Welcome to the Lost
Pages Norse Myth. I'm Jason Weiser, your narrator and
host of the Myths and Legends podcast. Each month, join us here as we reveal
a missing page from the Prose Edda, the ancient manuscript
containing all of Norse myth. It's whispered that these "lost pages" tell the
story of a mysterious god from a distant land and his young son, as they embark on a
perilous journey across the Norse realms. I present now the
second lost page, Odin and the Knowledge Keeper. "Perhaps this one," she thought as
she blew the dust from the cover. At long last, perhaps this one
will let me see far enough, far enough to catch a glimpse
of my lost love, my husband. Gróa the seer, inspected the tome
that she had just discovered, this was the one she had been
hunting for quite some time. Cracking open the tome, she allowed
herself a slight smile knowing the runes inside held the power to augment her
already substantial prophetic talents, and perhaps allow her
to after all this time glimpse the location of
her husband Aurvandil. Gróa search for her lost husband had
been ongoing now for some time. Already a gifted seer, she hoped to lengthen
the scope of her sight by hunting down and collecting
tomes of arcane wisdom. She had traversed the realms
hunting for such tomes, each one full of
ancient knowledge. And with each runic
passage spoken aloud, her powers of sight did grow, but she never glimpsed
what she was truly after, the location of Aurvandil. The last time Gróa had felt
her husband's embrace was moments before he journeyed on
a quest by the side of Thor, the mighty son of Odin. Aurvandil had never
returned from that quest. All Gróa knew was that after suffering from
a bout of frostbite, Thor attempted to carry Aurvandil home from Vanaheim across a bitter
and icy stream in a basket on his back. But somewhere in the tundra, Thor lost Aurvandil. Thor returned home with
only an empty basket. He knew not what fate
befell Gróa's true love. Although her sought after
prize continue to elude her, Gróa did glimpse many
things inside each tome. Soon, the search for her husband became
a pursuit for knowledge itself. And over the years, Gróa had collected her discoveries in
an endless library of arcane wisdom. As her powers grew, so did her
reputation for prophecy. Even one so powerful as
Thor's father, Odin the Allfather, came
to rely on Gróa foresight. Gróa didn't know why, but back
in the safety of her library, she felt that this latest
tome was somehow special. Her prophecies had grown
to allow her to see longer and farther than
anyone before or since. And she felt this latest tome would
surely tip the scales of her talents to allow her to see what
she so desperately desired. And now that she held
it in her hands, she could crack it open, recite
the runic incantations inside, and claim the tome's
power for herself. Gróa lifted the book's cover and
spoke the runic phrases aloud, her voice echoing with lingering
hope and divine magic. As she spoke the runes aloud,
she shut her eyes tight, her mind flooded with images. But the whereabouts of poor Aurvandil
didn't come with the flood. Instead, Gróa grimaced as her mind raced
with horrible, disastrous visions. She saw the worlds plunge into
a bitter three-year winter. She saw the sky split and the
realm began to tremble and quake. She saw a horrible terror merge with a
flaming sword and an enormous beastly wolf, rampaging across the countryside as
he grew to consume the very sun. She saw the deadliest of monsters and the
worst of gods at each other's throats. and in the events
leading up to it all, she also saw pale white
ghost from a distant land, and his young son, somehow intertwined
in the terrible prophecy. Back in Asgard, realm
of the Æsir gods, Odin's remaining eye twitched. He felt the ripples of Gróa's prophecy
come crashing across the realms, "Ragnarök.” Odin whispered to
himself with a tremble, and then lifting himself
from his throne, the Allfather hissed, "Gróa.” Still reeling from the onslaught
of her terrible vision, Gróa steady herself against
her library walls. She'd seen so much, too much. And still, the fate of her beloved
Aurvandil remained a mystery. "How can this be?” She lamented out loud. "Were Aurvandil's
whereabouts so hidden, so secret that even she who
had glimpsed the end of all things, was still unable
to divine his location? Or did he remain hidden because
someone was hiding him? Yes,” thought Gróa, but what creature would be so ruthless, as
to cloud her own husband from her sight. Gróa didn't have time to wallow
in her revelation for long. Moments later, she heard a beckoning call
from outside her library's front door. She strained against the heavy
door and saw him there, Odin the Allfather. This was not abnormal, Odin had visited Gróa library many
times seeking her prophetic knowledge. He was most likely here in an attempt
to avoid some minor ill fate. "Allfather, your
presence honors me.” Gróa started, "But now
was not the best time, I--" Gróa's excuse was cut short as Odin's
hand clasped hard around her throat. The skies darkened with
growing grey clouds. He drew her near and demanded, "Seer, tell me
what you've seen.” "Odin, I--" Gróa stammered. "Tell me.” said the Allfather, "Or I shall bash your head in, just like my
son Thor did to your beloved Aurvandil.” Now Gróa understood. In all of her travels and all of
her collections of arcane wisdom, the reason she was still yet unable to
glimpse the fate of her husband was because Odin had used his enchantments to conceal
his death at Thor's hands from her sight. She struggled against
Odin's mighty grip, defiant not to tell him of
her visions of Ragnarök, or of the strange gods
from another land, but it mattered not. With a smile, Odin tightened his
grip and took Gróa knowledge. Her runes, her vast library, and her very life for his own. Welcome to the Lost
Pages Norse Myth. I'm Jason Weiser, your narrator and
host of the Myths and Legends podcast. Each month, join us here as we reveal
a missing page from the Prose Edda, the great book that
contains all of Norse myth. It's whispered that these "lost pages" tell
the story of a god from a distant land and his young son, as they embark on a
perilous journey across the Norse realms. I present now the third lost
page, And Only Rage Remained. The unanswered cries of his terrified
child echoed across the winter woods, tears falling from the face of
this realms newest widow poked almost unnoticeable holes in
the blood-spattered snow. The man's body lay in a heap at
the foot of a great fallen tree. His head staring back at him from
where it landed a dozen yards over. Mouth still agape in panic
and horror at the bloody consequences for simply
crossing the creature's path, and the creature responsible for
this nightmarish scene, lumbered on. Its terrible mind not caring for what
it had just wrought in the slightest. Not satisfied in the least
with its freshest kill. Turning instead to seek yet another
target for its unquenchable rage. There was a name for such creatures
in the nine realms, Draugr. A twisted horror cursed to wander
Midgard with but a single thought, rappelling its husk of a body to continue
to drag its feet across the Norse wilds. But like many before him, this Draugr was not born
to the violence and anger that it now spread to
anyone it encountered. This Draugr once had a life
and a family and a name. Now, only rage remained. Before the change, the monster had been a man and he spent
his life like most men of his time, fighting for food, refuge, and
survival in the Norse wilds. With a small band of others
who have been thrust together by necessity,
they managed a life. The man attributed it to one
simple rule, never yield. No matter how unforgiving the dangers of
the woods became, perseverance through the will of the goddess Freya, was
all they needed to make it through. They formed a community. The man had even found
love inside his makeshift family and a chance to start
a real family of his own. Bringing a baby into such
an uncertain world was not easy by any stretch
of the imagination, but their small community
rallied around the child to help protect and nurture
this precious new life. The challenges remained, thieves and bandits still
managed to steal what meager offerings the group had managed
to assemble for themselves. Other clans challenged the group's leaders
for dominance and tried to break them apart, but their unwillingness to yield to any threat,
got them through and kept them together. Even faced with
uncertain dangers, for a while, times were good. One morning, as the sun illuminated
the sky, the shrieks of Odin's ravens on their daily swoop
across Midgard woke the man. He roused his loyal
group and set off east, through a patch of dark wood
near their latest camp. Normally, they would have taken a
day's journey around the woods, as heading straight through brought the
chance of even more hidden danger. But their drinking horns had already
run dry and scouts had heard the babbling of a brook in the
clearing just passed the tree. Their thirst would claim
them before they made the day's long journey
around potential harm. Entering the woods, the man and
his warriors kept a sharp look, but the trees were quite enough, they could
hear the babbling brook on the other side. As they continued
deeper into the woods, the babbling grew louder. So loud, in fact, it began
to seem like laughter, low guttural bellows coming not from the
far side of the trees but from above? The man craned his neck
toward the laughter, just as the gang of bandits swiftly
descended from their branches. In an instant they were
upon the small group, he had led his clan
directly into their trap. The man drew his sword as he faced
the largest bandit and growled, "You will not break us.” But the bandit was
larger, swifter, and more desperate
than the man himself. He matched each blow and the
two fought to a standstill. "I will not yield. I will not cease. You cannot win," The man spat through
the blood pooling in his mouth. The bandit let out that same
slow low guttural laugh, "But I already have, look.” With a gesture, the bandit king
motioned for the man to turn. He had been so focused on besting
the bandit king, that he hadn't seen the dozens more bandits crawling from
their hiding places in the trees. They had slain his warriors and
captured his women and children. As the pounding heartbeat of the battle
softened in his ears he heard the cries of his wife and child, as they struggled
against the chains of the bandit horde. All seemed lost, but the man's
resolve had seen him through worse. As the pure rage welled inside
him like a fortress fire, he turned to deliver the
final blow and bellowed, "Never yie--" but he
never got the chance. The odds, at last,
were too great. The blade from the bandit king pierced
his heart, before he took another step. "What an odd feeling?"
The man thought. He felt peaceful as if he were
dreamily slumbering by a warm fire. But wait something fell off. He was doing
something important. "Had he been interrupted?”, hazy
questions swam in his mind. As the Valkyrie approached, he had died a warrior's death and as such
he was entitled to a warrior's reward. An eternity of battle and feasting
in the great halls of Valhalla, in the presence of the
Allfather Odin himself. The Valkyries were sent to
warriors in their final breath to deliver such rewards
and escort the fallen. As the Valkyrie drew closer, the man felt her pull and he began to yield
his claim to the realm of mortal men. As he did, he studied
his new companion. Her long perfectly braided hair, her ornate shield, and shining blade. "Wait, a blade," The man remembered.
The blade of the bandit king was about to pierce his heart. This must be a trick. Some spell of confusion meant to
distract him from the battle. He could not be at the
foot of his final reward. He could not leave his wife and
child on the earthen plain. He could not. He would not yield
to the specter. "Never yield!" he shouted
with such ferocity, the Valkyrie actually
shifted her balance. As the man forced his
heavy body to stand, the Valkyrie remorsefully
drew her sword, he lunged at her then, with all
the strength and anger that he never had the chance to
deliver to the bandit king, and the two locked in combat. The Valkyrie saw that she had no choice
but to best this confused, fallen warrior. The man saw only
the bandit king. As their swords clashed their
fight grew hotter and hotter with the power of Valkyrie and the
burning rage of the fallen man. So hot did the conflict
become, that a ball of pure white flame began
to form around the two. The Valkyrie remained unaffected
but the man was just a mortal man. The fire surrounded him
melting the dirt at his feet, causing him to sink
into the very earth. The flames stripped away his skin and
fused armor to flesh and bone. Blow by blow, the fire
burned away the man he was. Gone was his life, his happy
days, his wife, his child. Gone now was the man
who would never yield. In his place stood a creature
of pure warrior's rage. A blight on the realm of men, whose
thirst for vengeance would never cease. Where the man once stood, now only a monster of
rage. A Draugr remained. Product not yet rated. Welcome to the Lost
Pages Norse Myth. I'm Jason Weiser, your narrator and host of the
Myths and Legends podcast. Each month, join us as we reveal
a missing page from the Prose Edda, an ancient tome that
contains all of Norse myth. It's whispered that these "lost pages" tell
the story of a god from a distant land and his young son as they embark on a
perilous journey across the Norse realms. I present to you now the
fourth lost page, The Dead Stone Mason. Thor was barely winded as he climbed
up the giant heaving chest. This battle had hardly been won,
from his perspective at least. With little effort, the giant was already on
his back, staining the snow-covered mountains as blood
seeped from his stomach. "One last chance Jötunn."
Thor said sadistically, "Reveal the location of your home
and leave this place alive.” The Æsir and Thor in particular, seethe with hatred
for the giants. He had been seeking to invade Jötunheim
for years and was known to torture the giants that he came across in an effort
to elicit the location of their kingdom. "You lie," the giant
snapped back at him, "And even if you told the truth, I wouldn't tell you anything.” Unfortunately, it seemed
that word had gotten around that even those who broke
under Thor's pressure, divulging information that surely endangered
their families would not survive. "Very well." The
thunder gods snarled. He swung his fabled hammer, Mjölnir,
and finished the giant off. Another casualty in his merciless
campaign of destruction. The clanging of the hammer and
chisel grew more harried as sunset drew near and the bitter winds
of early winter intensified. Brick after flawless brick,
the elder giant Thamur kept working unbothered
by the falling darkness. Though none in the nine realms surpassed
his knowledge of stone and masonry. Thamur's task of completing a wall to guard
Jötunheim remained nigh impossible. Thor's malevolent crusade was
nearly at the Jötunn doorstep, but even at this breakneck pace, the master stone mason never
sacrificed his product. Thamur simply continued
his work in darkness, calculating the most formidable
angles for his bricks and crafting them with a measured ringing of
his venerated hammer and chisel. Constructing massive walls to surround
the ornate structures of Jötunheim, was the last ditch effort of his
people to protect their precious home. Thamur knew the responsibility
resting on his sore shoulders, but the fuel of peril can
only push one so far. Taking just a short break, the elder giant's heavy
breathing was loud enough to send colonies of bats
scattering into the sky. He looked up at his progress, it was impressive no doubt, but there was still
so much more to do. Weary in body and mind, Thamur knew
the only way to complete the work. But it would mean
convincing his son to help, and that was
unlikely to go well. Hrimthur was a good son, but the last few years of
constant masonry had put a strain on the relationship
with his father. The young giant never
embraced the craft and seemed even less
inclined as he grew older, whereas it had become an
obsession of his father's. Thamur had already asked his
son for help with the wall, but the fact that he even had
to ask was disconcerting. The giant's very
existence was at stake. Hrimthur may not have refused outright
but he surely wasn't doing much work. Instead insisting that he
had the heart of a warrior. Each morning, Thamur would
assign Hrimthur a task. Each evening, Thamur would check in to
find not walls but piles of crushed rock. The boy's endless combat practice was
pushing them even farther behind. Enough was enough. Exhausted from the
day and night labor, he came down the path
near their home to find Hrimthur eating his evening
meal outside by the fire. As usual, the boy's
work went unfinished. More piles of Thamur's
magnificent bricks broken. "My son," Thamur quietly fumed, "Your battle fantasies
will be the end of us. Tomorrow, you must
work on the wall.” Hrimthur didn't even
look up from his dinner, "You say our time is precious,
yet you waste it," he muttered. "Excuse me?” Thamur asked, though he
had heard quite clearly. "You think a wall
will stop the Æsir. Finish your wall, when they
get through that they'll still have to get through
me." Hrimthur smirked. "Son, hubris is a deceptive
beast." Thamur sighed, "So foolish,
inexperienced, arrogant.” Thamur's words were intended to be
wise but he lost control of them as they blended into an
incomprehensible ramble. He forfeited his temper too as
it grew to match his giant size. His lecture of unbridled frustration
brewed up into a great storm, dispatching gale force winds
down the mountain range, and bending the forested
plains of Midgard. The blast uprooted large
patches of pine and birch. Cracking up in the earth
and sending fissures of bare soil up the spine in
the snow-dusted landscape. Though Hrimthur had trained for
battle, he had never seen it. His father's outburst
left him frozen. If only for a moment,
strong indeed. Hrimthur's weakness was knowing
only one course of action. He landed a mighty
strike on Thamur's jaw. With the crack of its impact, the young giant instantly
felt its wrongness. Thamur was knocked back by the boy's
aggression and fell to his own instincts. Throttling Hrimthur with
his mason's hammer, the force normally reserve
for sculpted stone bricks sent the boy flying
through Thamur's wall, it came crashing down upon him. The fall of these enormous blocks
dispatched a massive wave of shame that washed over Thamur as
he realized what he had done. He rushed to his son, arms outstretched begging
the boy's forgiveness. Hrimthur refused to even
acknowledge his father. After dragging himself
from the pile of stones, the boy scrambled
off into the night. Thamur wanted to follow him
but his legs would not budge. Paralyzed by utter grief, he shouted and sobbed as
his legs seemed to take root in the quickly frosting
earth beneath them. Thamur's emotions
eventually receded, and as they did his
legs regained feeling. He began his search for his son. Thamur scoured Jötunheim
but came up empty-handed. Standing at the unfinished
gates of the kingdom, he thought he could make out
the colossal silhouette of Hrimthur far off in the
distance of Midgard's forests. Although he knew better than to
venture there especially so late, Thamur was desperate. He set off alone into the blackness,
trying to do right by his son. The giant stone mason lumbered through
Midgard's dark and twisted forests. As the night grew colder, snow squeaked beneath
his calloused feet. Only audible between the
despairing calls for his son. His cries carried as far as the
cold air coming down the mountain. But they did nothing to
locate the young giant. These cries did however,
gain the attention of another one lurking in the
mysterious realm of men, Thor. The thunder gods smirked
at his sudden luck. Here he was, just steps away from
Jötunheim's famed builder, the one entrusted with protecting the
realm that Thor sought to conquer. "Mason." Thor bellowed, catching the attention
of the elder giant, "Shouldn't you be
back in Jötunheim? Perhaps you can
show me the way.” Thamur refused to speak to the thunder
god and simply nodded in acknowledgment. A choice of certain death, but one that would not
reveal just how close Thor was to Jötunheim's
unprotected gates. The master stone mason instead
gripped his hammer and chisel readying himself for the battle
that he knew he could not win. The brutal conflict raged
under the stars with Thor taking out every last
frustration on Thamur. The giant stone mason
held longer than most, but his stamina was waning
as the fight drew on. Thamur's hammer was designed
for construction, not combat. The thunder god seized
on the Jötunn's weariness striking him with his
own legendary hammer. Thamur went down hard
falling on his own chisel and driving it straight
through his skull. Thor, the great destroyer had laid
waste to Jötunheim's great builder. His body pinned to the cracked
earth with his own tools. Thor would later boast that
he had set it up this way, but the stone mason's
corpse was positioned so perfectly that it couldn't
have been planned. The massive giant's fall crushed a village
known for worshipping the Vanir god, Njörðr. Even better, his bloodied body
faced the mountains of Jötunheim, serving as an ominous
warning to the giants. He hardly even celebrated
this good fortune. Still prime with the
adrenaline of combat, the vicious gods scream toward the long
range of peaks with a clap of thunder, "I will find your home. I will destroy every
last one of you.” Hrimthur spent the night sobbing in a
cave high up in Jötunheim's mountains. When he returned home, his father was
nowhere to be found. He frantically asked the
giants in the kingdom, but could only claim that Thamur was seen
headed out to Midgard late last night. Hrimthur knew that father must have
gone to Midgard to look for him, a perilous journey any time let
alone in the gloom of night. Anxious at this prospect, the young giant set off into the biting
winter morning to find his father. The famed stone mason
wasn't difficult to find. As he came upon his
father's corpse, Hrimthur unleashed a scream that
sent a shockwave through the land shattering the freshly formed
ice of Midgard's nearby lakes. His tears cascaded into pools
around his father's body. Creating new lakes and rivers
that snaked around the elder stone mason's corpse
and twists and tangles. His mind clouded eclipsing all
else with inescapable grief and his tears
blackened to match. From that day forward, he would cry
only the color of a moonless night. Though Thor may have intended
it as an ominous warning, the giant saw fit to leave
Thamur's body where it fell. The sight became
sacred to the Jötunn, and other builders began the
construction of a temple to protect the great
stone mason's chisel. That this measure made the area
even more enticing to intruders. Before the temple could be
completed, the giants made the final decision to retreat
to Jötunheim and beyond, never to be heard from again. But the stone mason's
lifeless body remained. Its massive size changed
landscape of Midgard forever adding another ridge of mountains
around a cold narrow lake. It lies there to this day just to the
northeast of Tyr's Domed temple. An everlasting reminder
of the Thor's cruelty, and the consequence of a son
who dares betray his father. Product not yet rated. Welcome to the Lost
Pages Norse Myth. I'm Jason Weiser, your narrator and
host of the Myths and Legends podcast. Each month, join me here as we reveal
a missing page from the Prose Edda, an ancient manuscript
containing all of Norse Myth. It's said that these these "lost pages" tell the
story of a mysterious god from a distant land and his young son, as they embark on a
perilous journey across the Norse realms. I present to you now
the fifth lost page, The Forging of Leviathan. A lone figure stood before
them, tiny in their sight yet fear coursed
through their hearts. He moved too quickly
for them to catch, and his sting they
knew was mighty. The eldest of the three giants
bellowed to the others, "We must flee now
or meet our end." "No. We will stand and fight brother."
yelled back his fellow Jötunn, "This time he must be stopped.” Before they could act, the cloaked
figure flew at them enraged and disappeared behind the massive
legs of the tallest giant. A thunderous crack erupted as the
massive Jötunn tumbled to one knee, his other shattered into a
hundred pieces of broken bone. The giant wailed in pain, his roar echoing through the
valley and shaking the trees. The figure taunted them, "You have no chance against
Thor, foul creatures. For none can withstand a blow from
the thunder god's mighty Mjölnir.” He threw back his hood to reveal
braided hair and a thick beard. In his hand, a stout
hammer engraved with runes on its short handle
flashed in the sunlight. He leaped forward toward the downed giant,
whose head was now low enough to strike. Reaching back, Thor struck the
giants squarely across the jaw, sending a hail of enormous great
teeth thudding to the ground. Thor took aim at the
giant once more, but this time through
his silver hammer. It whistled cutting
cleanly through the air flying straight and true
toward the giant's head, it struck bluntly at the
bridge of his nose. The Jötunn face caved inward,
sending sharp bone fragments back into its soft brain,
killing him instantly. The giant fell forward in silence
and Mjölnir changed course soaring back through the air
to the hand of its master. The earth shook underfoot with powerful
tremors as the remaining Jötunn fled. Each heavy footstep causing shall quakes
as their feet slammed into the ground. The Æsir god, Thor, turned with a
grim smile and a spark in his eye. Now drunk with power,
he gave chase. Untold miles away, deep in an underground
cavern in the realm of Svartalfheim, two dwarves sat silently at opposite
corners of a workshop in disarray. All manner of hammers,
tongs, chisels, and weapons hung from the walls, among wooden barrels and iron chests filled
with curved trinkets and rare jewels. Empty flagons of ale
littered the ground. In the center of the chamber, a great iron
anvil and forge stood dark and cold, its fires long extinguished. The thinner of the
two dwarves stood up, and spoke, his voice
frail in the dark, "What have we wrought? What calamity have we
unleashed on this world?” The other dwarf, squared jaw and
stouter in frame remained silent, but then smashed his heavy boot on the stone
floor crushing an unusually large spider, "Are you still on
about that Sindri? It's been almost 30 years, and yet you still fret over
news of every slain giant.” He turned to leave and
then looked back, "Dry those goggle eyes of yours and
straighten your spine, sober mouth. What's done is done. It's not just the Jötunn kind, Brok, you know this.” Sindri pleaded, "Thor's bloody
campaign knows no bounds and no end, and it's our doing.” Brok spat in disgust, "The Æsir
are the ones who started this, and it was you who kowtowed to the
Allfadder, the one eyed king. We're like ants to him and yet
you had to please him wag tail. You had to outdo yourself. This weapon, this lightening hammer
for the thunder god was your idea, born of your pride but
of our making together.” Sindri shot back, "It
is our responsibility, this power we've delivered. We must make amends. It is our duty to restore
balance across these lands.” Sindri paused staring
into the darkness, "Are you with me, brother?” For weeks, the brothers Huldra
studied ancient dwarven tomes and incantations, to set
their plan in motion. Sparks flew in the darkness as time worn
grinding wheel sharpened ancient tools. Ash gray coals in the great forge
were lit a new and began to glow red, then orange, then yellow-white. As Brok's dense muscles
worked his wooden bellows, he withdrew a long set of
tongs from the oven's fire, swinging a great ball of molten
metal onto an immense iron anvil. As he folded the red hot
metal over onto itself, Sindri brought down the heavy
hammer in rhythmic time, slowly shaping the metal into the
unmistakable head of a great blade. As they worked, the brothers
sang a low and sombre melody, known only to the
eldest dwarven smiths. The rhythm of hammer and song
helped time pass without heat. But after two straight
weeks of unbroken labor, Sindri began to wonder what the limits
of his brother's endurance might be. It was on this day, the fifteenth straight since they began their
smithing, that a bloated jet-black spider crept silently from beneath the bench
where Brok had earlier crushed its kin. Its long legs skittered across
the stone floor, while the fire from the great oven reflected dimly
in its hundred sinister eyes. As he brothers finally neared
the end of their metalwork, Brok felt a tickle on his leg
beneath his thick leather trousers. He knew he must not be
swayed by distraction, though he cannot help but
recall decades before as the brothers worked to forge
the great hammer Mjölnir, three times did a
menacing gadfly bite Brok in an attempt to derail
him from their purpose. The third bite was to his eye, and blinded by his own blood, Brok momentarily missed the rhythmic
flip of his tongs as Sindri hammered. It was enough to deform
their careful design Thereafter, the handle of
Mjölnir was foreshortened, a defect never forgiven but
over time forgotten by the arrogant Æsir gods who
received this epic gift. "Not this time.” Brok mattered, and again
pushed closed his bellows in time with the singing
of Sindri's hammer. Sindri kept his
concentration but looked quizzically at his brother's
sudden exclamation, he saw Brok's eyes widen and then
glaze over with a white film. Brok had felt a sharp pain in
his thigh a moment before, now an icy chill numbed his leg, then his torso, and
then his heart. Its bitter gift delivered, the
spider dropped quickly to the floor scurrying through an unseen
crack in the stone wall. Brok managed one more heave
of his wooden bellows before realizing his arms would no
longer obey his command. His vision doubled,
then blurred, and with weakened knees,
he saw the shape of his gangly brother rush forward
to catch him as he fell, but it was too late. Sindri caught the full weight of his brother,
but his blood had already gone cold. Brok, the master
smith, was no more. Sindri plotted forward
in the dense forest, his steps melting into the
soft green earth under foot, "You could have gone a little easier
on the meat pies, my fat friend.” He tightened his grip on a thick rope,
attached to this small wagon behind him. In it, tucked securely under
wool and blanket patterned with runes laid the stiff
corpse of his brother, Brok. His skin now a
sickly ash and blue. Approaching the shores
of a calm dark lake, he felt the sharp and watchful
eyes, the elves of Álfheim, tracking his every step. He was a friend to them, so his only real burden, aside from the shire weight of
his brother's lifeless body, was the not insignificant task for reclaiming
Brok's wandering spirit from this place, the mystic lake of souls before it
could depart this corporeal realm. Slowly descending from the
skies above the trees, hundreds, perhaps thousands
of many colored orbs of light floated down toward
the surface of the lake. These lights, these wisps, were guiding the souls of this world's
fallen to their final resting place. As some touched the
surface of the water, their light dissipated,
creating gentle ripples in the water as they
submerged and disappeared, more souls making their
way to the other side. Sindri approached the shore of
the lake, his brother in toe, unbinding the blanket, Brok's body
was exposed to the cool night air. Sindri stood with unease, wholly
unprepared for what was to follow. All he knew was that the
dwarven right of death, a lost ritual that allows dwarven
kind to pass on from their physical form must be interrupted,
lest he lose his brother forever. Lifting Brok's stiffened arm, he carefully removed his
brother's leather glove, a sacred implement of
every dwarven smith. As he pulled the glove over
his own callused hand, he looked into the swollen face
of his brother one last time, and began to wade deep into
the waters of the lake. "dwarves belong underground, not
under water." Sindri murmured. Then taking a deep breath, he dove head first into the inky
black water and disappeared. He swam further and deeper into
the lake where the light of the submerged wisps began to
dim in their final descent. Sindri felt drawn toward the
light of a pale blue wisp in a distance, which pulsed
slowly as he swam toward it. Mesmerized by the blue
light before him, Sindri did not notice
as a decayed grey hand reached up from below him
and locked onto his ankle, and he could not open
his mouth to scream. Twisting around Sindri saw a dimly
lit nightmare scene beneath him. The pale hand belonged
to a long dead corpse, still armored and buried waist deep in the
soot like sands at the lake's bottom. Most of its skin had long
since decomposed or more likely been eaten away by the
starving fish and crabs. Long grey strands of
hair swayed hypnotically in the water revealing a
sunken skeletal face, and decayed mull half full
of rotted teeth snapping at the chance of fresh prey
which it had no eyes to see, and there were more. Hundreds of partly buried bodies
ride in a sickening dance. Flailing their moldering
arms in futile fits, driven into frenzy by the rare presence
of a living soul and unspoiled flesh. As the sunken horror pulled him
closer, Sindri unsheathed his dagger and in one swift motion slashed
at the hand around his ankle, separating it cleanly
from its bony arm. He kick hard at the face
of his ghastly foe knocking its jowl away
into the murky depths. And propelling Sindri toward now
the bright blue wisp which he grasped with his gloved hand in a
final desperate act of survival. As he made contact, there was a brilliant explosion
of blue light and this sphere of energy blasted
back the encroaching dead, creating a slim path to
escape to the surface. Gasping for breath,
Sindri emerged, crawling to shore and spat up a
thick black liquid from his lungs. He stood wearily, his body trembling
in the chill night air. Then an icy, tingling itch
crept over his body, as if a thousand insects
had infested his skin. Shivering violently, he felt as if the dead were still
clutching and pinching at his body, he brushed away these
phantom hands and starched furiously at his skin
and hair but in vain, he felt no relief. Exhausted he dropped
to his knees, scratching deeply into his soaked
flesh until blackness consumed him. He woke dazed, and mustered the energy to
crawl toward his wagon, pulling himself up to see
Brok's still blue body. He removed his brother's glove and placed
his trembling hands on Brok's chest. There, faintly, he believed he could feel
a single slow beat of his brother's heart and
he managed a weak smile. He knew he could never
tell Brok of this journey, or share the terror he faced
in the lake of souls, that will be his burden to bare. Brok woke some days
later in his own bed, unaware that he had almost
passed from this world, he sat upright and stretched, looking once more into the
familiar face of his brother. It was then that he began to notice a
persistent twitch on Sindri's face. Two weeks passed and the
brothers stood side by side, in the warm torch light
of their workshop. Before them lay their
finished creation, their crowning triumph, a long and sturdy axe of
incomparable craftsmanship. The curved, dark wood
handle granted perfect balance against the arced
blade of the weapon. Sharpened to the finish of a
razor that would never dull such as the skill of the dwarves. A series of intricately curved
staves adorned the head of the axe. Sindri's final touch, to imbue its design with a potent
magical power, unmatched in any realm. Brok grunted, "What
then do we call it?” Sindri found himself
lost in thought, "This instrument was born as
a mighty foil to the hammer, it will be legend in the
hands of an honorable soul. So what is greatest,
without equal? But these are nine known realms, the towering peaks
of Jötunheim, the blackest depths of Hell, the brightest leaves from the deepest
roots of the world tree, Yggdrasil. Or flights of ravens soaring over
Midgard's snow banked hills. Perhaps the great serpent
of Midgard." me thinks. Offered Brok, "He who dwells beneath the
sea and set its body wraps the world. No greater thing
can therefore be.” Sindri nodded, "Then let this blade find trial
in a hero's hallowed hand, let its aim fly straight and
true across these raged lands. Let its purpose find a place
high up and further in, bring us peace and
hope once more. Rise now, Leviathan.” Rated M for mature. Welcome to the Lost
Pages Norse Myth. I'm Jason Weiser, your narrator and
host of the Myths and Legends podcast. Each month, join us here as we reveal
a missing page from the Prose Edda, the great book that
contains all of Norse Myth. It's whispered that these these lost pages
tell the story of a god from a distant land and his young son, as they embark on a
perilous journey across the Norse realms. I present to you now
the sixth lost page, A Call from the Wilds. Even before he opened his eyes, Atreus knew he wasn't going
to like what he saw. For one thing, he
was moving fast, carried by something that was rocking
his body clumsily back and forth. The sensation was not unlike what
he imagined sailing must be like, being thrown this was and that
at the whim of the waves, but Atreus had never
been sailing. In fact, he had never wondered further than
the woods immediately surrounding his home. There he knew every
tree, every path, every inch of the forest. But as he strained
to open his eyes, he saw the tree tops
above him rushing past, he recognized not a one. His eyes open now, Atreus confirmed that he was not being
carried by the waves but by his father, Kratos, who was rushing through the
unfamiliar wilds at impossible speeds. As Kratos' face came into focus, so did something else, pain,
sharp, hot, and damp. The boy touched it and felt the warm blood
running from the fresh gouge on his arm. Blood, pain, panic, none
of this was familiar. Atreus' strain caught
his father's attention, and the god looked
down at his son, "Boy.” Kratos barked, "Look
what you have done.” Kratos' tone was gruff, short,
and full of disappointment, at least that thwart Atreus before he slipped
back into unconsciousness seems familiar. That morning had started
like any other, Atreus woke to find his
father already gone, off on one of his
daily hunting trips, "But why cleaning
an elk for dinner?” Something Atreus' mother and he sometimes
practiced over a matter of hours, took his father from dawn
till dusk almost every day, Atreus never understood. Atreus spent the morning sharpening
his arrows and his skills. His mother reserved a good part of each
morning teaching the boy elder futhark, the runic alphabet
of her people. And Atreus was a quick study, he could read and
write on his own now. But Atreus had yet to experience the
true power of the runes first hand, his mother had only recounted
tales of the battling gods shouting runes aloud to trigger
all manner of magical attacks. The boy often fantasized about
how exciting it would be to have this edge
in a real battle, something his relatively quiet life hadn't
remotely given him the opportunity to test. As the sun rose high
in the midday sky, Atreus sat in the
branches of a nearby tree listening to the sounds of the forest
and allowing his mind to wonder. Since he was small, Atreus
had displayed an ability, nothing as formidable as his
father's volted strength, but Atreus' gift was
extraordinary just the same. Sometimes the thoughts of
others intruded upon his own, he couldn't control it. But often when animal or other
baser beings were in distress, Atreus could hear
them inside his head, like eavesdropping on a plain most in
Midgard didn't even realize was there. An afternoon such as this
Atreus liked to close his eyes, see how far he could listen
and imagine what adventure might lie in the Norse wilds
passed his familiar woods. He listened to the song of the
wind blowing through the reeds, and of the trees, heavy and cracking into
the building frost. But as he crammed his head to
attempt to hear even further, something else began to creep
at the edges of his mind, a voice, crying out in pain. Atreus set up in a shot, the voice was as clear
as it was desperate, not a whisper in his ears
but a shout in his mind. The cries were not in the
language of his mother's people, they were simpler, more
basic and animal than that. And although Atreus didn't
understand the words themselves, he did understand
their clear intent, an animal was in pain, and
reaching out to him for help. Atreus knew it was dangerous to
wander too far out into the woods, his mother had told him
so his entire life, but faced with the choice between
ignoring another in pain or risking his own safety and the
consequence for disobeying his mother, the boy chose the path he knew
in his heart to be one of honor. Atreus wasn't a coddle
child by any means, he was after all, raised in the
unforgiving wilds of Midgard. And a boy his age was
expected to at least be able to handle himself during
an afternoon excursion. So when Atreus grabbed
his bow and his quiver and told his mother he was
off to practice his aim, she was already immersed in
her own warrior's training, and thought little of it. His feet crunched
the frosted ground, as he trotted off in the
direction of the pained voice. Running now, he glided and vaulted
easily over familiar tree stumps, twisted roots, and jagged rocks, whose position he knew how
to navigate as easily as finding his way in his own
cabin in the dead of night. The pained cries of
whatever poor creature was reaching out to him
had grown louder now. Atreus tightened the straps on his
quiver and quickened his pace, flying past the wood and trees
he knew in towards adventure. Atreus hadn't noticed,
but as he ran, he had passed one certain tree
adorned with a yellow hand print, the size of a woman's hand. The three middle most fingers of
the print were clustered together with the outside fingers splayed out
like wings to resemble a soaring bird. With the call in his
mind to guide him, Atreus made his way through
unfamiliar terrain, attempting to study the patterns
of roots erupting from the ground, to use as makeshift
path back home. He imagined himself as one of the
fabled gods from his mother's stories, travelling to distant realms on the
roots of the great tree, Yggdrasil. He was braved here, mapping the unknown
for the good of all the realms. He was mighty Ullr on a
hunt for honour and glory. He was lost, completely
and hopelessly lost. So caught up in his
imaginings had Atreus been that he had forgotten to keep
track of his guiding roots. The woods seem now to be a repeating
maze of indistinguishable trees, rocks, and terrain. "Had he taken a left at that
last jagged boulder or?” Atreus' growing was sharply interrupted
by screams of agonizing pain, and something else, something darker
growled at the edges of his mind. The wounded animal was
near and in real peril. Forgetting his own dilemma, Atreus blindly shot forward
toward the cries of the beast, and there in a
clearing he saw it, a doe, the largest Atreus
had ever encountered. It lay on the ground
wounded, the matted blood stained fur on its chest heaving
up and down with struggled breaths. Atreus approached the great
animal and inspected its wound, an arrow still jutted out
of the beast's neck. Some careless hunter had felled the
animal but neglected to finish his work, leaving the doe to
struggle alone. Atreus knelt before the animal and
looked her straight in the eye. The doe's pained grunts
which had been constant, eased now. Its eyes contracted
in recognition, the one she had been
calling had come, "You're safe now, I'm here.” Atreus comforted,
"You can let go.” The animal's breath became
quicker and shallower, the doe took a final breath
in and then moved no more. Atreus laid his hands on the
doe's heart and softly recited the Norse rights of death
his mother had taught him, Atreus sighed. As he stood next
to the fallen doe, he noticed that the animal's fur
was not the only bloody surface. The ground around the animal
was also stained red, too much so for
a simple arrow wound. In fact, the blood
wasn't a pool at all, but a trail leading
off into the brush. The trail led Atreus around a
bend and then he understood, the blood did not belong to
the doe but to the hunter, who now lay in pieces
at Atreus' feet. Atreus' stomach rolled as he took
in the scene in front of him, the doe was one thing but this death wasn't
the clean purposed result of a hunt, this death was
brutal, grotesque. He had always thrilled to his mother's
descriptions of the fury of mythical monsters, but the horror that lay before him was
almost too much to look at all at once. The glances the boy allowed
himself, the strung body parts, the unnatural savage cuts
through muscle and bone, the film that was already
forming on the pools of blood, all of it burned
into Atreus' mind, he never wanted to see
anything like this ever again. Atreus' only comfort was the
thought that thankfully he wasn't here to witness
this terrible scene unfold. Atreus held his breath in an attempt
to allow the nausea to pass, and that's when he
heard something else. Something that had been hidden by the
dark forest mere steps from the boy, still breathing. Atreus desperately tried not to
look but his eyes betrayed him. As they rose to the
trees beyond the body, Atreus saw them there
lurking in the darkness, close enough to reach
out and touch. Atreus recognized the
creatures from the stories, they were one of his favorites, and also the ones that
kept him up the most. There in the woods, standing and breathing just as
heavily as the terrified boy, stood two rotting
corpses, heaving, vile undead creatures
of pure rage, Draugrs. Atreus' eyes widened as
they met the empty sockets where the larger Draugr's
eyes were supposed to be, the creatures
roared and charged. Atreus grasped blindly
at his quiver, pulling an arrow but losing
his footing in the process, crushing to the ground, his bow and remaining arrows
scattered across the frosted earth. The Draugrs rushed closer, the
larger one reached its prey first, who plucked Atreus from the
ground with both hands. The creature looked at Atreus, let the boy's face met its
own, Atreus recoiled, the stench was unbearable, and that was before the Draugr
bellowed spraying particles of rotten teeth and
decaying gums over the boy. As the monster's half
tongue flayed blindly and horribly like the death
throes of a headless snake. Atreus screamed in terror, shutting his eyes and turning
away as best he could, his right arm pushed back
against the Draugr's face, his left hand still clutched
the arrow he had pulled, and in desperation, he stabbed at
with it again and again and again. By pure chance, the final
stab managed to pierce the translucent skin over the exposed
part of the Draugr's skull, the arrow head found the
creature's soft brains. Atreus was still
screaming and stabbing, even after the Draugr had dropped him to
the ground, where it now lay in a heap. The boy needed a moment
to catch his breath, a luxury the second Draugr was not about
to offer as it lumbered nearer and nearer. Eyes wide in horror, Atreus dared not avert his gaze
from the nightmare before him, but managed by feel to reach down and
grasp his bow and another arrow. Quickly stringing it, he fired, and the arrow embedded itself
directly into the Draugr's shoulder, separating it from the rotted
muscle of the creature's arm. If the Draugr noticed
the damage done, now hanging grotesly from the
tendons of his shoulder, it didn't show it. The arrow did nothing to stop the
monster lurching closer to Atreus, and raising his blade. Panicked and gasping for breath, Atreus found and
strung a third arrow. This time he pulled the bow
string taut until his arm burned, he released. The arrow flew through the air
and exploded against the Draugr's sword, shuttering the
blade into pieces. "Yes.” Atreus exclaimed, but his celebration was short lived as his
direct hit had unintended consequences. Quicker than the
boy could react, a shard from the Draugr's sword flew
through the air and sliced his arm, and causing the boy to
lose his bow once again. Atreus yelled out
in torturous pain, but as the Draugr lurched even
closer in for the final kill, Atreus felt not
frightened but angry. Blinding pain to the white
hot rage as his ears pounded and his vision
glazed to pure red. As the creature
bellowed with fury, so did Atreus. Two warriors, with nothing left
but anger and pain. The last thing Atreus saw
before the world went black, was a ghostly white hand reaching out
and grabbed the Draugr by its throat, cutting its tortured
screams short. A small quiet question escaped Atreus'
lips before he fell unconscious, "Father?” Father and son were
rushing towards home, Kratos saw his son was now
awake and he slowed his pace. Lowering his son to the ground and allowing
Atreus to stand and find his legs again. "Your legs carried you here, they can carry you back.” "I don't know the way.” Atreus blubbered,
holding back his tears, Kratos only grunted, "Find it
then, it is getting dark.” Atreus nodded and
trotted forward. As he led his father home, following the twisted
tree roots, he grimaced with the still fresh
pain on his forearm. His father noticed,
"The cut is deep, it will heal, but you
will carry it with you.” Atreus smirked, "My first battle scar.” "It is no trophy.” Kratos barked, "It
is a reminder, you were lucky a scar is all
your carelessness brought you, this world is dangerous.” "Not for you.” Atreus protested, "Show me. One day you might need me.” Kratos considered
this for a moment, "I need you today.” Started the god, as he ushered
Atreus to quicken his pace, "Talk less and walk more.” Rated M for mature. Welcome to the Lost
pages of Norse Myth. I'm Jason Weiser, your narrator and
host of the Myths and Legends podcast. Each month, join me here as we reveal
a missing page of the Prose Edda, the ancient manuscript that
contains all of Norse Myth. It's said that these "lost pages" tell the
story of mysterious god from a distant land and his young son, as they embark on a
perilous journey across the Norse realms. I present to you now
the seventh lost page, The Sundering of Jötunheim. Inside the enormous hall, a
great iron bell rang out. Its deafening gong echoing across the
immense stone walls of the chamber. "Treachery.” An impossibly deep voice bellowed
shaking the very ground. "We have been deceived.” Odin and Tyr stepped backwards
from the six colossal thrones before them as the air in the
room grew heavy and warm. They shielded their ears from
the bell's deafening rings and stepped backward
and retreat. The giants erupted from
their thrones in unison, intent on capturing or crushing
their unwanted guests. Enormous hands descended
toward the pair of gods, as Odin and Tyr turned to flee, clearly outmatched by
this host of giant foes. A hand with fingers the
size of tree trunks, reached to grasp the gods, but there was a sudden flash of light
as Odin transformed into a silvery hawk and flew deftly between the
fingers of the enraged Jötunn. Tyr cursed the
Allfather's power, for he had no such command
of transformation, and was quickly overcome
by the council of giants. He watched as the hawk grew
smaller then disappeared with a defiant screech through
the window high above. Below, Tyr struggled helplessly
against the iron grip of the giant. He braced himself for the single squeeze
that would snuff out his long life. Breathing deep, perhaps
for the last time, he closed his eyes and
thought of better days. Years earlier, Tyr, the
god of law and justice stood on a high ridge of land to face
a gathering throng of thousands. Before him in an
ordered congregation, stood and army of squat
and sterly dwarves, a host of Erudite elves, and a thousand stern
and hardy men. Crowd among them were many strange beasts
of burden pulling wagon loads of supplies, tools, and naturally a healthy
stock of drinking horns. Behind the assembly rose
three colossal giants, standing tall in silence. In a single motion, the giants
carrying enormous tree trunks, slam their walking sticks into the
earth causing the others to jump, and in the case of the dwarves, to launch into the air, "Tyr the
uniter, he who summons us, all hail.” They shouted in unison. Tyr turned his wizened eyes to
each group and smiled, returning a deep bow, he had gathered them for a
singular and noble purpose. They had all journeyed
far with the promise of easing travel between
the realms forever, too long had the realms been separated
by distance and isolated by solitude. Tyr sought a lasting peace, and he knew that uniting the realms
was the only path to achieve it. And to make it so they must unite
to create something magnificent. Each volunteer lent
their time, skill, and craftsmanship toward the
creation of Tyr's great temple. The giants plucked tree from the
valley as if they were pins and redirected the flow of rivers by
dragging their fingers across the earth. The dwarves and men hewed stone from
the mountain side by the wagon load, while crystals brought by
the elves imbued the earth, stone, wood, and water
with their mystical power. The labor lasted
many long years, but at last the temple
of Tyr was complete, a hub of massive stone work in the
center of Midgard's great caldera, his gift to the nine realms as
an everlasting symbol of unity. As its power to transport
spark to life, all manner of men,
elves, dwarves, and gods passed through the
mystic portals of the temple bringing news of distant lands, trading goods and services, and always hardy appetites. The mingling of the world's kin filled
Tyr with an immense sense of pride. As Tyr stood again in high ridge
overlooking his final creation, the ground shook
beneath his feet, he was overtaken by
an immense shadow, and turned to face
the trio of giants, "My brother," one spoke, "Our work here is
done at long last, but I have yet one favor to ask
you in return for our toil.” "I will do anything in my power in
repayment for your aid, old friend.” Tyr said, "Now that the journey to our lands
may happen in but the blink of an eye, I implore you set send
forth your mighty lord, Odin, so that we may broker
a peace between our people. His son's long campaign of
destruction and murder of the jötnar is a bitter poison we
chock down day by day, his terror must end.” "I will speak with the
Allfather, good giant. I too wish to see an end to
his remorseless rampage, we will see you in your
mountain tops before long.” With that the giants
departed for their homeland. Indeed persuading Odin
to agree to broker an accord with the giants
came easier than expected, "I've been eager to try out your
colorful new bridge after all.” Odin smiled, "By your
leave of course.” Tyr knew Odin's beguiling humility
to be a thin veneer of grace, it was always wise to look past the term
of Odin's words to find a truer meaning. They travelled hence through Tyr's portals
to Jötunheim together a land that, to this point, have
been closed to Odin, its secrets far out of reach. In time, the two approached
the enormous hall of giants, and without word, two stone
doors as tall as the walls of Asgard opened slowly
with a thunderous lurch, revealing a hall larger than any chamber
seen since by the eyes of men or gods, they entered with caution. Throughout the hall were
great tapestries of art, murals to an ancient history, and tributes to fallen heroes, wooded triptychs adorn
the walls and floors, each depicting a mythic story painted into
the wood and curved with intricate runes. "We welcome you this day
under a banner of truce, Allfather.” Spoke a booming voice high above
the heads of the two gods, "But know this, we would
just as soon squash you under foot as hear what
you have come to say. For 30 years, your demon
son Thor has waged a bloody campaign of
genocide against our kin, mountains have been
made of their corpses, and our rivers choke
with their blood, and yet still, his father appears
in our land to discuss an accord.” Odin approached the council, "I too have come seeking
a truce this day, for my heart lays heavy
by the deeds of my son, he acted beyond my wishes and his
hammer flies without my consent, I have come to offer a peace.” "In exchange for what?” Questioned the central giant, "Some treasure? A few Vanir skulls
crushed into powder? Or perhaps our finest giantess
as to carry home to Asgard? We dare say she would scarcely fit into the bed
chambers of even the Æsir's mightiest lord.” The surrounding giants
snickered at the thought. Odin ignored them and continued, "What I seek in exchange
carries no earthly cost, indeed it's free to give. I come to your land in
search of knowledge itself, and at my side stands Tyr, Lord of Justice and Honor, as a
trusted agent of my good will.” Tyr stiffened, bracing himself
at this unexpected assignment. "He would no sooner vouch for
Odin's honor as he would challenge his eight legged
horse to a foot race.” Odin continued, "I seek not the knowledge
held today or wisdom from our past, instead I desire foresight. I wish to know the
winters to come, then perhaps a glimpse into
our future, in exchange, I vow before this council that I
will deliver unto you Mjölnir, the very hammer of Thor himself. Only then will you realize
peace in these lands.” At this, the giants gasped and
clamoured among themselves. Odin awaiting this very moment, used this distraction to
steal a closer inspection of the tapestries and
triptychs in the chamber, for this was the true
purpose of his journey. The accord was but ruse, Odin would never strip Thor of his
priced Jötunn slaying hammer. He desperately desired
the foresight, to see and alter his own doom, and he only needed to get
close enough to glimpse it, he was prepared to offer
nothing in return. Odin effortlessly sip the details of the
tapestries and triptychs to memory, the final triptych was
the most remarkable, as he had not yet heard
this tale foretold. He glimpsed the visage of an
untamed warrior accompanied by his son travelling
towards a mountain top. Odin was only able to spy this
forbidden knowledge for a moment, he had been spotted by
one of the council, his ruse had been discovered, and the alarm had
already been sounded. Tyr's eyes snapped open, the recollection of
his beloved temple, and the tale of their journey here
would seemed like a distant dream. And he looked up now to the face of the
giant whose grasp he would not escape, "Tyr hear us now, we know your heart
by deed and bond of fellowship, so we spare your life
now on one condition. That you will travel back
across your rainbow bridge, and return to your temple. There you will forever seal this passageway
to Jötunheim from all the realms. You will sunder the
connection to these lands, most of all from Odin, who forever after
is our sworn enemy. Our race will be recalled
from Midgard to live here, sequestered in sacred peace and solitude
until the breaking of the earth.” The giant glanced toward the
triptychs Odin had spied, "Odin came here to
seek not knowledge, but a means to end our kind in a
foolish bid to outlive his fate. His story is foretold, it will
come to pass, as will yours.” The giant placed Tyr
roughly back on feet, "I stand ashamed of these
acts my brothers," Tyr spoke, "I once stood shoulder to shoulder with
Jötunn in the building of our great shared temple with the solemn intent to
build a bridge rather than more walls. Yet your request I must respect
and we'll see to it in haste. My parting wish is to not see
your folk pass into legend. But if they do, it
will be with honor.” and with that Tyr departed toward
the portal on the mountain side. A faint hope lingering
in his heart that this would not be the
last he'd see of Jötunn kind. And high overhead in
the mountain peaks, the silver hawk descended
through the treetops and touched upon the ground
returning to his Æsir form. Before stepping back through
the safety of the portal, Odin glanced back
over his shoulder. A wicked smile
forming on his lips. Rated M for Mature. Welcome to the Lost
Pages of Norse Myth. I'm Jason Weiser, your narrator and
host to the Myths and Legends podcast. Each month, join us here as we reveal
a missing page from the Prose Edda, the great book that
contains all of Norse Myth. It's whispered that these "lost pages" tell
the story of a god from a distant land and his young son, as they embark on a
perilous journey across the Norse realms. I present to you now
the eighth lost page, The First Great War. His vision blurred in
between the blackouts. When he was conscious, his
senses were overwhelming, too much was happening
all at once, and it all blended
together in fits of pain. All his tortured mind a
lot under process was the loud pop and crackle of the
fire as it consumed him. A terrible cacophony overpowered
only by the cackling of the Æsir gods, who laughed
as his body burned. His name was Freyr, a revered
leader of the Vanir. He had travelled to this foreign
land as an act of diplomacy. Trying to form a truce, he taught
the Æsir the ways of the harvest. He gave these gods abilities
beyond their wildest dreams. With spellcraft fit
to feed all of Asgard but such powerful magic
always had a downside. And when things went wrong, the denizens of Asgard weren't
about to blame themselves. His head nodded backup and
through the smoke he saw Sif, Bragi, Hodr among the other
Æsir gods in the crowd. "You brought this
upon yourself.” One of them chided him. "You'll burn among
your poisoned crops.” He didn't see who
was taunting him. It didn't matter. Only days ago, they were willing
pupils for his lessons. Now, they can hardly
even stay seated, drunk on mead and cheering ever
louder as he became engulfed in the flames started by the
very crops he had enchanted. Though the pain was great, he knew he would survive. Freyr sighed and finally,
mercifully, blacked out. Hours later, he awoke to find
himself alone in Odin's Hall. The cruel gods of Asgard were likely off
somewhere celebrating his supposed demise. So he crawled from the
still burning coals, dusted the ash of
the harvest away, and snuck out of Asgard
to make his way home. Across the realms in Vanaheim, the Vanir gods were incredulous
with anger as they gathered in a seaside longhouse in Nóatún
to discuss what to do next. Odin's cruel gang had tortured
and burned their beloved Freyr. Tensions have been simmering between the
Vanir and the Æsirs since time itself began, but only now were the two sides
finally tipping in a real conflict. And so a war of the gods
began, the Æsir, Odin, Thor, Hoenir, Hodr, Ve, Vili and
all the rest were merciless in their attacks but
traditional too. They fought with weapons and brute force as
physical combat was the only way they knew. The Vanir used more
subtle means of magic. Live by Freyr sister, Freya, their spells undermine the
gods of Asgard at every turn. She used Seiðr magic to confuse their
warriors into attacking one another. While Freyr reversed his
earlier enchantments to truly blight the lands of Asgard and
their father Njörðr channeled his anger into vicious winds
that whipped across the sea causing the Æsir's travel to
last nearly twice as long. Skirmishes between these two tribes of
Gods continued unabated for centuries. Eventually, Odin, the proudest
and most cruel of all the Æsir, sought to put an end to it. He was sure it could be settled quickly
once his forces were in place. So he gathered a massive army, marched them toward Vanaheim, determined to wipe out the
Vanir once and for all. Fear and deference cloaked the
landscape as they stomped across it. For the king of gods had never lost
a battle and he surely never would. The massive throng of troops backed up
well past the horizon as they descended the multitudes upon the lush gardens
and bountiful fields of Vanaheim. Yet, as these soldiers
landed, they were curiously falling back two steps for
every advance they made. "We must end their magic.” snarled Thor to his
brothers in battle. "May already be too late.” replied Heimdall. With his especially impressive
vision focused on the front lines. The Æsir hadn't ever encountered so many
Vanir gods casting Seiðr spells at once. They were unexpectedly
formidable in combat taking lives of Odin's soldiers
at an alarming rate. The Æsir retreated
trying to minimize their losses after several days
of hard fought battle. With heavy damage
done on both sides, the warring gods found themselves
once again stuck in a stalemate. With Vanaheim and
Asgard both ravaged, the two stubborn factions saw
no way to singular victory. The only thing to consider
now left a bitter taste in all of their
mouths, compromise. Mimir was considered a great
negotiator by all, so he alone was selected as arbiter and he
brokered a rather brilliant deal. Freya, a leader of the Vanir,
will be betrothed to Odin, king of the Æsir then surely
the two would work together for the good of all the realms. Struck by Freya's beauty
Odin readily agreed. But Freya, the strong willed
high goddess of the Vanir spat at the thought of
the proposed accord, "Marry this brute?” She wouldn't even
entertain the idea. Back in her hall, she sat alone fuming at
the thought of marrying such an awful soul. Odin had tried to
destroy her home, her family,
everything she loved. Not to mention attempting to
murder her beloved brother. She couldn't even bear to look
at the repugnant one eyed king. And now, she was to spend
eternity with him. Beyond that, Freya was a
revered leader of her people. What would they do without her? What would she do without them? Here in Vanaheim,
she was in charge. In Asgard, she will be bound to the Allfather's
increasingly cruel and bizarre whims. After days of agonizing over the wedding
that increasingly appeared to be her fate, she eventually considered her
resistance to be a bit selfish. Before her was the rare
opportunity to unite the realms. What's more, her people would be better off
with a deal in place and so she acquiesced. Still, Freya, swore she
would never forgive Mimir for using her as a pawn
in his negotiations. Even though the bride managed barely
a smile for the entire event, the marriage of Odin and Freya
meant peace at long last and that alone was cause for
celebration throughout the realms. The Allfather wasn't one to let the
opportunity for a party slip by. At his command, it was an
opulent ceremony with days of drinking and feasting
that none would soon forget. Odin took in his
beautiful new wife, bathed in golden candle light
that refracted of her extravagant Vanir jewellery, framing her
face in the warm glow. She looked back at him, and for once, with a
promise of peace resting behind his curled smile. He didn't seem too vile. At last, after centuries of war, peace rippled across the realms. At first, their marriage
was tolerable. She taught her husband Seiðr
spells which he took too easily. For a time, Freya felt nothing
short of truly blessed. Though she missed Vanaheim, she was bestowed with a new purpose
and felt that her home was here now. However, as she
became more content, her new husband
only grew less so. The high Vanir goddess went
back and forth with herself. Was she expecting
too much from Odin? His interest in her waned daily. Perhaps the god of gods was too busy
in his grand pursuit of knowledge. But he was also chasing gossip. Becoming increasingly paranoid and fixated
on the destruction of the giants. Every day, they became further
and further estranged. Still, things had
been worse before. She could suffer a loveless marriage if
it made for peace across the realms. Eventually, Freya resigned that she and the
Allfather would simply live separate lives as she quieted herself in the face
of his descent toward madness. The one eyed king was infatuated
to say the least with Ragnarök, the apocalyptic battle
said to end the world. "Too ridiculous.” Freya would taunt him
with her honesty. But even Odin's friends and
followers laughed at him and he would talk about the great
impending twilight war. Of course, all of the gods knew
that the end would come eventually. And indeed, embrace
the certainty. But the conventional wisdom was
that Ragnarök was a long ways off. Nevertheless, Odin was manic in his
insistence that the end was nigh. He claimed that if he could
destroy all of the Jötunn kind, he could stop the apocalypse. So obsessed was Odin with the
destruction of the jötnar that he'd decided the conventional means
of warfare were simply not enough. He employed the talents of the
greatest smiths in the land, brothers Brok and
Sindri, to create for him a weapon of unimaginable
destructive power. When it was finished, Odin bestowed the mighty hammer
Mjölnir to his son Thor, and sent him out to slay
every giant he could find. Thor accepted the task with glee, finding
Jötunn wherever they would roam. Interrogating them to locate the entrance
to their kingdom and murdering them. Whether they gave up
information or not. This genocide was too
much for Freya to bear. She could no longer hold
her tongue and blade, while her husband had
exterminated an entire race. She fought back. Vowing to leave her husband and return
Vanaheim even if it meant eminent war, but more abhorrent than ever, Odin wasn't about to
let her have her way. No stranger to sneaking
out of the Æsir kingdom, Freya had nearly reached Asgards
high gates, when Odin interrupted her. His voice bellowed, echoing
off the protective walls. "Freya, this betrayal aches. We could have saved
the realms together. I'll curse you so your spirit breaks
and banish you betwixt forever.” "Please, don't.” Freya attempted to the plea to
her husbands more tender nature, but it, like his
sanity was lost. Odin swiftly cut her off. To never make harm by her hand
or visit this most holy plain. "Forget your home. That lush green land. Finished is your reign.” The All Father, eyes
flaming loomed above her. She stammered gasping for
air and making every effort to counter with an
incantation of her own, but she just couldn't
grasp the words. Long ago, when their marriage
seemed to have hope, Freya had taught him
the ways of Seiðr. Back then, Odin laughed
it off as a lark. Though he was skilled in it, his interest appeared to be
solely for patronising her. The other Æsir gods made
fun of him even for that as magic was considered a
less than manly pursuit. Only now was it apparent, Odin had mastered the
craft and kept it secret. Now, instead of casting spells. Freya was feeling their
twisted effects. Her vision was blurring fast. She stumbled as the nausea set
in, she felt warm and tired, and then it all went black. Freya awoke to find herself
cast from the realm of Asgard. Distraught at the
severe penalty. Now, she would never be able to return
to the realm of the Æsir gods or even raise a hand in defense
if harm should befall her. And then it hit her. The sadness was rapidly replaced with horror
as she realized what would happen next. With Odin more
deranged than ever, war would surely return
between the Vanir and Æsir. Mimir's great negotiation
had fallen apart and the Æsir were even more
powerful than ever. Thanks to the gift of the masterwork
hammer from Brok and Sindri. The end of her doomed marriage might
indeed mean the end of her people. With her decades of
sacrifice all for naught, one thing was certain, Freya had failed to stop the
madness of Odin and the Æsir. Her only hope was that in time, some brave soul would
finish what she could not, restoring balance and
peace to the realms. Rated M for Mature. Welcome to the Lost
Pages of Norse Myth. I'm Jason Weiser, your narrator and
host to the Myths and Legends podcast. Each month, join us here as we reveal
a missing page from the Prose Edda, the great book that
contains all of Norse Myth. It is whispered that these "lost pages" tell
the story of a god from a distant land and his young son, as they embark on a
perilous journey across the Norse realms. But, before we begin I have
an exciting announcement for God of War fans
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today at lootcrate.com/godofwar. Restrictions apply. Now, back to your regularly
scheduled epic adventure. Now, I present to you
the ninth lost page, An Eye for an Eye. Dawn was breaking in Asgard as it
had done for 729 mornings past. The sun rose to reveal the realm of
the Æsir gods suffocated by a long, bitter winter. And Asgard huddled and cowering against
a fear only uttered in the most desperate mead field confessions that
this might not just be a winter, but the winter,
the Fimbulwinter. An unrelenting three-year frost, said
to hark in the arrival of Ragnarök. An end to warmth and hope,
before the end of the world. It had been almost two years since the
gods have Asgard saw a sign of spring. With every white new day,
they worry that the foretold death of all
gods was creeping near. The Æsir new the manner in
which they were going to die. It was the reason they filled
their days with the fighting, feasting and drinking. Those were the
pleasures of the gods. They meant to enjoy them
until the very end. Of course, if this winter lasted
any longer it surely meant that the gods ruckus hedonism had
finally come to its final hour. Their fates they
feared were sealed. As they had done every morning
since this great winter had begun, Odin's network of all seeing ravens
circled the skies of the nine realms. Their wings carried the Allfathers
sight across the entirety of creation. Through them, Odin searched unyieldingly
for even the smallest glimmer of hope and an end to this frozen death march for proof
that this winter was not what they feared. That it was nothing more
than an inconvenience. And that morning, he found it. Poking through the frozen cracked
soil of Midgard, a single flower. Odin's son, Thor, approached
his father's throne, "The Æsir yet live,
as do the Vanir, and the cursed giants.” "Finally.” said the Allfather, madness
shining in his eye, "I can continue my hunt.” Spring had come at last and
all Asgard were celebrating. All save their king who paced
furiously in his throne room. The three year winter had
rattled all the gods, but were most all this stretch
of false alarm. Odin saw it as a clear warning, next time the winter
would not yield. The next layer of frost and the
green pastures of Asgard could only serve as an entry way for
the end of all the Æsir new. Ragnarök was surely upon them. If he did not act now, it
will be too late to stop it. "The giants have
retreated to Jötunheim, but they hold the
key to our undoing. Of this I am certain.” proclaim the one eyed king to the
raven perched atop his shoulder. The bird cocked his head
at his master quizzically as if trying to understand if Odin
expected a clever, avian retort. Odin scoffed, "To
find our salvation, I must find the hole the coward
jötnar have crawled into.” Odin knew that this was a feat
that even he with his all seeing network of ravens could
not accomplish on his own, so he employed the help of
the warriors of the realms. Wandering souls looking for a chance to prove
their worth, began to conveniently find their hero's path in the writings Odin
himself had scattered across the realms. Of course, Odin hid his involvement and
their creation from the travellers. Leading to a test of worth, the writings would then reveal
the warriors true calling to find the legendary
lost realm of Jötunheim. They would then live out the
rest of their lives scouring the realms for information on the hidden
entrance to the land of the giants, sharing whatever they find with their
worthy kin, the Amessenger ravens, in the language known only
to other true travellers. True, it filled their hearts
to live a life with purpose. Of course, not a one knew
the truth of their purpose to fuel the obsession of
an all powerful mad man. Year after year, Odin's
search continued, but no matter how many giants
he sent Thor to torture, no matter how many lost warriors
he had at his disposal, he still could not claim the location
of the missing path to Jötunheim. His madness had grown
beyond his control, in his own yielding quest
to find Jötunheim, he was destroying
the nine realms. Mimir, the one who had brokered
the deal that had brought the peace between two warring
factions of gods years before, stepped up to attempt
to quell the violence. "The ways of death and destruction
weren't succeeding," Mimir argued, "Ragnarök will be end of us all. The jötnar will feast
their last as well. If they know something
of the end we do not, let us make peace with them, so they might share this
knowledge with us.” Odin spat, "You sound like Tyr, and you'll remember what I did
to him and his precious temple.” Mimir did remember, Tyr, the
god of law and justice, who's temple in the center of
the realms allowed all manner of creature travel to any of the
nine realms in but a moment, but when the giants
retreated, an enraged Odin, led an army of gods and
monsters to raise Tyr's temple. On that day, the very symbol
of cooperation and peace between the realms became
a declaration of war. The message from Odin to
the giants was clear, "I do not aim to fight
you, I aim to erase you.” Talk of Tyr angered
Odin even more, "Tyr was in league with
the rotten jötnar, he spouted talk of shared
knowledge too often as well, thinking I did not see
his true intentions. He wanted me to invite the
giants to sit at my table, 'Oh yes, great builders come in, feast til your full and please do share your sacred
findings out of the goodness of your heart.' More likely they would crush me with
them.” "I meant no disrespect my lord.” Mimir started to backtrack, but
Odin's rant did not seize, "And now here you are, speaking
to have peace and cooperation with an enemy that would sooner
grind our bones in their teeth, but you know that all
too well, aye Mimir? In fact, being such a
friend to the giants, you must know everything.” With that Mimir was momentarily
blinded by a flash of light, as Odin transformed into
a giant silver hawk. He grabbed Mimir with
his massive talons, dropping the god high atop the
tallest peak in the realm of men, the sight of the last known
working bridge to Jötunheim. Convinced Mimir had betrayed
him for the giants, Odin was sure that his once trusted
friend knew the secret rune, that would unlock this
final gate to their realm. "The rune, speak it.” Odin commanded, but Mimir
could not, he didn't know it. He pleaded with the
Allfather for mercy, but the crazed god
simply laughed, "You'll say it, eventually.” Odin raised his hands, at his command fat twisting roots rumbled
and burrowed their way up from the earth, and rose twisting around Mimir. The god of knowledge struggled in vain as
the earth unshackled snaked and tightened, binding him to a nearby tree. "I've never thanked you Mimir,"
Odin taunted with false kindness, "For the foresight you so
generously granted me, and at such a reasonable price.” At this, Odin's fingers reached
to his eye patch and lifted it, revealing the callused, empty socket
where his right eye used to reside, "But still, I wonder
was I charged fairly? Or did your jötnar masters simply desire
proof of my gullible foolishness?” Mimir straightened
himself on the tree, "I swear, I am not hiding
this rune from you. I cannot reveal that
which I do not know.” "We shall see.” Odin shrugged. Raising his hand to show Mimir as it
morphed into a razor sharp talon, "You maybe not as well as you'd like," Odin
Plunged his talon into Mimir's right eye, stealing it as he felt his
had been taken from him. Holding the eye in what
was once again a hand, Odin admired it and grimaced, when
he noticed it was softly glowing. Placing the eye in his pocket, the Allfather turned
toward his captive, "That's enough for today." he
said, "We'll try again tomorrow. This will take some time
I'm sure, luckily for me, I have until the
end of the world.”
