Loki

by Vasich, Mike

  The Binding of Fenrir

  Fenrir grew quickly on the golden fields of Asgard, and in time attained an enormous size. All the Aesir feared him, but would not stain Asgard’s holy ground with his blood. Instead, he was allowed to continue roaming unfettered and unmolested.

  As he grew in size the anger in his heart grew, and his grumblings worried the gods; so much so that none would agree to feed him for fear that they might be made into the wolf’s meal.

  All, that is, save Tyr. He alone of the gods did not fear the wolf, and would regularly throw him great joints of meat that would be greedily devoured. Fenrir, however, felt no gratitude towards Tyr. In fact, he felt nothing but hate and anger towards all of the Aesir.

  Odin called a council one day to discuss the threat posed by the wolf.

  “He is a danger to all,” said Balder.

  “He only bides his time before swooping in for the kill,” said Hod.

  “He must be bound before he does any harm,” said Freyja. “I will travel to the dwarfs and have them craft a fetter to bind him.”

  Freyja traveled to Nidavellir to meet with the dwarfs. Deep in their underground world the dwarfs worked on all manner of objects, continually crafting items. Despite their ugly and base appearance, they were master craftsmen and could make anything if given enough time.

  The dwarfs were not eager to do anything for the gods without payment, but once they had seen the size of Freyja’s purse, the dwarfs set to work on a fetter so strong that nothing in the Nine Worlds could sunder it.

  After nine nights, they produced the fetter and brought it forth for Freyja to examine. She opened the box they had placed it in and was surprised to see a slender ribbon, barely heavy enough to register in the hand of the goddess.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “This is the ribbon Gleipnir, and it is the strongest bond ever crafted. Even the mighty Fenris Wolf will not be able to break it.”

  Freyja was doubtful. “How can so slender a ribbon hold the wolf? He would snap it in an instant.”

  The old dwarfs’ eyes gleamed with mischief. “It is made from things that are rarely seen or felt. That is the secret to its strength.”

  Freyja was still not convinced, although she was loathe to voice the doubt she felt in front of such master craftsmen, old and ugly though they be. “What is it made of?” she asked.

  The old dwarfs smiled wickedly. “It is made of six things: the silence of a cat fleeing, the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain, the strength of a bear, the breath of a fish, and the spittle of a bird. These things may not seem to exist, but many such things are in our safekeeping.”

  Freyja was satisfied with the answer and took Gleipnir back to Asgard.

  The Aesir knew that Fenrir would not agree to be bound, so they decided to use trickery on him. Fenrir was roaming the fields of Asgard when a group of Aesir approached him. “Certainly you have grown strong feasting on lamb and cattle raised on Asgardian soil,” Balder said.

  Fenrir regarded the bunch of gods with contempt. “Yes,” he said. “I have grown large, and I can see that you are afraid of me.”

  The Aesir could see the evil smile on his snout, and were more certain than ever that Fenrir needed to be bound. Balder said, “You are indeed strong, but I am sure there are some things that are beyond even your abilities.”

  Fenrir’s smile faded, to be replaced with a sneer. “It is said that I will swallow the sun one day. How could there be any limit to my strength?”

  Balder smiled inwardly. The wolf’s vanity had ensnared him. “I am sure your strength exceeds all normal bounds, but the dwarfs in Nidavellir have crafted items that would deny even your ability.”

  Fenrir growled low and took a menacing step forward. The gods felt cold fear at his advance. “No item—dwarf or otherwise—can withstand my might.”

  Balder brought out the slender ribbon.

  Fenrir eyed Gleipnir cautiously. He was not unwise, despite what the gods may have thought, and he suspected trickery in their actions. Still, he could not back down from a display of strength for fear of looking cowardly. “What is that thing?” he asked.

  Balder took a step forward and held the slim ribbon out at arm’s length. “It is but a ribbon—called Gleipnir—crafted by the dwarfs in Nidavellir. They claim it is unbreakable, but they are obviously too boastful. How could this light ribbon compare with your strength?” He made as if he were putting Gleipnir away.

  “Hold, little god,” Fenrir said. “I will allow you to wrap the ribbon around me if,” he paused, eyeing the group of hated gods carefully, “one of you places his hand in my jaws as a sign of good faith.”

  Balder and the others had not expected this condition, and none were willing to put a hand in the wolf’s mouth for the knowledge of what would happen should Gleipnir hold. Finally, Tyr strode forward and stuck a hand out bravely. The wolf’s jaws closed lightly over the god’s hand, and he said, “Wind the ribbon round me.”

  Balder lost no time in binding the wolf with Gleipnir. When he was finished, there was barely enough slack for Fenrir to breathe. The gods watched with anxiety as the wolf arched his back and strained his muscles, but there was no effect; Gleipnir held. Aghast, Fenrir pushed his muscles to their utmost. The ground shook with the effort, and some of the gods were thrown from their feet, but in the end he was unable to even tear the mighty ribbon.

  The deception now fully clear, he closed his jaws and sank his teeth into Tyr’s arm. The god howled in pain as the wolf ripped his hand off and choked it down. From that day forward the wrist was known as the wolf-joint. The other gods laughed to see him bound.

  Balder approached him, fear dissolved now that the beast was fully bound. “I suppose there are things that rival even your strength, like the wit of the gods.”

  Fenrir would have bitten Balder's head off, but he could not even move, and it felt as though Gleipnir was constricting him further with every breath.

  The gods fastened Gleipnir to a large boulder and drove it down into the earth, into a hollow cave far below the surface where his struggle to be free would not even be felt on the surface. Fenrir snapped his jaws and attempted to do further damage, so one of the gods drew his sword and rammed it into the wolf’s snout, a gag to keep his jaws closed.

  And as Fenrir lies there, bound under the earth, his slaver continuously runs, a flowing river of spittle. He will lie there bound till Ragnarok, when his fetters will split and he will burst forth to have his vengeance on those who wronged him . . .

  Chapter Eighteen

  Unn dropped another load of logs near the fireplace. He was tired from hauling them, but was grateful that he was not in the kitchen. Restocking the supply of logs for the fireplaces throughout the hall was hard work, but at least it was not the sweaty drudgery of kitchen work where the fires never ceased. He would likely be chopping down wood in the next few days, and while that work was strenuous, he would relish being out in the open air.

  He walked through to the main hall with his cart in tow. There were still large piles of logs stacked outside the front doors, and he had much work to do before Lord Tyr returned from Lord Balder's hall.

  He had been both flattered and terrified to be asked to accompany Lord Tyr to deliver meat to the wolf. Those who went with him on such an errand were usually servants who had been there for much longer than Unn, and he wondered if it boded well for him. He was eager to impress the god so that perhaps he could rise in the ranks and become a personal servant, one who interacted with Lord Tyr on a regular basis, instead of one who simply attended to the day-to-day duties of the hall, as most servants did.

  And had there not been a gesture? Lord Tyr had laid a hand on his shoulder, had told him that he would protect him if the wolf attacked. None of the Aesir were given to reassuring servants, but all Asgardians knew that they would protect this holy realm and its inhabitants—both gods and mortals—against the forces of chaos. To be personally reassured by a lord of the Aes
ir was surely a prophetic sign.

  This thought in mind, he stepped up his pace. He did not fool himself that one job well done would bring the attention of a lord of the Aesir. It was possible, however, that if he continued to serve with distinction he could become more than a castle hand.

  The look of determination on his face faltered when he heard something slam into the front doors just ahead of him. He stopped, fear spreading through his body. The large wooden doors, strong enough to withstand pounding by giants, had buckled. Small wisps of dust from around the frame were caught by the few rays of light that streamed in from windows high overhead.

  As he stood there, uncertain of what to do, the doors shook again. More dust fell from the frame, and Unn could hear the wood planks splinter. He backed away slowly, forgetting to let go of his cart.

  Once more something slammed into the doors, and one was ripped from its upper hinge. The door twisted to the floor, and a dark shape climbed through the newly created hole. It saw him, and jaws filled with teeth opened as it prowled closer.

  Unn was frozen in place, the handles of the cart firmly gripped in his hand. His eyes grew wider and he began shaking as Fenrir drew slowly closer to him, a low growl wafting through the space between them.

  “Where is Tyr?” he growled. Fenrir brought his muzzle close enough that Unn could feel the hot and heavy breath on his face. It stank of rotten meat. Unn could not find the ability to answer. He simply stared up at the wolf in abject terror, unable even to look away.

  “Where is Tyr?” he repeated.

  Unn somehow managed to force his mouth to move, and squeaked out one word: “Gone.”

  Fenrir snarled, and Unn thought that he would now be eaten. Instead, the wolf drew back. As he looked on, he saw the flesh and fur on Fenrir's face rippling. His snout withdrew, and the face took on the slightest human quality. He sat back on his haunches, and Unn could see the arms change as well. The paws spread out and became hands with clawed fingers. He stood up, and his legs were that much more human.

  He still towered over Unn, but he was no longer simply a wolf. He was somehow more terrible as a blend of wolf and man than he had been as merely beast.

  He reached out a heavy, clawed hand and placed it on Unn's shoulder. “We will wait,” he said. “But you will do something for me.”

  Unn nodded, grateful that he would not be ripped to shreds. Fenrir brought his head closer and stared Unn in the eye. Apart from the fear, he felt something quite different. He could hear the wolf’s thoughts, and he knew what he wanted him to do. Reluctantly, Unn moved away to complete his task, compelled by the will of the creature.

  “Have you ever seen its like before?” Balder asked, holding Gleipnir up for Tyr to observe.

  Tyr reached out a hand and took it carefully. He was surprised by its weight, and he examined it closer.

  “The Allfather said little about it?”

  “Only that I would need it and that I should keep it close.”

  Tyr continued examining its length. “The dwarfs are indeed masterful craftsmen. It is slight, but brimming with power. I would not want to be bound with that slender ribbon.”

  “Nor I, but I wish that my father would be more forthcoming. Why does he not tell us what he knows?”

  Tyr handed Gleipnir back. “To him, we are like children. One does not reveal all he knows to children.”

  “It is not the same. I am not some mewling brat who pisses himself. Are we not Aesir?”

  “Even gods are not all-powerful, Balder. None but the Allfather has seen what is yet to be. Neither of us even existed when he pierced his side with Gungnir and hung on Yggdrasil. And we cannot know what it is like to see what is yet to be.”

  Balder was not satisfied with the answer. “That explanation is—”

  He was cut off by a breathless servant. “My lord! I beg your forgiveness!”

  “What is it?” Balder asked.

  “Something is amiss at Lord Tyr's hall! The doors have been broken down, and Einherjar collect outside but will not enter!”

  Tyr started from the room. Balder caught his arm.

  “I will go with you.”

  He nodded, and the two gods sped from the room and through the main hall of Balder's keep.

  The gathered throng of Einherjar outside of Tyr's hall was uneasy. They made way for the two gods as Balder and Tyr strode quickly to the splintered doors. Tyr grabbed one of the warriors nearby.

  “What has happened here?”

  The warrior stared back at him, glassy-eyed, and said two words that explained the entire situation for Tyr: “The wolf.”

  Tyr turned to Balder. “It is Fenrir.” He turned back to the warrior. “Why have you not engaged him? Why do you stand out here milling about when one of the halls of the Aesir has been attacked?”

  The warrior's face had a perplexed look on it, as though he did not understand the question. After an interminable amount of time in which Tyr felt tempted to throttle him, he said, “He will kill them.”

  Tyr let the warrior's arm loose. He and Balder drew their swords and walked to the entrance to his hall.

  The doors were broken and splintered, but still partially attached to the frame. They could see little as they peered in, save that there was a group gathered in the middle of the hall. They looked at each other once before walking through the shattered doorway.

  Their eyes adjusted quickly to the low light of the hall. In the middle of the large room a tight semi-circle of servants knelt on the stone floor, some whimpering with heads in hands, others quietly sobbing, still more silent and frozen with fear. Balder and Tyr could see the tall man-wolf just behind the protective throng, within easy striking distance of any of the poor souls who knelt in front of him.

  Standing directly in front of Fenrir was another servant, one whose face he remembered. It was the boy who had brought out the meat for Fenrir, the one who had needed comforting. Tyr felt bile rise. The wolf had his hand clasped over one of the boy's shoulders, the long nails trailing down. It was a mock-protective gesture that held menace for the boy, even while virtually daring the two gods to move forward.

  They stood their ground. The smile on Fenrir's face told Tyr what would happen if they came too close.

  Tyr addressed Unn. “Are you harmed?”

  “Tyr,” Fenrir growled. “I have not harmed the man-child. I would not harm such a defenseless creature.”

  “What is it that you want?”

  Fenrir brought his mouth down to Unn's ear and whispered something. Unn spoke, his voice wavering. “My lord, he wishes me to tell you that all servants in the castle have been brought here.”

  Tyr could see that it was true. There were dozens of them around the wolf, some close enough to feel his hot breath on their necks. “What do you want?”

  There was a low growl. Tyr could feel it pass through him.

  Unn said, “He wishes to know where he came from, my lord. He wishes to know the answers to the questions he has posed you.” His voice shook, but he maintained a steadiness that Tyr admired, especially in one who was no warrior.

  Tyr and Balder exchanged brief glances. Both knew that this would not go well. Fenrir was far closer to the servants than they were. If either of them moved forward, Fenrir could kill a score of them before they even reached him. This was not a situation that could be solved with steel. Tyr found himself wishing that Loki was there. He thought how the Sly One would have a way to trick the wolf, but then he realized whose spawn it was that he faced.

  Tyr saw nothing to do but give Fenrir what he wanted.

  “You wish to know where you came from? How you came to be here?”

  Fenrir growled, “Yes.”

  “And you will release them,” he gestured to the servants with his sword, “once I reveal the answers?”

  “Yes.”

  He paused to gather his thoughts before beginning.

  “You were taken from your mother when you were an infant and brought here.”


  Fenrir whispered again to Unn. “My lord, he says he knows this. He desires to know the full tale.”

  “There is little more to tell.”

  Fenrir's hand shot out, and he dug his claws into the shoulder of the closest kneeling servant. The woman was pulled to him, but did not have time to register any complaint before Fenrir leaned his head down and tore out the side of her neck. Bloody and twitching, he dropped her body to the ground at his feet, the whimpers and sobs of the remaining hostages increasing to a frantic pace.

  Tyr moved forward, rage on his face, but was held back by Balder's tight grip on his arm.

  “He will only kill more,” he whispered. “We cannot win this way. You must tell him what he wants to know.”

  Tyr could only barely contain the fury he felt while staring at Fenrir's bloody smirk. The thought that he could have prevented that senseless death was like a dagger in his gut.

  “Tell me all, Tyr.”

  “You will pay for that, beast,” he mumbled under his breath. His knuckles were white on his sword hilt as he fought down his anger.

  He told all he knew: traveling to Jotunheim to take the three children, the death of the infant, killing Angrboda, the stealing away of Fenrir and his brother, the casting of the one into the sea and the other into the forest. He only changed one thing. He claimed responsibility for killing the infant himself. When he was finished, Fenrir stared at him with plain loathing on his face.

  “The exiled one is my father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is he?”

  “It is not known.”

  Fenrir stared at him, but said nothing.

  “You know all. Now set my servants free.”

  “Tyr, you took all from me.”

  Tyr did not answer.

  Fenrir smiled a toothy grin made the more insidious by the blood coating his fangs. Tyr did not like the look, but realized an instant too late what it meant.