Tyr

Fenrir would not let Tyr take his hand out.

A sliver of iron stood in the wolf’s gum, just behind the longest tooth. Tyr had caught it between finger and thumb. Every time he pulled, Fenrir’s jaw tightened against his wrist.

“Open a little.”

The wolf made a low, furious sound.

“You broke the chain. You need not eat it.”

The pressure eased. Tyr braced his other hand against the wet black nose and drew the splinter free. Blood ran over his knuckles. Fenrir jerked away, sneezed, and spat a dark clot into the grass.

Beyond him lay the pieces of Dromi. One broken link had buried itself in a tree. Another had struck the stone beside Odin’s foot. The gods had come to watch the wolf test his strength against their finest work, and now they stood farther apart than they had before, leaving room to run.

Tyr held up the iron.

“Is there more?”

Fenrir worked his tongue along his teeth. Then he lowered his head until Tyr could look inside again. His breath rolled warm over Tyr’s face. The tooth beside Tyr’s thumb was longer than the thumb itself.

There was no more iron.

Tyr stepped back and wiped his hand on his tunic. Fenrir shook himself, scattering flakes of rust through his fur. He had grown again. Tyr knew it from the height at which he now had to hold the feeding bowl, and from the deeper furrow the wolf’s claws cut whenever he stretched after eating.

“Well?” Fenrir called to the watchers. “Will you make a third?”

Nobody answered.

He pushed a fragment of Dromi toward them with his nose.

“You may have this back.”

A few of the gods laughed. Tyr heard the effort in it. Fenrir heard something else; his ears lifted, and he looked pleased.

When the others had gone, Tyr brought the meat. He set the bowl between the wolf’s forepaws and crouched beside it while Fenrir ate. This was how they had begun, before the wolf’s shoulders rose above him, when the others would leave the food at a distance and hope hunger would fetch him.

Fenrir stopped chewing.

“The next one,” he said, “you will be there?”

Tyr looked at the broken link in the tree.

“Yes.”

The wolf returned to his meal.

The Third Fetter

What came back from the dwarfs fitted inside Odin’s closed hand.

Tyr had expected another chain, something they would drag into the hall between them. Instead Odin laid a narrow ribbon across the table. It slipped over the edge and hung there, moving in the draught from the door.

“Gleipnir,” he said.

Tyr took an end. Odin held the other.

He pulled cautiously, then planted his foot against a table leg and pulled with both hands. The ribbon pressed into his fingers. The heavy table shifted; Gleipnir did not lengthen at all.

“Enough,” Odin said.

Tyr let it slacken. There was no mark on the fabric.

“The wolf will know.”

“He will suspect.”

“He knows what iron weighs. He knows what broke when he fought it. What will you tell him this is?”

“A trial of strength.”

Tyr laid the end down.

From outside came the long scrape of claws against stone. Fenrir was turning before lying down. The sound stopped, began again, then stopped. Even resting, he made the hall listen.

“And when he cannot break it?” Tyr asked.

Odin began winding Gleipnir around his fingers.

There was the answer. Tyr waited until he had heard it anyway.

“We leave him bound.”

“Then tell him that.”

“Will he let us put it on?”

“No.”

Odin finished winding. “You have seen what happens to every other thing we put around him.”

Tyr pushed his hands flat against the table. The wolf’s blood had dried in the creases of his right palm. He had washed badly; there was a small brown crescent beneath one nail.

“He has bitten none of us.”

“Not yet.”

The words angered Tyr more than a threat would have. He could have answered a threat. He could not prove that the wolf would remain as he was, or that tomorrow’s hunger would be no larger than today’s. He had watched Dromi fly apart. He had seen how close the broken iron came to Odin.

“The prophecies did not cease because you fed him,” Odin said.

“I know what they say.”

“Then tell me what you would have me risk.”

Tyr looked toward the door. He could go out now, bring the bowl, sit beside Fenrir and warn him. For a moment the action lay whole and easy before him. Then he imagined the wolf rising, the gods reaching for weapons, himself standing between them with nothing in his hands.

Odin put Gleipnir away.

“We go to Lyngvi.”

Tyr picked a flake of dried blood from his palm.

“I will come.”

The Pledge

Fenrir reached the island wet to the shoulders and shook himself over the gods. Water struck their cloaks and hissed against the warm stones. He looked from face to face, searching for the burden they had brought.

When Odin showed him Gleipnir, the wolf sat down.

“That?”

One of the gods took the ribbon and pulled. Another helped him. Their boots scraped the earth. Fenrir watched without moving while Gleipnir passed from hand to hand and survived each attempt.

Tyr knew the moment the wolf stopped enjoying it. His ears, pricked toward the straining gods, turned outward. His gaze settled on the unbroken strip.

“There is no fame in tearing thread,” he said.

“There might be,” Odin replied, “if none of us can do it.”

Fenrir leaned forward to smell it. Tyr could see the small cut inside his lip where the iron had been.

“No.”

A god laughed and asked whether the breaker of Dromi feared a ribbon.

Fenrir turned his head. The laughter died.

“Bring me something honest to fear.”

Tyr felt the warmth leave his face. He had been standing beside Gleipnir as though the choice belonged to the hands holding it.

Odin said, “If it holds you, we will have learned that you cannot threaten us. There will be no reason to keep you tied.”

Across the strip of grass between them, Fenrir looked at Tyr.

Tyr did not nod. He did not shake his head.

The wolf rose. The gods nearest him stepped away, and he watched them do it. He moved toward the water, testing the firmness of the shore beneath his paws. Beyond the lake stood the trees; beyond those, space to grow beyond all their contrivances.

Then he turned back.

“If this is a trick, you will have no reason to help me once it works.”

Odin waited.

“Give me something I can keep,” Fenrir said. “A hand. Here.”

He opened his jaws.

Tyr looked along the line of gods. One shifted his grip on a spear. Another tucked a hand beneath his cloak. Each waited for someone else to move.

The wolf’s mouth closed.

“So much for the trial.”

He began to turn away again.

“Mine,” Tyr said.

Fenrir stopped.

Tyr unfastened the strap at his wrist. It was a small task, familiar, and he failed at it twice before the leather came loose. He put the strap in his belt. Then he walked across the grass.

The wolf lowered his head. Tyr could hear his breathing through the nostrils, almost a sniff, taking in the smell of the hand that had brought his food.

“You understand?” Fenrir asked.

“Yes.”

“If they leave me bound.”

“Yes.”

Tyr placed his right hand behind the long teeth. The wolf’s tongue moved beneath his fingers. He remembered pressing down against that tongue to reach the iron; he remembered how readily the jaws had opened when the pain was gone.

This time he had nothing to take out.

“Bring it,” he said.

The gods came carefully. Fenrir held still while they passed Gleipnir around his legs, but his eyes followed each of them. One crouched to tie it and found himself too close to the wolf’s shoulder. He backed away, leaving the loose ends on the grass.

Tyr bent his knees. Fenrir lowered his head with him, keeping the hand between his jaws.

With his left hand Tyr gathered the ribbon. It was awkward work. He had to press one end under his knee while he drew the other through the loop. Fenrir watched him.

“You are slow today.”

The words moved against Tyr’s wrist.

“Yes.”

He could still pull his hand free. Fenrir was allowing room for it. The knot was unfinished; the wolf could rise. Tyr could let the ends fall and stand back, and the whole thing would become another failed test, something the gods would have to solve tomorrow.

He drew the knot tight.

Fenrir pushed against Gleipnir gently at first. The ribbon stiffened. He tried again, harder, and its softness vanished into a line beneath his fur.

A tremor ran through his jaw. Tyr spread his feet.

The next struggle dragged him forward. He struck one knee against stone, caught himself with his free hand, and felt the wolf’s teeth settle against the skin of his wrist. Fenrir had not bitten. He was holding him through the movement, keeping the bargain while he fought the thing around his legs.

Gleipnir tightened.

Fenrir hurled his weight sideways. Earth tore beneath him. Tyr went down against his shoulder and could not get his feet back under him. A pale end of ribbon lay inches from his left hand. It shook with the wolf’s effort and did not break.

Then Fenrir stopped.

For a moment Tyr heard only the water lapping behind them.

“Take it off.”

The gods had moved beyond reach. One of them began to laugh, a high, startled sound. Another caught it. After the flying iron and the years of growth, the wolf was down, and they were still standing.

“Take it off,” Fenrir said again.

Tyr found Odin among them.

Odin did not move.

The ribbon lay against Tyr’s free fingers. He could touch the knot he had made. He pressed his thumb beneath it, felt the terrible tension, and stopped. If he undid it, Fenrir would rise among them with the knowledge of what they had tried. If he did not, the wolf would have exactly the payment he had asked for.

Fenrir felt his fingers leave the knot.

His eye turned toward Tyr. It was close enough for Tyr to see his own small shape in it, kneeling.

“You knew.”

Tyr’s mouth had gone dry. He made himself answer.

“Yes.”

The jaws closed.

The Empty Bowl

Pain took away the island. When it returned, Tyr was on his side with his arm held against his chest. Someone was winding cloth around it. He tried to grip the cloth with fingers that were no longer there.

A hammer rang against stone.

The others were fixing the tether deep into the earth. Fenrir lunged at them and fell back. He opened his mouth to bite, and they forced a sword between his jaws. His howl broke around the blade.

Tyr tried to stand. The god beside him caught his elbow, but he shook the help away too quickly and had to remain on his knees until the water and the shore stopped moving.

“We have him,” someone said.

Tyr looked at the wolf.

Gleipnir scarcely showed beneath the fur. It was hard to believe that so little could hold him, even now. Saliva fell from the open jaws and ran through the torn earth. Fenrir strained toward the departing gods. When Tyr rose at last, the wolf followed him with his eyes.

Tyr walked to the water without asking to be forgiven.

By the time he reached the halls, the cloth around his wrist was stiff. The others had gone inside. Voices rose, and someone called his name from the doorway, asking him to come and take his place.

He went instead to the feeding ground.

The bowl stood where he had left it, tilted against a root. A little rainwater had gathered in the bottom. Beside it, the grass was flattened in the shape of the wolf’s body.

Tyr reached down with his right arm.

He stopped.

From the hall they called again. He crouched, tipped the water out, and took the bowl in his left hand.