Norse Mythology

by Neil Gaiman

“Fair enough,” said Thor. “What’s the price?” “Freya’s hand in marriage.” “He just wants her hand?” asked Thor hopefully. She had two hands, after all, and might be persuaded to give up one of them without too much of an argument. Tyr had, after all.

Ever since then, we know that those people who can make magic with their words, who can make poems and sagas and weave tales, have tasted the mead of poetry. When we hear a fine poet, we say that they have tasted Odin’s gift.

Thor spat into his hands. He adjusted his belt of strength. He raised Mjollnir over his head. And with all his might, he swung. He was certain that the hammer head sank into Skrymir’s forehead. It was too dark to see the color of the giant’s eyes, but they opened. “Whoa,” the big fellow said. “Thor? Are you there? I think an acorn just fell off the tree onto my head. What time is it?”

The gate was higher than most cathedrals.

Loki irritated the goat even more by tying a strong rope tightly around its beard. Then Loki tied the other end of the rope around his own private parts. He tugged on the rope with his hand. The goat screamed, feeling its beard tugged painfully, and it jerked back. The rope pulled hard on Loki’s private parts. Loki screamed and grabbed for the rope again, yanking it back.

Look up into the night in midwinter. You can see them there, twin stars, one blazing beside the other. Those two stars are Thiazi’s eyes. They are shining still.