which is what all yarns are made up of, when you strip them down to the underlay. And what makes a hit or a myth, of course, is how that story is told, and by whom.

Where is the palace?” “Just over yonder.” Tiny waved to his left, causing a new low-pressure front. “Easy two-minute walk.” I tried to translate that from Giantese. I figured that meant the palace was about seven billion miles away.

and still others believe the world will end when a ship constructed with the untrimmed nails of the dead arrives carrying a corpse army to do battle with the gods at the end of days. (Norse mythology will always be the most metal, sorry.)

A stupid man stays awake all night pondering his problems; he's worn out when morning comes and whatever was, still is.

Ragnarok is coming. When the sky splits asunder and the dark powers of Muspell march out on their war journey, Frey

He had done as his dreams had told him, but dreams know more than they reveal, even to the wisest of the gods.

You show me an angel that breaks bad, and I’ll show you a devil in disguise.

Yang terbaik adalah menjadi setengah bijak, tidak terlalu bodoh dan terlalu pandai. Orang pandai yang pengetahuannya dalam jarang merasakan kebahagiaan di hatinya.

Fight Loki with Loki.

The death of Baldr is one of the most important moments in the mythology.

Cattle die, kinsmen die, one dies oneself in the same way, but a reputation never dies for the one who acquires a good one.

The old witch bears many giants for sons, and all in the shape of wolves; and from this source are those wolves sprung. The saying runs thus: from this race shall come one that shall be mightiest of all; he that is named Moon-Hound; he shall be filled with the flesh of all those men that die, and he shall swallow the moon, and sprinkle with blood the heavens and all the air; thereof shall the sun lose her shining, and the winds in that day shall be unquiet and roar on every side.

You know why I really hated you? With all that you had you were just so oblivious to it all. You didn't use your beauty. You didn't ever try to get what you wanted. You didn't deserve what you had. I did because I would have used it. And you just...loved me. Loved me no matter what I did. You have no idea how I despised you for that. I wanted you gone." 'The Yielding

No one, then or now, wanted to drink the mead that came out of Odin’s ass. But whenever you hear bad poets declaiming their bad poetry, filled with foolish similes and ugly rhymes, you will know which of the meads they have tasted.

There was no sea and no sand, no grass nor rocks, no soil, no trees, no sky, no stars. There was no world, no heaven and no earth, at that time. The gap was nowhere: only an empty place waiting to be filled with life and with existence.

That’s the joy of myths. The fun comes in telling them yourself—something I warmly encourage you to do, you person reading this. Read the stories in this book, then make them your own, and on some dark and icy winter’s evening, or on a summer night when the sun will not set, tell your friends what happened when Thor’s hammer was stolen, or how Odin obtained the mead of poetry for the gods . . .

Mrs. Pott's beady black eyes narrowed,"Do you know how many glass slippers I have to stitch when I get home? There's a Mad Hatter serenading a toaster as we speak. There could be mayhem wreaking havoc all over the love in New Gotham, granted what thankless ingrates you are. But here I am! I've taken a chance on you..

He went crazy over Greek mythology, which is where I got my name. They compromised on it, because my mom loved Shakespeare, and I ended up called Theseus Cassio. Theseus for the slayer of the Minotaur, and Cassio for Othello's doomed lieutenant. I think it sounds straight-up stupid. Theseus Cassio Lowood. Everyone just calls me Cas. I suppose I should be glad--my dad also loved Norse mythology, so I might have wound up being called Thor, which would have been basically unbearable.

He has two ravens, whom he calls Huginn and Muninn, which mean “thought” and “memory.” These birds fly back and forth across the world, seeking news and bringing Odin all the knowledge of things. They perch on his shoulders and whisper into his ears.

Thor looked at Maddy. "What d'you mean, Father?" He had loosened his grip on Loki, who was now flattened against the cell wall as far from Jormungand as he could manage while Ellie, incensed at this latest invasion, lashed out at the serpent with her walking stick. "Terrific," said Loki under his breath. "Come to Netherworld. Meet the kids.

There will be snow driving in from all directions, fierce winds, and cold colder than you have ever imagined cold could be, an icy cold so cold your lungs will ache when you breathe, so cold that the tears in your eyes will freeze. There will be no spring to relieve it, no summer, no autumn. Only winter, followed by winter, followed by winter.

The road to Asgard is paved with head injuries.

That's it? That's all that happens after you topple from grace? We lose our rubies and rations?" Marshall smirked. "Woe is me.

they felt like a journey, from the ice and the fire that the universe begins in to the fire and the ice that end the world.

Thor nodded with enthusiasm, not entirely certain how he (Kvasir) had come to this conclusion from the ashes on the floor but happy to know where Loki was hiding.

He isn’t eating,” whispered Skirnir. “He does not need to,” said Frey. “He drinks. He only needs wine, nothing else. Come

their son, Fjolnir, went on to become the first king of Sweden. (He would drown in a vat of mead late one night, hunting in the darkness for a place to piss.)

It is a long story, and it does no credit to anyone: there is murder in it, and trickery, lies and foolishness, seduction and pursuit. Listen. It

Ninguém pode vencer a velhice, porque, no fim, ela derrota todos nós, deixa-nos cada vez mais fracos até fechar nossos olhos para sempre.

I hope you know what you are doing.” “Of course I do,” said Thor. But he didn’t. He was just doing whatever he felt like doing. That was what Thor did best. In

He tried to look ashamed and succeeded simply in looking pleased with himself. Odin

Loki makes the world more interesting but less safe. He

He raised the hammer and slammed it down on Skrymir’s forehead. Skrymir opened one eye sleepily. “I think a leaf just fell on my head and woke me up,” he said.

Ragnarok is coming.

He fumbled around with his eyes closed. He groped about, reaching for the comfortable and familiar shaft of his hammer.

She had one thing to do, and she didn’t do it.

Nobody really has anybody,” I told her. “We all must die, and we all die alone.

Mimir shook his head. Nobody drank from the well but Mimir himself. He said nothing: seldom do those who are silent make mistakes.

But whenever you read bad poets declaiming their bad poetry, filled with foolish similes and ugly rhymes, you will know wich of the meads they have tasted.

Men will know misery, adulteries be multiplied, an axe-age, a sword-age, shields will be cloven, a wind-age, a wolf-age, before the world's ruin.

Life is a jig saw puzzle and we are the pieces. Together we make the whole picture.

Do you think they will test me again? I grow, and I grow stronger with every day.

King Atli had Hogni’s heart cut out while he was alive, and that was his death.

I hope I've retold these stories honestly, but there was still joy and creation in the telling

I will wait until the end of all things, and I will eat the sun and I will eat the moon.

Seven o'clock on a Monday morning, five hundred years after the End of the World, and goblins had been at the cellar again.

Thor was probably the most important god of late paganism, as is suggested by the presentation in medieval Scandinavian sources of the conversion as a struggle between Thor and Christ.

I borrowed a copy of Myths of the Norsemen by Roger Lancelyn Green and read and reread it with delight and puzzlement: Asgard, in this telling, was no longer a Kirbyesque Future City but was a Viking hall and collection of buildings out on the frozen wastes; Odin the all-father was no longer gentle, wise, and irascible, but instead he was brilliant, unknowable, and dangerous; Thor was just as strong as the Mighty Thor in the comics, his hammer as powerful, but he was . . . well, honestly, not the brightest of the gods; and Loki was not evil, although he was certainly not a force for good. Loki was . . . complicated.

In their huge bedroom that night, Tyr said to Thor, “I hope you know what you are doing.” “Of course I do,” said Thor. But he didn’t. He was just doing whatever he felt like doing. That was what Thor did best.

The story is that Odin travelled from home and came to a place where nine slaves were cutting hay. He asked if they wanted him to sharpen their scythes. They agreed. Then he took a whetstone from his belt and sharpened the scythes. To them it seemed that the scythes now cut much better, and they wanted to buy the whetstone. Odin set this price on the stone: he asked that whoever wanted to buy it should give what he thought was reasonable. They all said they wanted it and each asked to buy it, but instead he threw it into the air. They all scrambled to catch it with the result that they slit each other’s throats with their scythes.

In English, the gods have left their names in our days of the week. You can find Tyr the one-handed (Odin’s son), Odin, Thor, and Frigg, the queen of the gods, in, respectively, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday.

Where the ice and the fire met the ice melted, and in the melting waters life appeared: the likeness of a person bigger than worlds, huger than any giant there will be or has ever been. This was neither male, nor was it female, but was both at the same time. This creature was the ancestor of all the giants, and it called itself Ymir.

I can’t believe,” he went on, “that you would besmirch my good name by implying that I’m an oath-breaker-” “I would have to know your name in order to besmirch it, would I not?” “You’re besmirching the idea of my good name.” “The idea of your name itself, or the idea that it’s a good name?” He blinked at her and mouthed the word Oh.

He brought war into the world: battles are begun by throwing a spear at the hostile army, dedicating the battle and its deaths to Odin. If you survive in battle, it is with Odin’s grace, and if you fall it is because he has betrayed you.

The Midgard Serpent opened its mouth and swallowed the ox head. The hook dug into the gums of its mouth, and when the serpent felt this, he snapped back so hard that both of Thor’s fists slammed against the gunwale. Thor now became angry and, taking on his divine strength, he strained so hard that both his feet pushed through the bottom of the boat. Using the sea floor to brace himself, he began pulling the serpent up on board. It can be said that no one has seen a more terrifying sight than this: Thor, narrowing his eyes at the serpent, while the serpent spits out poison and stares straight back from below. It is told that the giant Hymir changed colour. He grew pale and feared for his life when he saw the serpent and also the sea rushing in and out of the boat.

In Muspell, at the edge of the flame, where the mist burns into light, where the land ends, stood Surtr, who existed before the gods. He stands there now...It is said that at Ragnarok, which is the end of the world, and only then, Surtr will leave his station. He will go forth from Muspell with his flaming sword and burn the world with fire, and one by one the gods will fall before him.

Here is the last thing, and a shameful admission it is. When the all-father in eagle form had almost reached the vats, with Suttung immediately behind him, Odin blew some of the mead out of his behind, a splattery wet fart of foul-smelling mead right in Suttung’s face, blinding the giant and throwing him off Odin’s trail. No one, then or now, wanted to drink the mead that came out of Odin’s ass. But whenever you hear bad poets declaiming their bad poetry, filled with foolish similes and ugly rhymes, you will know which of the meads they have tasted.

Yet why did not the Æsir kill the Wolf, seeing they had expectation of evil from him?" Hárr answered: "So greatly did the gods esteem their holy place and sanctuary, that they would not stain it with the Wolf's blood; though (so say the prophecies) he shall be the slayer of Odin.

Odin knows many secrets. He gave an eye for wisdom. More than that, for knowledge of runes, and for power, he sacrificed himself to himself. He hung from the world-tree, Yggdrasil, hung there for nine nights. His side was pierced by the point of a spear, which wounded him gravely.

Mrs. Potts beady black eyes narrowed,"Do you know how many glass slippers I have to stitch when I get home? There's a Mad Hatter serenading a toaster as we speak. There could be mayhem wreaking havoc all over the love in New Gotham, granted what thankless ingrates you are. But here I am!

In Norse mythology, Valkyrie were female goddesses who spread their wings and flew over the battlefield, choosing who lived and who died in battle. Warriors chosen by the Valkyrie died with honor and were then taken to the hall of Valhalla in the afterlife. Their souls could finally rest.

The dwarfs gathered the ingredients they would need to make Gleipnir. These were the six things the dwarfs gathered: For firstly, the footsteps of a cat. For secondly, the beard of a woman. For thirdly, the roots of a mountain. For fourthly, the sinews of a bear. For fifthly, the breath of a fish. For sixth and lastly, the spittle of a bird. Each of these things was used to make Gleipnir. (You say you have not seen these things? Of course you have not. The dwarfs used them in their crafting.)

And yet, it was still a performance. Odin and I both knew it. It was a kind of play, a dream of how things might have been if he and I had been capable of trusting each other for a change. And so we hunted, and sang, and laughed, and told heavily edited stories of the good old days, while each of us watched the other and wondered when the knife would fall.

And there is the place named after its ruler: Hel, where the dead go who did not die bravely in battle.

We call that the story of the Volsungs, the most famous and most stupid family in the history of Midgard

The gods do not help you forget things. That is what alcohol is for, and why it is so much more important than faith.

Ever since then, we know that those people who can make magic with their words, who can make poems and sagas and weave tales, have tasted the mead of poetry.

An evil, hungry sword. This was going to be…interesting.

Tak ada makhluk mana pun bisa mengalahkan usia tua, sebab pada akhirnya dia mengalahkan kita semua, membuat kita makin lemah dan akhirnya menutup mata selamanya.

Odin and his son Thor, and Odin’s blood brother, a giant’s son called Loki, who lives with the Aesir in Asgard.

Loki’s green eyes flashed with anger and with admiration, for he loved a good trick as much as he hated being fooled. Utgardaloki

seldom do those who are silent make mistakes.

19th century,

Gjallerhorn

Balder will smile, like the sun coming out, and reach down, and he will move his first piece. And the game begins anew.

Loki makes the world more interesting but less safe. He is the father of monsters, the author of woes, the sly god.

There were things Thor did when something went wrong. The first thing he did was ask himself if what had happened was Loki’s fault.

Thor, A Mennydörgő, Odin fia. Míg az apja ravasző, ő nyílt, míg Odin körmönfont, ő jóindulatú. Termete hatalmas, szakálla vörös. Az istenek közül messze ő a legerősebb.

There were things Thor did when something went wrong. The first thing he did was ask himself if what had happened was Loki’s fault. Thor

Thor pondered. He did not believe that even Loki would have dared to steal his hammer. So he did the next thing he did when something went wrong, and he went to ask Loki for advice.

But the attitude that Viking society held up as the ideal one was a heroic stoicism. In the words of archaeologist Neil Price, "The outcome of our actions, our fate, is already decided and therefore does not matter. What is important is the manner of our conduct as we go to meet it." You couldn't change what was going to happen to you, but you could at least face it with honor and dignity. The best death was to go down fighting, preferably with a smile on your lips. Life is precarious by nature, but this was especially true in the Viking Age, which made this fatalism, and stoicism in the face of it, especially poignant. The model of this ideal was Odin's amassing an army in Valhalla in preparation for Ragnarok. He knew that Fenrir, "the wolf", was going to murder him one way or another. Perhaps on some level he hoped that by gathering all of the best warriors to fight alongside him, he could prevent the inevitable. But deep down he knew that his struggle was hopeless - yet he determined to struggle just the same, and to die in the most radiant blaze of glory he could muster.

In Jotunheim, the home of the giants, is Mimir’s well. It bubbles up from deep in the ground, and it feeds Yggdrasil, the world-tree. Mimir, the wise one, the guardian of memory, knows many things. His well is wisdom, and when the world was young he would drink every morning from the well, by dipping the horn known as the Gjallerhorn into the water and draining it.

Loki was now captured, and with no thought of mercy he was taken to a cave. They [the Æsir] took three flat stones and, setting them on their edges, broke a hole through each of them. Then they caught Loki’s sons, Vali and Nari or Narfi. The Æsir changed Vali into a wolf, and he ripped apart his brother Narfi. Next the Æsir took his guts, and with them they bound Loki on to the top of the three stones – one under his shoulders, a second under his loins and the third under his knees. The fetters became iron. ‘Then Skadi took a poisonous snake and fastened it above Loki so that its poison drips on to his face. But Sigyn, his wife, placed herself beside him from where she holds a bowl to catch the drops of venom. When the bowl becomes full, she leaves to pour out the poison, and at that moment the poison drips on to Loki’s face. He convulses so violently that the whole earth shakes – it is what is known as an earthquake. He will lie bound there until Ragnarok.

Nothing there is that does not love the sun. It gives us warmth and life; it melts the bitter snow and ice of winter; it makes plants grow and flowers bloom. It gives us long summer evenings when the darkness never comes. It saves us from the bitter days of midwinter, when the darkness is broken from only a handful of hours and the sun is cold and distant, like the pale eye of a corpse.

An ash I know, Yggdrasil its name, With water white is the great tree wet; Thence come the dews that fall in the dales, Green by Urth's well does it ever grow. Thence come the maidens mighty in wisdom, Three from the dwelling down 'neath the tree; Urth is one named, Verthandi the next,-- On the wood they scored,-- and Skuld the third. Laws they made there, and life allotted To the sons of men, and set their fates.

Good lord,” he said. “It’s an invasion of tiny toddlers. No, my mistake. You must be the famous Thor of the Aesir, which means you must be Loki, Laufey’s son. I knew your mother a little. Hello, small relation.

In their huge bedroom that night, Tyr said to Thor, "I hope you know what you are doing." "Of course I do," said Thor. But he didn't. He was just doing whatever he felt like doing. That was what Thor did best.

But. My hammer,” said Thor. “Shut up, Thor,” said Loki. Thor shut up. They left. “She’s very beautiful when she’s angry,” said Thor. “You can see why that ogre wants to marry her.” “Shut up, Thor,” said Loki again.

In English, the gods have left their names in our days of the week. You can find Tyr the one-handed (Odin’s son), Odin, Thor and Frigg, the queen of the gods, in, respectively, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.

Brigit, the Exalted One. Also known as Bridgit, Brigindo, Bride, and Mistress of the Mantle, she is a goddess of fire, the forge, light and the sun, wells and springs, healing, childbirth, poetry, smithcraft, and martial arts.

But before you dismiss it, let me tell you about what makes this hammer unique. It’s called Mjollnir, the lightning-maker. First of all, it’s unbreakable—doesn’t matter how hard you hit something with it, the hammer will always be undamaged.” Thor looked interested. He had already broken a great many weapons over the years, normally by hitting things with them. “If you throw the hammer, it will never miss what you throw it at.” Thor looked even more interested. He had lost a number of otherwise excellent weapons by throwing them at things that irritated him and missing, and he had watched too many weapons he had thrown disappear into the distance, never to be seen again. “No

Now he understood what it was to be a man: that it was to be weak as well as strong, to be foolish sometimes and wise sometimes, to know love as well as to kill. And he had learned that there were other paths for him, other gods who called in the deep places of the earth, in the lap of wavelets on the shore, in the breath of the wind. He had learned that there were other kinds of courage. He knew, with deep certainty, that the islands held a new path for him. He need only move forward and find it.

The history of Celtic mythology is held in the natural landscape, in the bloodlines of its people, in apparitions that manifest and then are gone as you glance their way. There is very little you can pin down, and there is much more than you can ever tell.

... he slipped in and out of himself, testing which disguise to use. He knew it had to be his most clever. The Sisters were too astute for his usual chicanery. He flapped his wings, then soared. The shape of an eagle, useful for fast travel across worlds, but only temporary. Not convincing enough to hide his true identity. ... He pushed out of the eagle skin and leaped away from the horde of birds, springing into the sky. Into nothingness. Instead of transforming into another creature, he hovered in between. Dangling on the mouth of wind. He rumbled with pleasure, at his own cleverness, born out of accident and indecision: he had become pure air. Without effort, he whooshed past the threshold into the cave, into the bark of the Great Tree, winding cleverly under and over and through a maze of roots and rough stone, past every trick and trap the Sisters had set. He delighted at the speed at which he travelled, catching himself just in time, before his enthusiasm revealed the disguise. Slowing impulse to a mere draft, sucking into himself, he reached the very heart of the Norns’ lair. The Great Hall of Time.

When the builder saw that the work would not be finished, he flew into a giant’s rage. Once the Æsir realized for certain that they were facing a mountain giant, they no longer respected their oaths. They called upon Thor, who came immediately, and the next thing to happen was that the hammer Mjollnir was in the air. In this way Thor paid the builder his wages, but not the sun and the moon. Rather, Thor put an end to the giant’s life in Jotunheim. He struck the first blow in such a way that the giant’s skull broke into small pieces, and so Thor sent him down to Niflhel.

We cannot always rely on Thor,” said Odin. “We need protection. Giants will come. Trolls will come.” “What do you propose?” asked Heimdall, the watchman of the gods. “A wall,” said Odin. “High enough to keep out frost giants. Thick enough that not even the strongest troll could batter its way through.” “Building

The first root, and the deepest, goes into the underworld, to Niflheim, the place that existed before other places. In the center of the dark world is the ever-churning spring, Hvergelmir, so loud it sounds like a roaring kettle. The dragon Nidhogg lives in these waters, and it is always gnawing at the root from below.

This first act of the new gods took place in three colours, the first that humans see and name, black, white and red. The Gap was black, many shades of black, thick and fine, glossy and tenebrous. The great snowman was white, except where his own parts cast white-violet shadows, in the pits of his arms, in his monstrous nostrils, under his knees. The new gods hacked and laughed. Blood spurted from the wounds they made, poured from his neck over his shoulders, slid like a hot garment over his chest and flanks, flowed, flowed, filled the glass ball with running crimson, and drowned the world. It was unquenchable, it was the life that had been in him, under the clay and ice, it drained away into death.

She won’t go through life bald,” said Thor. “Because, Loki Laufey’s son, if you do not put her hair back right now, I am going to break every single bone in your body. Each and every one of them. And if her hair does not grow properly, I will come back and break every bone in your body again. And again. If I do it every day, I’ll soon get really good at it,” he carried on, sounding slightly more cheerful. “No!” said Loki. “I can’t put her hair back. It doesn’t work like that.” “Today,” mused Thor, “it will probably take me about an hour to break every bone in your body. But I bet that with practice I could get it down to about fifteen minutes. It will be interesting to find out.” He started to break his first bone.

The norns will decide what happens in your life. There are other norns, not just those three. Giant norns and elf norns, dwarf norns and Vanir norns, good norns and bad, and what your fate will be is decided by them. Some norns give people good lives, and others give us hard lives, or short lives, or twisted lives. They will shape your fate, there at Urd’s well.

There are three sisters, the norns, who are wise maidens. They tend the well, and make sure that the roots of Yggdrasil are covered with mud and cared for. The well belongs to Urd; she is fate, and destiny. She is your past. With her are Verdandi—her name means “becoming”—and hers is the present, and Skuld, whose name means “that which is intended,” and her domain is the future. The norns will decide what happens in your life. There are other norns, not just those three. Giant norns and elf norns, dwarf norns and Vanir norns, good norns and bad, and what your fate will be is decided by them. Some norns give people good lives, and others give us hard lives, or short lives, or twisted lives. They will shape your fate, there at Urd’s well.

In Berlin, Stauffenberg and his confederates had at last perfected their plans. They were lumped under the code name “Valkyrie”—an appropriate term, since the Valkyrie were the maidens in Norse-German mythology, beautiful but terrifying, who were supposed to have hovered over the ancient battlefields choosing those who would be slain. In this case, Adolf Hitler was to be slain. Ironically enough, Admiral Canaris, before his fall, had sold the Fuehrer the idea of Valkyrie, dressing it up as a plan for the Home Army to take over the security of Berlin and the other large cities in case of a revolt of the millions of foreign laborers toiling in these centers. Such a revolt was highly unlikely—indeed, impossible—since the foreign workers were unarmed and unorganized, but to the suspicious Fuehrer danger lurked everywhere these days, and, with almost all the able-bodied soldiers absent from the homeland either at the front or keeping down the populace in the far-flung occupied areas, he readily fell in with the idea that the Home Army ought to have plans for protecting the internal security of the Reich against the hordes of sullen slave laborers.

The male sphere of Norse shamanism consisted of the elite warrior groups known as the berserkir ("bear-shirts") and the úlfheðnar ("wolf-skins"). The berserkers (as we'll refer to the members of both of those groups for the sake of convenience), were shamans of a very different sort. After undergoing a period of rigorous training and initiation, they developed the ability to fight in an ecstatic trance that rendered them fearless - and, according to some sources, impervious to danger - while nevertheless inspiring a tremendous amount of fear in their opponents by their behavior, which was at once animalistic and otherworldly. Perhaps needless to say, there was no ergi associated with being a berserker. Quite the opposite, in fact - the berserker was seen as something of a model of manliness.

Do you wonder where poetry comes from? Where we get the songs we sing and the tails we tell? Do you ever ask yourself how it is that some people can dream great, wise, beautiful dreams and pass those dreams on as poetry to the world, to be sung and retold as long as the sun rises and sets, as long as the moon will wax and wane? Have you ever wondered why some people make beautiful songs and poems and tales and some of us do not?

Do you wonder where poetry comes from? Where we get the songs we sing and the tales we tell? Do you ever ask yourself how it is that some people can dream great, wise, beautiful dreams and pass those dreams on as poetry to the world, to be sung and retold as long as the sun rises and sets, as long as the moon will wax and wane? Have you ever wondered why some people make beautiful songs and poems and tales, and some of us do not?

It was highly fatalistic, but its fatalism was not one of complacency. It saw life as being ultimately doomed to tragedy, but with the opportunity for grand and noble heroism along the way. The Vikings sought to seize that opportunity, to accomplish as much as they could - and be remembered for it - despite the certainty of the grave and "the wolf." How one met one's fate, whatever that fate happened to be, was what separated honorable and worthy people from the dishonorable and the unworthy. Norse religion and mythology were thoroughly infused with this view. The gods, the "pillars" who held the cosmos together, fought for themselves and their world tirelessly and unflinchingly, even though they knew that in the end the struggle was hopeless, and that the forces Of chaos and entropy would prevail. They went out not with a whimper, but with a bang. This attitude is what made the Vikings the Vikings.

We cannot always rely on Thor,” said Odin. “We need protection. Giants will come. Trolls will come.” “What do you propose?” asked Heimdall, the watchman of the gods. “A wall,” said Odin. “High enough to keep out frost giants. Thick enough that not even the strongest troll could batter its way through.” “Building such a wall,” said Loki, “so high and so thick, would take us many years.” Odin nodded his agreement. “But still,” he said, “we need a wall.” The

The other sources, even when they mention Hel, rarely describe it. But when they do, it's cast in neutral or even positive terms. For example, the mention that the land of the dead is "green and beautiful" in Ibn Fadlan's account is mirrored in a passage from Saxo (The medieval Danish historian, as you likely recall). In Saxo's telling of the story of Hadding, the hero travels to the "Underworld" and finds a "fair land where green herbs grow when it is winter on earth." His companion even beheads a rooster just outside of that land and flings its carcass over the wall, at which point the bird cries out and comes back to life - a feat which is highly reminiscent of another detail from Ibn Fadlan, namely the beheading of a rooster and a hen whose bodies are then tossed into the dead man's boat shortly before it's set aflame. In both cases, the emphasis is on abundant life in the world of the dead, even when death and absence prevail on earth.

Then Loki flew as a falcon about the keep, peering into each window as he went. In the farthest room, through a barred window, he saw Idunn, sitting and weeping, and he perched on the bars. “Cease your weeping!” he said. “It is I, Loki, here to rescue you!” Idunn glared at him with red-rimmed eyes. “It is you who are the source of my troubles,” she said. “Well, perhaps. But that was so long ago. That was yesterday’s Loki. Today’s Loki is here to save you and to take you home.” “How?

Today is Jesus's birthday. Just pointing that out, brother, on account that some folks get a bit confused this time of year." He put a light hand on Santa's arm and grinned. "They think it's Santa Claus Day." Santa met his eye and held it. "Reverend," the lady said. "Don't you even start." She looked at Santa apologetically. "Just ignore him. He's a bit impractical when it comes to Christmas." "Darn straight I am. Santa Claus and all his little presents get in the way of God's message." "As can religion," Santa replied.

Do you wonder where poetry comes from? Where we get the songs we sing and the tales we tell? Do you ever ask yourself how it is that some people can dream great, wise, beautiful dreams and pass those dreams on as poetry to the world, to be sung and retold as long as the sun rises and sets, as long as the moon will wax and wane? Have you ever wondered why some people make beautiful songs and poems and tales, and some of us do not? It is a long story, and it does no credit to anyone: there is murder in it, and trickery, lies, and foolishness, seduction and pursuit. Listen.

In addition to legal assemblies such as the one at Thingvellir, major public rituals were part of the celebration of the three big festivals around which the Viking calendar turned. One of these was Winter Nights, which was held over several days during our month of October, which the Vikings considered to be the beginning of winter and of the new year generally. The boundary between the realm of the living and the realm of the dead was thin, and all sorts of uncanny things were bound to happen. At this festival, the divine powers were petitioned for the general prosperity of the people. The second critical festival was Yule at midwinter - late December and early January - Which, with the arrival of Christianity, was converted into Christmas. Offerings were made to the gods in hopes of being granted bountiful harvests in the coming growing season in return. The third major festival was called "Summer Time" (Sumarmál), and was held in April, which the Vikings considered to be the beginning of summer. When the deities were contacted during this festival, they were asked for success in the coming season's battles, raids, and trading expeditions. The exact time of these festivals differed between communities.

For I take it there are two things the imagination loves to do. It loves to embrace its objects completely, to take it in at a single glace, and see it as something harmonious, symmetrical, and self-explanatory. That is the classical imagination; the Parthenon was built for it. It also loves to lose itself in a labyrinth, to surrender to the inextricable. That is the romantic imagination; the Orlando Furioso was written for it. But Christian Theology does not cater very well for either. If Christianity is only a mythology, then I find the mythology I believe in is not the one I like best. I like Greek mythology much better, Irish better still, Norse best of all.

Future Of Humanity - Planetary Civilization In mythology, the gods lived in the divine splendor of heaven, far above the insignificant affairs of mere mortals. The Greek gods frolicked in the heavenly domain of Mount Olympus, while the Norse gods who fought for honor and eternal glory would feast in the hallowed halls of Valhalla with the spirits of fallen warriors. But if our destiny is to attain the power of the gods by the end of the century, what will our civilization look like in 2100? Where is all this technological innovation taking our civilization? All the technological revolutions described here are leading to a single point: the creation of a planetary civilization. This transition is perhaps the greatest in human history. In fact, the people living today are the most important ever to walk the surface of the planet, since they will determine whether we attain this goal or descend into chaos. Perhaps 5,000 generations of humans have walked the surface of the earth since we first emerged in Africa about 100,000 years ago, and of them, the ones living in this century will ultimately determine our fate. Unless there is a natural catastrophe or some calamitous act of folly, it is inevitable that we will enter this phase of our collective history. We can see this most clearly by analyzing the history of energy.

Odin and his brothers made the soil from Ymir’s flesh. Ymir’s bones they piled up into mountains and cliffs. Our rocks and pebbles, the sand and gravel you see: these were Ymir’s teeth, and the fragments of bones that were broken and crushed by Odin and Vili and Ve in their battle with Ymir. The seas that girdle the worlds: these were Ymir’s blood and his sweat. Look up into the sky: you are looking at the inside of Ymir’s skull. The stars you see at night, the planets, all the comets and the shooting stars, these are the sparks that flew from the fires of Muspell. And the clouds you see by day? These were once Ymir’s brains, and who knows what thoughts they are thinking, even now.

Anyone with an adequate education will easily acknowledge that in the mythology of the Eddas itself the essential element does not correspond to the pathos of the emerging and unleashing of elementary forces and of the struggle against them...the essential, in the tradition in question, is to be found in what are ultimately ‘Olympian’ meanings. These are implied, for instance, by the idea of Miðgarðr, which reflects the general idea of a supreme centre and fundamental order of the world, and which, in a way, may be considered the metaphysical basis of the idea of empire; by the symbolism of Valhalla as a mountain whose frozen and bright peak shines of an eternal light beyond all clouds; and, connected to this, the motif of the so called Light of the North in its many variants. In relation to this, I should recall the symbolism of the golden realm of Glaðsheimr, ‘brighter than the sun’...and the image of the celestial place of Gimlé, ‘more magnificent than any other and brighter than the sun,’ which ‘will endure even when the heavens and the earth pass away.’ In this and many other motifs...a trained eye is bound to detect a testimony to a higher dimension in ancient Nordic mythology...According to Völuspá and Gylfaginning, after Ragnarök a ‘new sun’ and ‘new race’ will arise, the ‘divine heroes’... will return to Iðavöllr and find gold, which symbolises the primordial tradition of luminous Asgard and the original state.

Michał Grynberg, ed., Words to Outlive Us: Eyewitness Accounts from the Warsaw Ghetto, trans. Philip Boehm (London: Granta Books, 2003), p. 46. At one point Himmler invited Werner Heisenberg to establish an institute to study icy stars because, according to the cosmology of Welteislehre, based on the observations of the Austrian Hanns Hörbiger (author of Glazial-Kosmogonie[1913]), most bodies in the solar system, our moon included, are giant icebergs. A refrigeration engineer, Hörbiger was persuaded by how shiny the moon and planets appeared at night, and also by Norse mythology, in which the solar system emerged from a gigantic collision between fire and ice, with ice winning. Hörbiger died in 1931, but his theory became popular among Nazi scientists and Hitler swore that the unusually cold winters in the 1940s proved the reality of Welteislehre. Nicholas Goodrick-Clarke's The Occult Roots of Nazism explores the influence of such magnetic lunatics as Karl Maria Wiligut, "the Private Magus of Heinrich Himmler," whose doctrines influenced SS ideology, logos, ceremonies, and the image of its members as latter-day Knights Templars and future breeding stock for the coming Aryan utopia. To this end, Himmler founded Ahnenerbe, an institute for the study of German prehistory, archaeology, and race, whose staff wore SS uniforms. Himmler also acquired Wewelsburg Castle in Westphalia to use immediately for SS education and pseudoreligious ceremonies, and remodel into a future site altogether more ambitious, "creating an SS vati-can on an enormous scale at the center of the millenarian greater Germanic Reich."   "In

Può non essere sempre evidente ed esplicito nella forma del nome il nesso necessario con la sua ragione prima, ma ciò è dovuto soltanto all'ignoranza degli uomini, alla fuga del tempo, ed i sapienti, i saggi, i maghi e gli dèi sono tali in ragione delle loro maggiore o assoluta conoscenza di questi nessi. In origine ogni nome è una kenning. Ora essa, qual è praticata dagli scaldi, ci appare nel suo aspetto intellettualistico e concettoso di indovinello, nel riferimento ad una sapienza esclusiva ed esoterica, ma nostro è l'abbaglio nel percepirla così: nella struttura e nel senso suo più genuino essa è il modello originario del nome nel mito, un modello che può riflettersi in sé, nei suoi elementi costitutivi, all'infinito; primo e ultimo frutto dello sforzo di appropriazione del passato e del presente, di fare il mito.

Una parola specifica in norreno che dica 'mito' propriamente non esiste, potrebbe essere 'accadimento' oppure 'storia' o 'saga': per Snorri, ci sembra, quella che più si avvicina all'essenza del mito è la parola per 'ricordo', 'ricordare'. È sorprendente come riappaia più volte nella narrazione il 'ricordo' degli dèi: gli dèi si adunano e parlano e rammemorano quanto è avvenuto o quanto essi hanno compiuto, e questo par costituire agli occhi del narratore l'atto più proprio del loro sacro consesso. Il memorare, quasi che il ricordo costituisca un atto di vera e propria creazione, o forse, più pianamente, l'unico mezzo di conferma della realtà o verità cui riferirsi nella sconcertante poliedricità delle apparenze. Il ricordo è così l'unica vera esperienza del mito, il tempo del mito e la prospettiva della memoria secolare dell'uomo fino alla sua origine divina.

This will not be a normal winter. The winter will begin, and it will continue, winter following winter. There will be no spring, no warmth. People will be hungry and they will be cold and they will be angry. Great battles will take place, all across the world. Brothers will fight brothers, fathers will kill sons. Mothers and daughters will be set against each other. Sisters will fall in battle with sisters, and will watch their children murder each other in their turn. This will be the age of cruel winds, the age of people who become as wolves, who prey upon each other, who are no better than wild beasts. Twilight will come to the world, and the places where the humans live will fall into ruins, flaming briefly, then crashing down and crumbling into ash and devastation. Then, when the few remaining people are living like animals, the sun in the sky will vanish, as if eaten by a wolf, and the moon will be taken from us too, and no one will be able to see the stars any longer. Darkness will fill the air, like ashes, like mist. This will be the time of the terrible winter that will not end, the Fimbulwinter. There will be snow driving in from all directions, fierce winds, and cold colder than you have ever imagined cold could be, an icy cold so cold your lungs will ache when you breathe, so cold that the tears in your eyes will freeze. There will be no spring to relieve it, no summer, no autumn. Only winter, followed by winter, followed by winter. After that there will come the time of the great earthquakes. The mountains will shake and crumble. Trees will fall, and any remaining places where people live will be destroyed. The earthquakes will be so great that all bonds and shackles and fetters will be destroyed. All of them. Fenrir, the great wolf, will free himself from his shackles. His mouth will gape: his upper jaw will reach the heavens, the lower jaw will touch the earth. There is nothing he cannot eat, nothing he will not destroy. Flames come from his eyes and his nostrils. Where Fenris Wolf walks, flaming destruction follows. There will be flooding too, as the seas rise and surge onto the land. Jormungundr, the Midgard serpent, huge and dangerous, will writhe in its fury, closer and closer to the land. The venom from its fangs will spill into the water, poisoning all the sea life. It will spatter its black poison into the air in a fine spray, killing all the seabirds that breathe it. There will be no more life in the oceans, where the Midgard serpent writhes. The rotted corpses of fish and of whales, of seals and sea monsters, will wash in the waves. All who see the brothers Fenrir the wolf and the Midgard serpent, the children of Loki, will know death. That is the beginning of the end.

In those days there were two dark elves who lived in a fortress by the sea. They did magic there, and feats of alchemy. Like all dwarfs, they built things, wonderful, remarkable things, in their workshop and their forge. But there were things they had not yet made, and making those things obsessed them. They were brothers, and were called Fjalar and Galar. When they heard that Kvasir was visiting a town nearby, they set out to meet him. Fjalar and Galar found Kvasir in the great hall, answering questions for the townsfolk, amazing all who listened. He told the people how to purify water and how to make cloth from nettles. He told one woman exactly who had stolen her knife, and why. Once he was done talking and the townsfolk had fed him, the dwarfs approached. “We have a question to ask you that you have never been asked before,” they said. “But it must be asked in private. Will you come with us?” “I will come,” said Kvasir. They walked to the fortress. The seagulls screamed, and the brooding gray clouds were the same shade as the gray of the waves. The dwarfs led Kvasir to their workshop, deep within the walls of their fortress. “What are those?” asked Kvasir. “They are vats. They are called Son and Bodn.” “I see. And what is that over there?” “How can you be so wise when you do not know these things? It is a kettle. We call it Odrerir—ecstasy-giver.” “And I see over here you have buckets of honey you have gathered. It is uncapped, and liquid.” “Indeed we do,” said Fjalar. Galar looked scornful. “If you were as wise as they say you are, you would know what our question to you would be before we asked it. And you would know what these things are for.” Kvasir nodded in a resigned way. “It seems to me,” he said, “that if you were both intelligent and evil, you might have decided to kill your visitor and let his blood flow into the vats Son and Bodn. And then you would heat his blood gently in your kettle, Odrerir. And after that you would blend uncapped honey into the mixture and let it ferment until it became mead—the finest mead, a drink that will intoxicate anyone who drinks it but also give anyone who tastes it the gift of poetry and the gift of scholarship.” “We are intelligent,” admitted Galar. “And perhaps there are those who might think us evil.” And with that he slashed Kvasir’s throat, and they hung Kvasir by his feet above the vats until the last drop of his blood was drained. They warmed the blood and the honey in the kettle called Odrerir, and did other things to it of their own devising. They put berries into it, and stirred it with a stick. It bubbled, and then it ceased bubbling, and both of them sipped it and laughed, and each of the brothers found the verse and the poetry inside himself that he had never let out.