The wolf had grown again.
Tyr saw it before he crossed the yard with the meat. Yesterday Fenrir’s head had reached one mark upon the post; today it stood above it. The wolf waited with his ears forward, watching the god approach.
Beyond the yard, the other gods kept their distance.
Tyr set down the meat. Fenrir lowered his head, and the sound of his feeding followed Tyr back to the gate.
The gods had brought him from the land of giants, where Loki’s children had been reared by their mother, Angrboda. His brother, the great serpent, had been thrown into the sea. His sister, Hel, had been sent below. The wolf they had kept among themselves.
Now no one but Tyr dared feed him.
The prophecies spoke of ruin, and every day the creature grew nearer to the size of their fear. When the gods spoke of Odin’s death, their eyes turned towards the yard.
They made a fetter of iron and carried it to Fenrir.
“A trial of strength,” they told him.
He sniffed it. They called it Laeding. He allowed them to fasten it about him, waited until they stepped clear, and stretched.
The iron snapped.
Pieces struck the ground. Fenrir stepped out of them and shook himself. Tyr watched the gods bend to gather what remained.
The second fetter was called Dromi. Its weight dragged at the hands that brought it. Fenrir considered it longer.
“Break this,” the gods said, “and your strength will be spoken of everywhere.”
The wolf nudged the iron with his nose. He had grown stronger since the first test. Yet this band was stronger too, and for a while he stood without giving them an answer.
Then he offered himself to be bound.
This time the iron held when he first pulled against it. Fenrir planted his feet, flung himself down and struck the fetter against the earth. The ground shook. He heaved again, and Dromi burst apart, sending fragments spinning across the yard.
The gods drew back from the flying iron.
Fenrir rose out of the dust.
After that, Odin sent Skirnir down to the dwarfs. He returned with something Tyr could have hidden in his closed hand.
It lay across Skirnir’s palm, smooth and soft as a silken ribbon.
“Gleipnir,” the messenger said.
Tyr touched it. Nothing in its slight weight explained the journey that had been made for it.
The dwarfs had fashioned it from six things: a cat’s footfall, a woman’s beard, the roots of a mountain, the sinews of a bear, a fish’s breath and a bird’s spittle. What iron could not do had been entrusted to things no hand could ordinarily gather.
Tyr drew the band between his fingers. It yielded like cloth.
It did not break.
They went out across the dark lake Amsvartnir to the island of Lyngvi, and called Fenrir to come with them. Water moved against the shore. Beyond it there was no yard, no gate, no familiar place where Tyr put down the meat.
The gods showed the wolf their ribbon.
He looked from one face to another.
“This?”
They passed it among themselves. Each pulled upon it; each failed to tear it. They told Fenrir it was stouter than it looked, though surely not too stout for him.
He did not step forward.
“If I break a thread,” he said, “what glory is there in it?”
Tyr held one end of Gleipnir. The wind lifted the loose length between his hand and the next.
“And if there is some trick in it,” Fenrir said, “why should I let you bind me?”
“You broke Laeding,” the gods answered. “You broke Dromi. Surely you need not fear this little band.”
Fenrir’s ears moved back.
“If it holds you,” they continued, “you will be too weak to frighten us. We will set you free.”
Tyr looked down at the ribbon. It lay pale against his fingers.
The wolf had stopped watching it. He was watching them.
“If you bind me so that I cannot get loose, I do not think you will hurry to help me.”
No one reached to take Gleipnir from Tyr’s hand.
“But I will not have you say I was afraid,” Fenrir said. “Let one of you put a hand in my mouth. Let that be the pledge.”
The gods glanced at one another. Water tapped against the stones below them. Fenrir waited, and the silence stretched until the promise they had made seemed to stand among them like another presence.
Tyr passed the ribbon to the god beside him.
He approached the wolf.
Fenrir opened his mouth. Tyr could see the teeth that had stripped the meat he brought, day after day. He lifted his right hand and placed it between them.
The wolf held still.
The others knelt to fasten Gleipnir. Their hands moved quickly. Tyr watched the pale band settle against the dark fur, then felt Fenrir’s breath upon his wrist.
The gods stepped back.
Fenrir pulled.
The ribbon tightened.
He braced himself harder. The muscles rose beneath his coat; his paws tore at the earth. Gleipnir drew closer with every movement. No iron rang, no fragments flew. The little band held him as Dromi had never held him.
Laughter broke from the gods.
Tyr did not laugh.
Fenrir’s jaws closed. When Tyr stumbled back, his right hand was gone.
He clutched his arm against him while the others secured the wolf’s tether. They passed it through a great rock, sank the rock deep into the earth and drove another stone down to hold it fast.
Fenrir lunged at them. Bound as he was, his open jaws still drove them back. They wedged a sword upright in his mouth to keep him from biting.
His cries carried over the lake.
Saliva ran from his mouth, gathered upon the ground and became the river Van. The tether did not loosen. There he would remain until Ragnarok, when the bonds of the world would break.
Tyr went down towards the water with the gods. Behind him the new river kept running, and the wolf could no longer close his mouth.