Is there anything better than reading a bunch of scholars arguing about whether the word ψυχή, generally translated “soul” – actually means vagina?

Possibly, but that’s still pretty high up there on the list.

Or maybe I’m just easily entertained.

For those who may not be familiar here’s a pretty decent overview of what’s known of Tarvos Trigaranos, which draws parallels with Óðinn and Mithras (who happen to be compared in this article by Olof Sundqvist.)

It’s been a bad pain day for me, so I’m sitting here in my office listening to some good tunes, smoking some passable weed, communing with Dionysos and pondering the dream I had about Tarvos Trigaranos a fortnight or so back, which I alluded to in both the Herakles-play and that spate of posts on Saint Boniface. Specifically this good tune:

As a general policy I try to avoid the comments sections of posts and videos, especially if I happen to like the material, but for some reason I found myself scrolling down until I saw this:

Russ B – 4 weeks ago: Her voice generates an inter-dimensional rift that Jim Morrison frequently takes advantage of to keep tabs on us.

Well, alrighty then.

Sounds like I got an answer – I’m just not sure what the question was. 

So many people requested my list of surreal and otherworldly movies for Dionysia 2020 e.v. that I decided to do something else instead. I put together the following game. Over the course of three days, watch the following sets of movies and vote on your favorites. You can choose as many sets as you can handle each day, though I probably wouldn’t recommend more than three sets a day. Once you have finished watching and voting, feel free to share the results in the comments below. They should probably be watched in the order listed, though that’s up to you. 

I. Harold and Maude
II. The Beaver
III. Upstream Color

I. I Kill Giants
II. The Fisher King
III. Tideland

I.  Santa Sangre
II. Orion
III. Mandy

I. Dave Made A Maze
II. The Number 23
III. The Cell

I. Bull Dance
II. A Streetcar Named Desire
III. Antichrist

I. The Fall
II. Holy Mountain
III. Baraka

I. Taxidermia
II. Little Otik
III. Blood Tea + Red String

This Scorpio-Orion-Herakles-Sandas thread will eventually loop back to Óðr and the Norse Gods – and in a way that seems both stunning and perfectly natural. It just requires a little patience. 

And I don’t mean the thread linking Herakles, Euthymos and Empedokles – though that is indeed relevant. 

I recently shared some material on thunderstrikes as part of the coded language of the mysteries; the other part of that code has to do with scorpions and the constellation Orion.

(In case you haven’t noticed, star-lore – particularly having to do with the Hyades, Boötes, Freyja’s Distaff, the Waggon, the Dippers and the Big and Little Bears – is pretty big in our tradition. See here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here, for a sampling of stuff I’ve posted over just the last couple months.)

The scorpion is one of the rarer animals in the Bacchic menagerie and almost never makes it onto such lists – but it’s there, particularly in its connections with Strobilos (one of the Toys) and the prominent position it has within Tarantism (particularly its Sardinian and Spanish iterations.) Indeed, this confluence can be observed even in the Bible.

Compare Jesus’ vision of Satan:

Then he said to them I saw the Adversary, Satan falling as lightning (astraphe) from heaven. Behold, I give you the authority to trample upon serpents and scorpions and upon the whole of the hostile enemy’s power. And absolutely nothing will harm you. (Luke 10:18-19)

To Saul of Tarsos’ encounter with Jesus on the road:

It happened. I was traveling and approaching Damascus, around noon, then suddenly nearby a burst of lightning (periastraphai) from heaven, an intense light all about me. (Acts 22:6)

According to this piece called Lightning Scorpion Prophecy (which argues Paul was duped by Satan) that is far from accidental:

Additionally, Jesus gave His disciples the express “authority to trample upon serpents and scorpions” in the context of confronting Satan’s power. While a serpent makes sense due to its spiritual associations, why did Jesus add “scorpions”? Would Jesus say this to help us later notice Paul was afflicted by a stinger-equivalent of a scorpion by Satan, by Paul’s own admission? Paul claimed that his pride was held in check by Satan because: “I was given a sharp pointed prod (skolops – such as a scorpion’s stinger) in the flesh, a messenger Satan in order that he would strike and torment me in order that I not become overly conceited.” (2 Corinthians 12:6-7) Paul asked the person He assumed was the Lord to take it away, but this Lord refused. “Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Cor. 12:8-9.) Why is this an important passage to consider? How does it undermine Paul? Had Paul meant thorn, the precise word is “Skolos,” which means “thorn or prickle.” (Quattrocchi, id., at 2436.) Skolops, by contrast means “anything pointed.” Id., at 2436. Another word for “thorn” which Paul could have used, if thorn were truly intended, was the word akantha which is the term used by other New Testament writers when referring to thorns. And stauros meant a stake of wood, large or small. So we should not necessarily indulge that Paul meant a ‘thorn’ or anything woodlike. What also points at the view that Paul likely meant it was a ‘stinger,’ or ‘scorpion’s stinger’ was Paul says it was sent as a “Messenger of Satan” as a chastisement to keep Paul humble. For scorpion’s stingers were used for chastisement in Solomon’s time. In III Kings 3:11 (Septuagint chaptering), the advice given by young men to Solomon on how to deal with backsliders was to tell them “I will chastise you with scorpions” — in Greek, skorpios. And given Paul says this skolops is from Satan to chastise him, it appears Paul was alluding to that function of a scorpion’s sting. The book of Revelation also mentions scorpion’s stingers as a form of “tormenting” someone, which Paul said was Satan’s purpose in giving him the “SKOLOPS.” See Rev. 9:10 (locusts of the pit “had tails and stings like scorpions, and in their tails they had power to torment people for five months.”)

The taranta is the spiritual agent responsible for the symptoms of tarantismo, described by De Martino as:

… falling to the ground, a feeling of prostration, anguish, a state of psychomotor agitation with a beclouding of the sensory apparatus, difficulty in remaining standing, stomach ache, nausea and vomiting, various paraesthesia and muscular pains, a heightening of sexual desire.

I have tended to focus on the spider form of taranta (for obvious reasons) but as often as not they could appear as that other arachnid, the scorpion. De Martino even quoted a bawdy song which invoked the good Saint in this scorpion form:

Santu Paulu meu de le tarante
che pizzichi le caruse ‘nmezz’all’anche
Santu Paulu meu de li scorzoni
che pizzichi li carusi int’i balloni
Deu ti muzzicau la tarantella?
Sotto la pudìa de la vannella.

[My Saint Paul of the tarante, who stings the girls between their hips
My Saint Paul of the scorzoni who stings the boys in their pants.
Where did the little taranta bite you?
Under the hem of my skirt.]

Which naturally makes one think of the great hunter Orion:

Orion–Hesiod says that he was the son of Euryale, the daughter of Minos, and of Poseidon, and that there was given him as a gift the power of walking upon the waves as though upon land. When he was come to Chios, he outraged Merope, the daughter of Oinopion, being drunken; but Oinopion when he learned of it was greatly vexed at the outrage and blinded him and cast him out of the country. Then he came to Lemnos as a beggar and there met Hephaistos who took pity on him and gave him Kedalion, his own servant, to guide him. So Orion took Kedalion upon his shoulders and used to carry him about while he pointed out the roads. Then he came to the east and appears to have met Helios (the Sun) and to have been healed, and so returned back again to Oinopion to punish him; but Oinopion was hidden away by his people underground. Being disappointed, then, in his search for the king, Orion went away to Crete and spent his time hunting in company with Artemis and Leto. It seems that he threatened to kill every beast there was on earth; whereupon, in her anger, Gaea sent up against him a Scorpion of very great size by which he was stung and so perished. After this Zeus, at the prayer of Artemis and Leto, put him among the stars, because of his manliness, and the Scorpion also as a memorial of him and of what had occurred. (Pseudo-Eratosthenes, Catasterismi Frag 32)

According to Parthenius Dionysos’ grand-daughter was Aëro rather than Merope:

Aëro, so the story runs, was the daughter of Oenopion and the nymph Helice. Orion, the son of Hyrieus, fell in love with her, and asked her father for her hand; for her sake he rendered the island where they lived habitable (it was formerly full of wild beasts), and he also gathered together much booty from the folk who lived there and brought it as a bridal-gift for her. Oenopion however constantly kept putting off the time of the wedding, for he hated the idea of having such a man as his daughter’s husband. Then Orion, maddened by strong drink, broke in the doors of the chamber where the girl was lying asleep, and as he was offering violence to her Oenopion attacked him and put out his eyes with a burning brand. (Erotica Pathemata 22)

It is also interesting to note that Orion’s trusted hound was placed among the stars too:

That star Seirios which comes on in the autumn and whose conspicuous brightness far outshines the stars that are numbered in the night’s darkening, the star they give the name of Orion’s Dog, which is brightest among the stars, and yet is wrought as a sign of evil and brings on the great fever for unfortunate mortals. (Homer, Iliad 22.26)

However, Orion is not the only figure associated with the constellation that bears his name. There is also the Cilician God Sandas/Sandon who could be syncretized with Dionysos or Zeus, but was most often viewed as a local form of the deity Herakles. He carried a double-axe like the labrys, with the scorpion serving as his heraldic animal. (He was also the legendary founder of Tarsos, which makes the Pauline conversion account even more interesting.) You can read more about him at Ian Rutherford’s Sandas in Translation and The Cilician God Sandas and the Greek Chimaera by Attilio Mastrocinque.

I have more to say about scorpions and Orion (= Herakles/Sandas) but for that to make sense I need to tease out another thread first.

From Vice: Physicists Are Studying Mysterious ‘Bubbles of Nothing’ That Eat Spacetime:

The universe might be on track to eat itself from the inside out.

Luckily for us, physicists studying the phenomenon, called “spacetime decay”, believe this is very unlikely. Still, the possibility is interesting enough to explore in mind-boggling detail, covering “bubbles of nothing” in spacetime, hidden extra dimensions, and a hypothetical observer hitching a ride on the outer surface of our universe.

The idea that in specific scenarios the universe would be entirely destroyed by an expanding bubble of nothing has been around since 1982, when theoretical physicist Edward Witten introduced the possibility of the universe eating itself in a paper in Nuclear Physics B journal. He wrote: “A hole spontaneously forms in space and rapidly expands to infinity, pushing to infinity anything it may meet.”

Given that a bubble of nothing has not in fact destroyed the universe, neither in the 13 billion years before Witten published his paper nor in the 38 years since, it would be reasonable for physicists to push it down the research priority list. But three physicists at the University of Oviedo in Spain and the University of Uppsala in Sweden argue that we can learn important lessons from an all-consuming, universe-destroying bubble in a wonderfully titled paper, “Nothing Really Matters”, submitted to the Journal of High-Energy Physics this month.

Sounds like someone is smoking too much dope while watching too many 80s Fantasy movies – and for once it isn’t me.

Atreyu: But why is Fantasia dying, then?

G’mork: Because people have begun to lose their hopes and forget their dreams. So the Nothing grows stronger.

Atreyu: What is the Nothing?

G’mork: It’s the emptiness that’s left. It is like a despair, destroying this world. And I have been trying to help it.

Atreyu: But why?!

G’mork: Because people who have no hopes are easy to control. And whoever has the control has the Power. 

[A large crash shakes the ground. Atreyu briefly loses his balance, but regains it and turns towards G’mork with a cold look]

Atreyu: Who are you really?

G’mork: I am the servant of the Power behind the Nothing. I was sent to kill the only one who could have stopped the Nothing. I lost him in the Swamps of Sadness. His name was Atreyu. 

[The ground shakes again and Atreyu falls. He grabs a sharp piece of stone and stands up]

Atreyu: If we’re about to die anyway, I’d rather die fighting! Come for me, G’mork – I AM ATREYU! 

 

Here is the Herakles-play I wrote for Dionysia 2020 e.v. per the Readers Poll we held back in February. 

***

Dramatis personae

• Aphrodite
• Herakles
• Chorus of Giant Corpses
• Satyr

Scene: Our location is a small cave in the territory between what will one day become the cities of Phanagóreia and Pantikápaion on the eastern shore of the Cimmerian Bosporos. The interior is dark except for parallel lines of beeswax candles leading to a bed of lush vegetation on which Herakles and Aphrodite are lying, their naked bodies still entwined after what was clearly a vigorous lovemaking session. One can see various corpses strewn about outside the cave. 

Aphrodite: I really appreciate you coming over and helping out with this Giant problem of mine. 

Herakles shrugs. 

Herakles: It’s what I do. 

Aphrodite: How are the wife and kids? 

Herakles grows uncomfortably silent. 

Aphrodite: Did I say something … ? Oh … oh …  sorry. I forgot.

Herakles: You forgot?

Aphrodite: Look, I’ve been busy. I know Hermes mentioned something about it, but then … well … that swift-tongued devil distracted me, and I’ve had a lot going on out here in the borderlands. Even I can’t be stretched as wide as heaven. 

Herakles: I don’t know why I bother. 

Herakles sits up. Aphrodite rests a hand on his muscled thigh. 

Aphrodite: We had some good times.  

Herakles: So why did you leave the Sun-kissed Meditteranean for these frigid and barbaric wastes?

Aphrodite: Too much history. I wanted something new, fresh. A land with only a future. 

Herakles: And so you end up with a bunch of hairy brutes who want to use and abuse you, knocking at your door. 

Aphrodite: And you. 

Herakles: What makes you think I’m any different?

Herakles roughly grabs Aphrodite’s wrist, causing her to bite her lip – in pain, or anticipation or both, it is impossible to say. 

Aphrodite: You had the venom of the gadfly coursing through your veins when it happened. It wasn’t your fault. 

Herakles lets go.

Herakles: I thought you were ignorant of the fate of Megara and my children. 

Aphrodite: I was just starting conversation. 

Aphrodite places her hand back on his thigh. 

Aphrodite: I know you wouldn’t have done it if you were in your right mind. I know what kind of man you are, Alkides. 

Herakles: But I still did it. 

Aphrodite: And more than atoned for it. 

Herakles: How could I ever atone for that foul sin? I loved them. 

Aphrodite: And that I know well. You loved them twelve times what a normal heart could possibly bear. If there’s one thing I know it’s hearts. 

Herakles: I should have … 

Aphrodite puts her finger to his lips and shushes him. 

Aphrodite: Should is an abyss. 

Aphrodite pulls him down onto her, embraces him tightly and lets his tears dampen her shoulder. 

She holds him that way until his arousal returns, and their lovemaking commences. 

Outside the Giant corpses begin to sing Paul Anka’s “Put Your Head On My Shoulder.”

When they finish Herakles sputters awake. 

Herakles: I am so sorry. I … I didn’t mean to do that. 

Aphrodite: You needed it. And I’m used to it by now. 

Herakles: I had a dream. 

Aphrodite: Don’t all great men?

Herakles: I saw a man. There was a dog at his feet. He was chopping down a tree with an axe, and in the branches of the tree was a bull with three cranes perched on his back. What do you think it means?

Aphrodite: Do I look Egyptian to you?

Herakles: No. More Syro-Phoenician. 

Aphrodite: What do you think it means?

Herakles: The man with the dog and axe is about to have a really bad day. There was a lot of rage in that bull. 

Aphrodite: Well, for both their sakes I hope it was just a dream. 

Herakles: How many more times are we going to do this?

Aphrodite: As many more as you’re up for, my lion-hearted man. 

Herakles: I meant it. Assuming it’s not an infinite amount —

Aphrodite: Why assume anything?

Herakles: It can’t be infinite. Doing anything else takes away from the potential number of times we could have done it, and without interruption we just have one. So whatever way you cut it there are only a finite number more times we will do this. 

Aphrodite: Anyone ever tell you you think too much?

Herakles: Yes, your husband. 

Aphrodite: Which one?

Herakles: Dionysos. 

Herakles smiles fondly, sinking into memory. 

Outside the Giant corpses begin to sing Frank Sinatra’s “Summer Wind.”

Aphrodite: And I stand at the window, watching, waiting for the brave young soldier to return to me, but the Revolution has already made my Sasha a hero. When I woke I found myself crying – for this man I haven’t even met yet. 

Herakles: I dislike dreaming. And sleeping.  

Aphrodite: Why?

Herakles: Well, to begin with it’s not something I expected to still be doing once I’d become a God. And secondly, it reminds me of them out there. 

Aphrodite: Trees?

Herakles: Lifeless bodies. Where does the soul travel when the body slumbers? 

Aphrodite: Wherever it wants, I suppose. 

Herakles: Do we have one? 

Aphrodite: No.

Herakles: Gods don’t have souls? 

Aphrodite: Singular souls, no. Even animals have multi-part souls. But technically you’re correct: we Gods don’t have psychai either, as those are only created at the moment of death, and our kind are deathless. Well, most of us are. But like humans, parts of our souls can come loose and wander about during slumber. Other fragments can implant themselves in mortal creatures, so we can live out their lives through them, absorbing the sensations and experiences. Have you tried that yet?

Herakles: I’ve only been a God for a couple decades now. 

Aphrodite: You have so much to learn.

A Giant stuffs its grotesque face through the opening of the cave and Herakles jumps to his feet. He grabs a gore-dripping spear propped against the cave wall and charges naked at the startled Son of the Earth. Two quick thrusts in either eye renders it blind and then he slashes open its stomach so its guts spill out, flooding the entrance of the cave. 

Herakles whistles and a man dressed as a Satyr rushes up to him.  

Herakles: Another mess to clean up, Xanthias. 

Herakles then stalks back to his mistress, chest covered in red splatter, and props the spear against the wall once more. 

Herakles: Enough talking. 

Aphrodite: Yes, Sir. 

The candles gutter out and all fades to black. 

Are you a good person?

Is this real?

Something For Your M.I.N.D

Dance Battle Scene

David Fights The Shadow King

From Middle English theater, from Old French theatre, from Latin theatrum, from Ancient Greek θέατρον (théatron, “a place for viewing”), from θεάομαι (theáomai, “to see”, “to watch”, “to observe.”) [Definition from the Wiktionary.]

Alright, here are two more – but then that’s it: Evil Wealth of Raiment: Deadly Πέπλοι in Greek Tragedy by Mireille M Lee and James R. Hamilton’s Philosophy of Theater. 

Now go watch some movies for Dionysos – or better yet, see a play!

Oh, and here is “A Fullness of Living Forces”: Viacheslav Ivanov’s Poetics of Theurgy by Jeffrey Riggs. I think you’ll dig it.

To get you in the mood here are PDFs of Choruses for Dionysus: Studies in the History of Dithyramb and Tragedy by Matthew C. Wellenbach and some of Antonin Artaud’s writings on the “Theatre of Cruelty” from The Theater and Its Double and elsewhere. And here is an hour-long version of the Bathroom Dance from Joker. If you loop it it’s great for reading the above works. Enjoy!

Happy Dionysia everyone! From now until the 17th of the month Thyrsos (March 10th by the vulgar reckoning) the great myths of our God shall flicker across our eyes, providing openings for us to understand him better. I am going to watch Seasons 1-3 of Legion until the weekend when I will subject my housemates to a marathon of surreal and otherworldly films. (I’d share the list but they read my blog and I don’t want to spoil the surprise.) 

In one version of his story Óðr was a foundling taken in after Njörðr accidentally slew his mother in the form of a bear; in another, he was the son of Óðinn and a noblewoman of the Fair Elves raised at the Vanic court; in a third, he was a mortal prince whose uncle slew his father and married his mother, and the woman Óðr loved went insane while he only pretended to; in the fourth Óðr was a child of incomparable beauty who drowned, plunging his sisters into unfathomable grief; in the sixth he was a pious teen raised by a witch in the woods who taught Óðr magic songs and how to work with all kinds of plants and poisons; in the seventh he was a wolf who became leader of the pack and fell in love with Máni and later was translated to the stars; in the eighth he was a serf who died fat, bald and old among his many children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren but whose name and deeds were completely forgot by the time the youngest’s grandchildren had grandchildren of their own. And then there was the ninth – but that story must wait, for I have others to tell first. 

It was the marriage of Ítreksjóð and Ásadís and representatives from the diverse Realms had joined the inhabitants of Ásgarðr for the festivities. Unfettered joy was in all of them, and plenty of Kvasir’s finest mead too. Only Óðr stood off by himself in a corner of the Great Hall surreptitiously surveying the celebrants, and one of them in particular.

“You should ask her to dance,” Freyr chuckled, pressing a drinking horn into his adopted brother’s hands. “You know she would accept.”

“Has not Love wounded me enough? You would have me drive the thorn deeper into my breast?”

“Yes, if it’s the only remedy.” When Óðr did not drink, Freyr took the horn back. “Which it appears to be.”

“You know why I cannot.”

“I don’t. You’ve had eyes for her ever since you came to live with our family. I even backed off so that you’d have a chance. You’ll never find her like in any of the Nine Realms; trust me, I’ve tried. And she’s mad with love for you. You’re going to throw that all away because of some cryptic words by a couple of old spinsters?”

“The Nornir are never wrong.”

“Granted. But what makes you think they’ve told the whole of the story? No life is without change and suffering, even the lives of us Gods.”

Óðr looked down at his wolf fur-lined boots and then reached for the horn. Grinning widely, Freyr gave it back to him. “Whatever comes, she’s worth it. Besides, I’m tired of seeing you skulk about like some moon-eyed maid in Frigga’s Retinue. I want my brother back. And if that means you’ve got to remarry our sister – with or without Óðinn’s blessing – so be it.”

Óðinn sat upon his majestic throne, from which he surveys all Nine Worlds. The wolves Geri and Freki were lounging at his feet and on either shoulder were perched the rather large ravens Huginn and Muninn. Flanking him were Thor and Óðr, looking even more intimidating than usual.

A table had been brought into Ásgarðr’s throne-room. At one end sat Freyja in her falcon cloak, eyes narrowed and hand on the hilt of a long-knife. At the other end was a Jötunn prince and his retainers, his stony bulk barely fitting into the large chair. Also seated at the table were Frigg and Loki, about as happy to be there as Freyja was. Notably absent was her brother and father. 

“I told you she was feisty,” Óðinn chuckled and the Mountain Giant’s grin broadened to reveal large, jagged teeth and fetid breath. “I’ll have no trouble breaking and training her up properly.” Pikoloüs spread his immense hands and said, “Do we have a deal?“

There was a nearly imperceptible twitch under Óðinn’s good eye. That thing dared speak to one of the Goddesses of the realm, his mistress even, in such an impudent fashion, and in his very own Hall?

But too much was at stake, so he swallowed down his rage.

All in due time. 

Óðr had a harder time of it, but was loyal to his Chieftain and so remained statue still. 

“Just so we understand,” Loki interjected. “In addition to manpower when the War comes, you’re going to give us mining rights in the Neutral Zone so that we may fortify Ásgarðr and her defenders.”

“For her.”

“For her.”

Freyja gave Loki a withering glare, for he had brokered this deal. 

“And what say you, O Seabright?”

“Don’t you use my Vanic name here, under these circumstances.”

“Alright… Freyja. Do you consent to the deal?”

Even though she was aware it was a ruse, Frigga shook her head in disapproval. There had to be a better way than this, even if they with their combined divinity, wisdom and experience had not yet thought of it.

Freyja purposefully avoided glancing Óðr’s way as, voice trembling, she agreed. 

“The soldiers, the mining rights in the Neutral Zone and all the rest are yours,” Pikoloüs said, rising to his considerable feet and grabbing Freyja’s delicate hand in his. He yanked her to her feet and dragged her out of Óðinn’s Hall without anything further said. 

Óðinn grunted, “Dismissed,” and Óðr and Thor departed by separate corridors. Óðr was fuming the whole way back to his quarters where he laid out all of his weapons, deciding which would be most effective against this particular tribe of Jötnar. 

Alone in the Hall Frigga addressed her husband, “I hope that your plan succeeds.”

Óðinn gave a serpent’s grin, “It will … unless you know something you’re not telling me, my dear wife?”

Frigga wrapped her arms around her husband and kissed his rough cheek. “Would I do that, husband of mine?”

“Yes. So what is it?”

“Have you factored in the variable of Óðr?”

“He’s loyal.”

“He’s also in love.”

“The worst sort of madness. Still, he is immensely talented at killing and will not act impetuously. He is practically my right hand.”

“You should end the game, and give your blessing. You don’t need to hold that over his head to keep Óðr by your side. He considers you as much his father as Njörðr.”

“But perhaps I don’t want to give up access to Freyja just yet. She has certainly brightened things since coming to stay with us. Besides, what about her well-being? If they don’t return to Ásgarðr who knows where Óðr might carry her off to? Probably some cave in the middle of nowhere.”

“I don’t really care.” Frigga’s voice was cold as the ice at the beginning of things. 

“If everything is going to plan Óðr is about to disobey his orders and rush off in pursuit of the newlyweds. By the time he returns with the dripping head of Pikoloüs we should have our Dverger occupying the mines and released the Jötunn who can testify that the transaction went through. Everything legal and above board, just how you like it.”

“And you couldn’t have told this plan of yours to them? I’m certain they would have gone along with it.”

“They would have. But then they would not have forged so strong a love-bond, and that is unacceptable to me.”

“So, you big softy, you do want them together?”

“You know me better than that, Frigg.”

She rolled her eyes and poured herself another drink. 

“Their marriage serves my interests; at least they need to be together long enough to conceive their fourth child. And if it doesn’t work out, I have another mate in mind for him.”

“Aren’t you treading into my territory?” 

“Perhaps,” Óðinn laughed, and pulled her into a deep kiss. 

By the time Óðr reached the edge of the forest near the dwelling of Pikoloüs he had the shape of a creature that was half-man and half-wolf or -bear. (It was Máni’s night off and thus difficult to tell.) In each hand he bore a spear, and belted at his waist was a sword and dagger. He’d have brought more weapons, but figured that might be overkill.

Óðr was so focused on tracking his foe that he did not notice the fox racing through the brush a safe distance behind him. The fox is one of Loki’s favorite animals.

There was only the periodic singing of blade striking blade and sliding down sharpened edge as the two figures like feral creatures paced round the sparring ring, each waiting for the other to make some stupid, fatal mistake. None would be forthcoming, for they were born killers and nearly equals in power and technique. They might even have been brothers, or father and son, had not so vast a span of years separated them. Despite that and the complicated origins of the younger there were those who persisted in seeing a family resemblance between them. As far as the older one was aware – and there was very little he did not know thanks to Huginn and Muninn – that was an impossibility. Still, he did nothing to squash such rumors.

Óðr used the Gallow’s Fruit’s temporary reverie to score a nick on his forearm; Óðinn growled and with a fierce onslaught of blows drove his younger near-double back to the other side of the circle. “Are you sure we can’t just resolve this by talking?”

“Of course we could,” Óðinn grinned. “But this way is much more fun.” He then feinted and when Óðr went to block it kneed him, hard, between the legs, and though a God Óðr crumpled immediately to the ground. “That was cheating,” he said through sucking gasps of air. 

“There is no cheating in war; only winning.”

“Well, let me just say that embodied existence sucks.”

“It has its perks,” Óðinn offered a hand and helped him to his feet. “Speaking of which … my answer is still no.”

“That is disappointing, but hardly surprising.”

“This has nothing to do with the blessing.”

“Then what? You have no problem sending me out against your enemies in the Nine Realms, but visiting a witch in a hut is too much for me?”

“She is no ordinary witch. And there’s nothing ordinary about her hut – it travels about on a chicken leg.” Óðinn imitated its movement with his fingers.

“So she’s small?”

“Big chicken. From before the age of men, when Miðgarðr’s creatures were much different. That’s how old she is, and even older than that.”

“She … sounds familiar. How do you know her?”

Óðinn smiled until he settled on an answer, “There were far fewer Gods back then.”

“Then let me know when you actually have need of me,” Óðr snarled, sheathing his sword and stalking back to his room so he could brood over the absence of his beloved. How had his life come to this? It wasn’t as if she was on the other side of the world; she was in her palatial quarters here at Ásgarðr. But they might as well have been for all the time they got to spend alone together.

As if on cue Höðr, Hjalti, Freyr and Loki entered his room with noisy jocularity and refused to leave until he agreed to visit the frozen waterfalls of Niflheimr with them. Óðr knew an unwinnable war when he saw one, and so consented. The five made it as far as Kvasir’s Tavern before calling it quits.

Would that they had pressed on, for sitting in darkness in the back was Baldr, Bragi and Hermóðr, their moods blacker than their surroundings. They were none too pleased at the five’s arrival, Hjalti in particular.

But you know how the rest of that story goes, and the consequences it set in motion for the denizens of Ásgarðr, so we’ll jump further ahead.

Although we are told that Óðr undertook the quest to retrieve the sword for his liege, I suspect he truly did it for Víðarr and not Óðinn.

Óðr had come to reside in Ásgarðr along with the other hostages at the conclusion of the Æsir-Vanir war, and so had watched Víðarr mature from an awkward and ill-fitting teenager into a strong, clever and handsome prince of the realm. Óðr sympathized with the youth, for he felt the same growing up at the Vanic court, an adopted child of Njörðr.

It was worse for Víðarr however.

Although Óðr’s ancestry was shrouded in mist (or at least the half that was not Alfar) Víðarr’s was not – it was known by all that half of his kin were Jötnar, who were as often as not the enemies of the Æsir. Though he was the dearly loved son of the Allfather that did not stop the suspicious looks and whispered slurs he was forced to endure, and it took tremendous endurance to keep his wrath in check. All Jötnar are hot-blooded to begin with (Ice Giants included) but Víðarr was as much like his mother as his father, and Víðarr’s mother was named Gríðr, which means “frantic eagerness; greed;  vehemence, violence, impetuosity“ and she was all of those things, and much more. It’s why Víðarr had come to live at Ásgarðr rather than be reared by his mother, as was customary among the Jötnar.

And so Óðr befriended Víðarr and took him under his wing, teaching him exercises to control and redirect his rage and constructive ways to give vent to it, such as reveling with the Wild Hunt. He also instructed him in ceremonies, sacrifices and sacred lore since Víðarr showed some aptitude towards priestcraft in addition to the arts of war.

Otherwise Víðarr was sullen, brooding, introspective and preferred the company of the birds and beasts of the woodlands to that of his fellow Ásgardians. He would have made a perfect German Romantic poet, which perhaps explains why Óðr grew so fond of this son of Óðinn.

And why when Óðinn relayed what the Völva had communicated to him Óðr immediately went in search of the dragon and its immense hoard, which contained a sword forged by Vǫlundr himself. If Víðarr was to battle the savage Wolf at the world’s end, he would need the proper weaponry. Óðr did not wish to see him fall, or any of the Æsir or Vanir for that matter. Hopefully with this sword none of them would.

Little did Óðr know that he had been dispatched to find the means by which Óðinn will be avenged, though Óðinn knew it.