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.

Óðr was not present at the famous feast in Aegir’s hall, which was probably for the best. Despite his reputation for joviality I suspect he would not have taken Loki’s barbed remarks concerning his beloved and her kin as well as Njörðr did.

Instead Óðinn’s champion was out on yet another quest, trying to prove his worth so that he could have the Allfather’s blessing upon his union with Freyja, whom he had loved for as long as he could remember. Without the blessing of the High One the Nornir had prophesied that their marriage would be filled with separation, madness, deceit and tears – so of course there was nothing so great nor so small that Óðinn might ask which Óðr would not volunteer to take on.

On this particular occasion Óðr found himself abroad with Hjalti, the son of one of the lesser Gods of Ásgarðr and in everyone’s estimation a general nuisance. Óðinn had mostly wanted him out of the way for the feast at Aegir’s, but he also wanted to check on the Svartálfar and if they were keeping to the treaty they had sworn. 

Óðinn’s concerns proved prescient. When the pair arrived on the outskirts of Niðavellir disguised as a vagabond skáld and his apprentice, they discovered that revolution was in the air. Indeed a huge army had gathered in the low fields and was preparing to march on Ásgarðr.

Óðr and Hjalti rushed from that place eager to bring word to Óðinn and the rest of the Æsir, until they came across an ancient burial mound. Óðr said that he was suddenly very sleepy, stripped off the red, black and white clothing he was wearing, and laid down upon the grassy hillock. Before Hjalti knew it Óðr was in a deep slumber and snoring.

Hjalti grew exceedingly anxious, for below them was arrayed the terrible fighting force of Svartálfaheimr. He was afraid of the army, and afraid of being found out and taken as a spy, and afraid that this nap of Óðr’s at such a dangerous time indicated insanity, and afraid that he would not wake up – but that whatever was in the mound might.

And then he beheld a wondrous thing – a giant bear made of stars descended from the sky and started mauling and savaging the assembled Svartálf army. Their weapons were nothing compared to its teeth and claws, each of which were like a saber wielded with unimaginable ferocity by dauntless Einherjar. Hjalti nearly pissed himself, never having witnessed devastation on so vast a scale before. 

Hjalti knew that Óðr would not want to miss out on such a sight; more, he would want to join the carnage if he weren’t napping. So Hjalti called out the name of Óðr multiple times and the God did not stir. Hjalti poked him repeatedly and Óðr did not budge. Finally at a loss for what to do Hjalti took out his dagger and rapped Óðr on the head with its hilt until his purple eyes opened.

“Look! The Sky Bear is eating them! Now is the time to join in and raise your blade in defense of Óðinn and the homeland!” Hjalti cried, but when Óðr turned his head all he saw was Svartálfar running this way, and Svartálfar running that way, and Svartálfar who would never run again. But nowhere were there any signs of a bear.

Óðr got down from the burial mound, put his clothes back on, brushed the grass from his hair and said to Hjalti. “You did ill to our King by rousing me so, for I could do more for him asleep than I ever could awake. What is done is done however, and cannot be undone – so let us return home while a warning can still mean something.”

The design of the spear came to Óðr in a dream, but the weapon was so intricate and potent that only a master craftsman could properly forge it.

First he visited Dvalinn who could not be roused from his nap; Sindri did not consider himself up to the task; Andvari politely declined since the weapon would be used to murder both Gods and Giants and he did not wish to incur the debt that would come of being its maker – instead he offered to craft him a jewel-encrusted rhyton or drinking-horn which never emptied, which Óðr gladly accepted. Finally he came to Brokkr who so rudely refused that it resulted in a bitter feud between them lasting nearly three thousand years, until Sigyn finally intervened, establishing friþ once more between the God and Dwarf.

One day while wandering near the sulfur springs of Thermopylai in the land of Greece Óðr encountered a creature with thick black fur, a bulbous nose, and prehensile tail. He was all trussed up and left hanging over a boiling pool, his fur singed and face terribly scalded.

Óðr carefully cut him down, freed him from his bonds and healed his wounds, whereupon the creature revealed that he was Adranos, King of the Kobaloi who were cousins to the Kekropes and Kabeiroi, and known in other lands as Kobolds or Goblins. He had been driven from his kingdom in Sicily by Hephaistos, and he and his people then wandered for a while, causing mischief and stealing what they needed until Herakles subdued them and sold them into slavery under Queen Omphale of Lydia. They eventually escaped and had been living in the underground caves around the Hot Gates until Adranos ran afoul of the hero Malis (after whom the Malians were named) who left him in the pitiable condition in which Óðr discovered him.

Adranos brought the God to meet his people beneath the earth, and a great feast was held, to which Óðr contributed his best wine. Afterwards Óðr explained his mission and Adranos and the Kobaloi pledged their allegiance to him, joining his Retinue or Furious Host. As a token of this pledge the wizard-smiths made for him the terrible weapon he had sought so long, the God-killing and Giant-destroying spear he will brandish at Ragnarök.

Another time Óðr was wandering through the Bosporus when he came across the idol of a deity he did not recognize. It was like a herm of wood, but the face had been covered in silver with a mustache of gold. Nevertheless Óðr took some bread from his traveler’s sack, carefully setting it before the idol with reverent words, and then poured out a large quantity of honey-wine from his magical drinking-horn that never emptied, crafted for him by the matchless Andvari. Óðr then sat down cross-legged before the idol and worshiped the unknown God in his heart, his mind and his soul.

A short time later the heavens grew dark and thick with clouds, wind whipped his hair and cloak about, sheets of rain fell and lightning like hastily sketched Runes lit up the sky. Then something shaped like a man stepped into the clearing; he was thickly muscled, with long hair and beard the color of flame and he carried a hammer that looked like a more primitive version of Thor’s.

“Greetings, Perun; it has been too long.”

“It has indeed been a long time since men have called me by that name instead of Saint Elias; longer still since they have given me proper worship.”

“I am only sometimes a man, but all that is divine deserves respect.”

At that Perun swung his hammer over his head and soon the two were engulfed in a cyclone. Then it was gone and Óðr found himself in royal chambers crafted entirely from oak.

“I have missed you, old friend.“ Perun said, pushing an overflowing tankard into the hands of his guest. “Are you here on the One-Eyed’s business or your own?”

Óðr drank deeply, for it had been a long journey. “I remember when we used to share our alcohol in bowls crafted from skulls of enemy tribesmen.”

“Times have changed.”

Óðr wiped foam from his beard and said, “And will continue to.”

“Do you still serve Óðinn?”

“Have you decisively defeated Veles?”

Both Gods answered “no” and smiled. Óðr added: “I remain on friendly terms with him, however.” Perun could tell much was being left unsaid. “With what’s coming, it is good to have allies in as many realms as possible.”

“Is that why you’ve come here?”

“No. I’ve already seen in a cannabis vision that you will fight beside me when the time comes.”

“But not him?”

“This is a war that will be fought on many fronts.”

“So why join you and not him?”

“Because I’ll be going after the one who harms Lada.”

“What do you say?” Perun’s eyes began to crackle and spark. “She had better be okay.”

“She is fine for now. That is not why I am here today.”

“Then why?” Perun finished off his tankard.

“Because you need one of these.” Óðr took one of three golden apples from his traveler’s sack and began juggling with it.

“What is it?” Perun demanded, and before he’d even gotten the words out Óðr tossed it to him across the room. Perun caught the golden apple in his large, calloused hands and immediately his eyes flickered open a couple times and then closed for good.

Óðr sipped his beverage and waited.

Finally Perun’s eyes opened and the God said, “I must have this.”

Óðr smiled. “What is it worth to you?”

“I would trade anything in my Kingdom for this treasure.”

“It is more than a treasure. I can teach you how to use it as a weapon.”

“With this I could finally defeat the dragon.”

“And many other dragons as well.”

“What do you want?” Perun asked, justifiably suspicious of his guest.

Óðr held up his tankard and said, “More brew.”

When foam was spilling over the sides Óðr added, “And for the apple, three boons.”

All the girls of the village were wearing white linen dresses and crowns of flowers they had collected and woven that morning down by the riverside, while the boys practiced the traditional dances, jumping over logs and generally looking handsome and virile. Later in the evening the logs would be replaced by a bonfire, and the truly pious (or inebriated) amongst them would walk over the glowing coals in their bare feet. The bravest and best of the fire-dancers would be awarded a crown and a kiss by one of the fair maidens; and sometimes more. Often, nine months or so later, the village would be blessed with a plentiful crop of happy, healthy and lucky babies who were cherished by all, whether their fathers were known or not. (And most were not, as the celebrants were free to take as many partners as they pleased on this most special of nights.) The old men were already deep in their cups, belting out lewd songs and telling even lewder jokes. The young men would be joining them shortly, as soon as they’d finished hanging the red, black and white streamers and other decorations wherever there was space for them. Óðr watched the leisurely preparation as he strolled through the village, enjoying the wafting scent of baking honey-cakes, pork sausages and other phallic shaped delicacies each household was preparing. All this they were doing for him, though most could not have said why. Óðr smiled despite the memory of sulfur, rotting flesh and mouldering treasure. How sweet their reunion had been.

As you may recall I wrote down some myths which I deleted because I wanted the material here to be of a more academic tenor. That was a pretense, which doesn’t really reflect how I receive this material, so I’m bringing it all back.

After putting the copies in their appropriate folder I pretty much forgot about them. It’s a little spooky to see how well they fit with the stuff that came later.

However, it would seem that I need to concoct a connecting myth – Óðr and Freyja are married in Vanaheimr but not in Ásgarðr.

That suggests that at the conclusion of the Æsir-Vanir War Óðinn dissolves the union between them, and takes Freyja as his mistress – which would explain the situation the daughter of Njörðr finds herself in in Sörla Þáttur. I do love when diverse threads can be tied together. Plus it amps the pathos up to Ukrainian soap opera levels. #Жаданживи

Now Óðr must win his beloved back a second time – this time from his father!

 

The Hyndluljóð is synopsized by Wikipedia thusly:

In the poem, the goddess Freyja meets the völva Hyndla and they ride together towards Valhalla. Freyja rides on her boar Hildisvíni and Hyndla on a wolf. Their mission is to find out the pedigree of Óttarr so that he can touch his inheritance, and the lay consists mostly of Hyndla reciting a number of names from Óttarr’s ancestry. The poem may be a twelfth-century work, though Bellows believed the material of which the poem was compounded must have been older.

But you can read the full thing for yourself here. It’s one of the shorter but more important of the Old Norse poems, if you ask me. 

And that’s because I believe that Óttarr is doubly disguised in it. First as the battle-boar Hildisvíni and secondly as Óttarr himself. Her champion is actually Óðr. He has been returned to her finally, but with significant gaps in his memory, which she hopes the Jötunness  Hyndla can repair. It’s so bad, in fact, that he actually believes himself to be the mortal hero Óttarr. Which, at least is an improvement on when he was first brought to Sessrúmnir and thought he was somehow Ohthere and Ótr simultaneously.

It’s been a long, frustrating road for them. As much as she had missed him in his absence (she shed tears of red gold for her husband) all the Tívar need him now, for he plays a pivotal role in the Final Battle, one unknown even to Óðinn, Frigga and the Nornir. If they knew, it would be possible for their enemy to learn of it, and make the appropriate corrections.

Which makes Óðr’s partial amnesia bad. 

At least it only seems that bad. In truth, it is much worse. You see, he’s only pretending to believe he’s Óttarr – he really thinks he’s Amlóði.

Why would Óðinn arrange things like this?

Because he is engaged in a game of chess against the vast, devouring nothing and if all the pieces aren’t in play precisely where and when he needs them to be the consequences will be most dire.

And he’s even willing to let the enemy take out one of his most important pieces, if it gains him a strategic advantage.

Which is how Óðr was for a time lost to the Tívar, and mostly to history’s pages as well.

He never would have sent him on that final quest, knowing what lay ahead for him and all of them, had it not been absolutely necessary.

Alaís‘ name can either be pronounced /ˈæl.ɪs/ as in Alice, from Old High German Adalheidis (adal, “noble” + -heit, “nature, character”) the titular character of Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland as well as Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There; a key example of the Girls Underground archetype. 

Or /aˈlajs/ as in Old French lai (“song”), from Old Frankish *laik, *laih (“play, melody, song”), from Proto-Germanic *laikaz, *laikiz (“jump, play, dance, hymn”), from Proto-Indo-European *loig-, *(e)laiǵ- (“to jump, spring, play”). Akin to Old High German leih (“a play, skit, melody, song”), Middle High German leich (“piece of music, epic song played on a harp”) and Gothic 𐌻𐌰𐌹𐌺𐍃 (laiks, “a dance.”)

Appropriate considering her son’s name signifies “mind”, “soul” or “spirit” (so used in stanza 18.1 of the Völuspá). Additionally óðr can mean “song”, “poetry” and “inspiration”, with connotations of “inspired, possession”. It is derived from a Proto-Germanic *wōð- or *wōþ- and related to Gothic wôds (“raging”, “possessed”), Old High German wuot (“fury” “rage, to be insane”) and the Anglo-Saxon words wód (“fury”, “rabies”) and wóð (“song”, “cry”, “voice”, “poetry”, “eloquence”). Old Norse derivations include œði “strong excitation, possession.” Ultimately these Germanic words are derived from the Proto-Indo-European word *wāt-, which meant “to blow (on), to fan (flames)”, fig. “to inspire”. The same root also appears in Latin vātēs (“seer”, “singer”), which is considered to be a Celtic loanword, compare to Irish fāith (“poet”, but originally “excited”, “inspired”). The root has also been said to appear in Sanskrit vāt– “to fan.”

Óðr being the son of Óðinn certainly clears up a number of scholarly theories that have been circulating.

A while back I mentioned that Víðarr had been on my mind, but didn’t really go into why beyond that I was pondering Snorri’s comparison of him to pious Aineías, how he serves as the Æsir’s winepourer, and that the sword he’ll use to avenge Óðinn at Ragnarök was stolen by Óðr from a dragon.

But there was more.

Remember how I mentioned in The Old Man of the Sea that I’ve been shown a couple different ways that Óðr may have become Njörðr’s son, and then proceeded to tease one of those threads out here, here and here?

Well, that was only one possibility.

In another Víðarr and Óðr are half-brothers, seed that Óðinn strategically sowed among the Jötunn and Ljósálfar lines.

Men remember the terrible war waged between the Æsir and Vanir, and how this ended with the exchange of hostages and the formation of the combined Tívar pantheon. Almost nothing has come down to us concerning the time when the Dökkálfar and Ljósálfar attempted to conquer Vanaheimr and were soundly defeated. Víðbláinn, the gleaming capital of Álfheimr became a vassal state of the Vanir. Though its Court remained intact and the King decided matters of internal importance they were ultimately answerable to Njörðr and later his son Freyr, when the realm was given him as a teething present. The situation proved advantageous to both parties leading to peace, prosperity and cultural enrichment. Indeed, there was so much blending of customs – not to mention miscegenation – that the two were practically indistinguishable by the time they met the Æsir in battle. (The Dökkálfar were granted more autonomy than their pale cousins but swore to share their technology and provide military support whenever the Vanir went to war.)

One way that the felicitous relationship between the Ljósálfar and Vanir was maintained was through the exchange of hostages, or as it is more politely referred to fosterage. Each King sent one of his children along with some nobles to be raised at the Court of his counterpart. This both strengthened the bonds between them and gave each leverage over the other so that they had a vested interest in keeping the peaceful equilibrium going.

And this is how Óðr came to live with the man who one day would be both his adopted father and father-in-law. His real father was a mystery to all, for he was not the son of  Álfheimr’s King but rather one of the nobles who accompanied Merowech to Vanaheimr. Óðr’s mother was Alaís, cousin of the King and regarded by many as the loveliest Lady at a Court full of some of the loveliest creatures in all of the Nine Worlds. With as many suitors as Alaís had no one was especially surprised when she became pregnant, except perhaps Alaís herself.

You see, one evening the Ljósálfar were holding a masque with indescribably beautiful costumes, and feasting and dancing that lasted until sunrise. Though everyone was a spectacle Alaís’ eye kept being drawn to a handsome fellow in purple, gold and green motley, with boots to his knees, a rhomboid patch over one of his eyes and a tricornered rat-catcher’s hat. He carried a long, knobby walking stick which he seemed not to need for the grace of his movements. Alaís was not alone; most of the Court Ladies were drawn to the stranger as if he were a magnet and they cold iron, and many of the Lords too. Several times he caught her watching and gave a wolfish grin in return. When Alaís saw that the stranger was making his way towards her through the crowd she excused herself and retired to her chambers, fearing that she would be entirely under his power should he corner her, and fearing more that she might enjoy it too much. 

Once asleep, Alaís dreamed that she was lying upon a barrow-mound and that a great ash tree grew overhead, in whose branches were perched a pair of night-black ravens. The roar of a bear made her entire naked body tremble but she did not remove herself. She heard the shambling brute approach and then his face entered her field of vision. It was as if two images were overlaid, each bleeding through and then dissolving back into the other. In one a magnificent brown bear towered over her and in the other was a man as savage as he was handsome, wearing a bearskin cloak and Rune-carved bones in his braids. “You found me,” Alaís said, “even here in this place.” He merely extended a hand, helping her to her feet, and then scooped her up in his arms as if she were weightless. 

The next thing Alaís knew they were entering a cave and the stranger was setting her down on a bed of pelts. With her keen eldritch sight she watched the stranger undress in the darkness and then he was beside her and she was opening her legs to receive her bearish lover. 

The rest of the dream she did not recall upon waking alone in her own bed the following morning (or so she claimed) though her belly was swollen with miraculous fruit, and by mid-day her labor had commenced. The son she bore was as clever and fearless as he was beautiful and charming, taking equally after each of his parents. As a youth he excelled at archery, hunting, poetry and the magic of the Álfar, and more he might have learned in Víðbláinn but when it came time to ceremonially exchange hostages once again he was at the top of the King’s list. The boy was strange and preferred his own company or the solitude of wild places; more, he was prone to sudden fits of uncontrollable rage and violence. The King wasn’t just trying to get Alaís’ child as far from his Court as possible, he genuinely believed that the war-loving Vanir might have something to teach him about controlling and harnessing this fury of his.

And the King was correct. 

Óðr, as the boy was known outside of Álfheimr (though he had a different name in the tongue of the Ljósálfar) thrived at the Court of Njörðr who indeed knew the ways of the Svinfylking. Óðr mastered the battle-madness of the boar, and in time became one of Njörðr’s fiercest rani. He forged an unbreakable bond with Freyr and Freyja; indeed the three were rarely found apart, and also close friendships with Njörðr’s adopted daughter Sigyn, and Skírnir, Wanlan, Tryskí and Skyðis who also were being raised at the Vanic Court.

When it came time for Merowech and the other Ljósálfar nobles to return to Víðbláinn Óðr pleaded with his King to be permitted to remain with Njörðr and his family. The King graciously agreed, and not just because he could see that being parted from the golden-haired beauty Freyja would make the youth miserable and lovesick, but in Óðr’s absence the fair Alaís died. There had been little enough tying Óðr to Víðbláinn before; now there were only sad memories pregnant with his mother’s absence. 

Njörðr was more than happy to adopt so strong and courageous a warrior into his family; not only was he gaining a son, but Vanaheimr was getting a loyal and fearless defender in Óðr.

After proving his worth through a series of adventures, quests and skirmishes with his cohort Freyr, Skírnir, Wanlan, Tryskí and Skyðis Óðr found the courage to ask Njörðr for his daughter’s hand in marriage. This was not considered necessary according to the customs of Vanaheimr but there were times when his Ljósálfar upbringing shown through, and this was one. Njörðr thought it absurd that they hadn’t been wedded much earlier, and so joyously gave his blessing to their union, becoming father a second time over to Óðr.

It was not long after he made his sister Freyja his wife that Óðr first met his biological father, Óðinn. And that was at the marriage of Sigyn and Loki. The next after that was when he rode with the Vanir and their allies to avenge Njörðr’s sister Gullveig, but these are tales for another time.

Likewise the Vanic name he was known by, for he only came to be called Óðr after the way he conducted himself when his people warred against the Æsir.

All of this was the design of Óðinn, and occurred as he willed it.

Óðinn was preparing and manipulating him to perform the role he will need to come Ragnarök as if he were pulling a puppet’s strings – and in so doing fulfilled a pledge he had made to his good friend Hermes. 

I like the word Tívar for the combined Æsir and Vanir pantheons, by the way; it prioritizes neither side (and also leaves room for the inclusion of Skythian, Slavic and related deities, which we do in Starry Bear.)

Here’s the entry from the Skaldic Lexicon Poeticum. (Their entry on óðr is also pretty interesting.)

Though I also like Æsir since the word for Gods in Etruscan is 𐌀𐌉𐌔𐌄𐌓, despite their non-Indo-European status, which might otherwise explain it. 

I have an embarrassing admission.

Do you have any idea how many times I’ve listened to this without realizing the bit at the end is from the Hávamál?

The answer is a lot. Like, a lot a lot.

That … adds a whole new level to it – especially since it’s the Gestaþáttr. 

Fuuuuck.

I love Sólstafir, and I love Valhalla Rising – and the combination of them together, especially condensed and excised like this, is sheer Odinic perfection. Just like the LÁGNÆTTI conjures Iceland like nothing else. My all-time favorite is Fjara, which is so Freyja-Óðr it’s painful to watch at times.

Ovid, Fasti 5. 164 ff
When darkening twilight ushers in the night, the whole flock of Hyades is revealed. Taurus’ face gleams with seven rays of fire, which Greek sailors call Hyades from their rain-word. To some they were the nurses of Bacchus, to others granddaughters of Tethys and old Oceanus. Atlas did not shoulder the load of Olympus yet, when lovely, eye-catching Hyas was born. Oceanus’ daughter, Aethra, bore him and the Nymphae in timely births, but Hyas was born first. While his beard was fresh, stags trembled in terror before him, and the hare was welcome prey. But when years matured his manhood, he bravely closed with the shaggy lioness and the boar. He sought the lair and brood of the whelped lioness and was bloody prey to the Libyan beast. His mother sobbed for Hyas, his sad sisters sobbed and Atlas too, whose neck would haul the world. The sisters surpassed both parents in pious love and won heaven. Their name is from Hyas.

Apollodoros, Bibliotheka 3.28-29
At the proper time Zeus loosened the stitches and gave birth to Dionysos, whom he entrusted to Hermes. Hermes took him to Ino and Athamas, and persuaded them to bring him up as a girl. Incensed, Hera inflicted madness on them, so that that Athamas stalked and slew his elder son Learchos on the conviction that he was a dear, while Ino threw Melikertes into a basin of boiling water, and then, carrying both the basin and the corpse of the boy, she jumped to the bottom of the sea. Now she is called Leukothea, and her son is Palaimon: these names they receive from those who sail, for they help sailors beset by storms. As for Zeus, he escaped Hera’s anger by changing Dionysos into a baby goat. Hermes took him to the Nymphai of Asian Nysa, whom Zeus in later times places among the stars and named the Hyades.

Photios, Lexicon s.v. Hyês
‘Rain-bringer’. An epithet of Dionysos, as Kleidemos says. Since we perform sacrifices to him during the time when the God makes it rain; but Pherekydes says that Semele is called ‘rain-bringer’ and that the children of Dionysos are the Hyades. Aristophanes lists Hyês among the foreign Gods.

Scholiast on Homer, Iliad 18.486
They say that the stars in the forehead of the constellation of Taurus are called the Hyades, but those on the half flank are called the Pleiades. For as Mousaios says, Atlas son of Iapetos and Aithra daughter of Okeanos had twelve daughters and a son, Hyas. A serpent killed him during a hunt in Libya, and five of the girls died while mourning their brother. The rest? Zeus placed among the stars and named the Hyades, taking their name from their brother. Most say the seven are slowly, † (text corrupt) the ones that died are called the Pleiades. And Pherekydes, as was noted previously, says that the Hyades are the Dodonian nymphs and Dionysos’s nurses, who entrusted Dionysos to Ino for fear of Hera, during which time Lykourgos also chased them … And Hellanikos in the first book of the Atlantidai says that the six joined with Gods, Taygete with Zeus, from whom was born Lakedaimon; Maia with Zeus, from whom was born Hermes; Elektra with Zeus, from whom was born Dardan; Alkyone with Poseidon, from whom was Hyrieus; Kelaino with Poseidon, from whom was Lykos; Sterope with Ares, from whom was Oinomaos; Merope with the mortal Sisyphos, from whom was Glaukos—for this reason she was faint.