Every name has a root. Even yours…
You’re named after Týr. He’s been known by many names since the fall of the Norse, including the Olde English root of your name, Tīw. Have you heard the most famous story featuring your namesake? In it, he helps the Æsir bind the Great Wolf who is prophesised to devour Odin at Ragnarök. Týr loses his right hand, due to a deal the wolf to put it into those lupine jaws as a safeguard (correctly, as it transpires) against divine betrayal. The story is of dominance and fear, victory and protection... but what if the Norse were a little more romantic? You see, sometimes the stories of epic battles and victories are stories of the heart that our patriarchal ancients and their feather-light emotions couldn’t accurately articulate. You could actually be the memory of their mutual sacrifice and mutual gain. This is your story, Tīw’s Day.
Firstly, the name “Great Wolf” is a terrible misnomer and never really referred to his appearance: Fenrisúlfr was Loki’s progeny, and was a handsome fellow; built well, with a captivating and infectious smile, an attractive personality, a deep and broad intelligence, and a demeanour that oozed confidence. He was clearly and entirely his father’s son. He gained his sport from hunting, luring and dominating the souls of the youthful and the naïve, but he would eventually outgrow this restricted diet. Asgard’s only hope was that his desire for possession of permanent equal was increasing, and increasing faster than his desire to possess the souls of all.
Týr was always the God with the perspective. As the God of War and Justice, his generally balanced view of most situations was valued in Asgard, but he had a tendency to sometimes act in ways that defied explanation. He could be very hot-headed when he wanted, sometimes combative when diplomacy may have been a better route, which wasn’t always positive. In this and many other ways, he was very similar to Fenrisúlfr. He had, in the past, found himself mingling with mortals in an earnest effort to find an equal; their interim prurience was unabashed. They’d communicated before; for two years they’d spoken periodically, always positively and with reverence. It was clear they knew each other well, and had much in common, but for whatever reason Týr had never pursued Fenrisúlfr’s light advances. Odin’s wife, Frigg, surmised that it was because Týr was unsure of his destiny, and made a great many mistakes of his consorts in the past, and wasn't because of Týr's attraction. Anyway, all of this was moot: it was imperative that Fenrisúlfr was settled before he lost his path. This task was stolen from the hands of the Gods, all the plans tabled by Odin, Thor, and Baldr became mere speculation when, entirely by chance, Týr and Fenrisúlfr met in the correct circumstances for them to connect on their own.
It was a warm day. Very warm. Strangely so for Harpa, but all races sometimes reflect that a gift quadruped shouldn’t be looked in the proverbial. Týr found himself taking an opportunity to enjoy his immortal youth by roaming Midgard for entertainment. A late decision found him settling for a while on a town where the mortals were in abundance, their cavorting and blithe spirits providing him with an abundance of merriment. Fenrisúlfr had made this town his home many years prior; they soon made arrangement to cross paths. During an afternoon with one another, it became truly apparent how alike they were: they were of matching intelligence, but with different outlets; they were of matching age; they were of matching maturity and outlook. As the day wore on, they grew closer, sharing serpentine conversation. They shared their deepest secrets, their true desires, their light humour, and their fragile ambitions with each other, finding that most of them were parallel.
Soon the sun began to set, and they sat alongside one another, the birds beginning their evensong and the fragrance of the blossom echoing through the atmosphere. The firefly stars blinked on, and the moon slowly grew brighter, its light supplemented by newly lit candles on the table beside them. The low but rising heat from the wavering flame caused the tender blooms of the thorny flowers beside them to add to the miasma of perfume from the blossom in the air; this heady aroma of blood-red roses and pink cherry blossom surrounded them, infusing their hearts. Tenderly, Týr reached across the elderly wooden table, and placed his right hand between Fenrisúlfr’s. Through the air, a gossamer ribbon (so light and fine that it was invisible, yet it was wrought entirely from impossible materials and stronger than diamond) flowed from and wrapped around them. Only the watching divine could see it; mortals are excluded from the ability to see the preternatural, and these two were so entirely absorbed in one another’s gaze that they could not have seen anything or anybody else even if they had wanted to. Fenrisúlfr looked deeply into Týr’s soul, while forces beyond the physical worked to bind the Great Wolf; his muscles relaxed but his heart danced to the symphony of terror and elation. Týr trembled slightly as his slowly grown and latent love was allowed to gazelle-leap from his chest, and he slowly, slowly, lifted his remaining hand to Fenrisúlfr’s gentle face. “I give to you all that I am, and all that I will be,” he declared, using nothing more than a piercing look from his sea-emerald eyes. Fenrisúlfr, with reverence, bent his head toward the hand and lightly kissed it; his smile announced: “We’re as one, now, Týr. I, the devourer, and you, the just. This bond cannot be broken, and this is our mutual sacrifice: your hand is mine, forever.” The Gods observed and bore witness from the halls of Asgard: Fenrisúlfr was willingly bound and joined with Týr, who gave up his hand, and so they shall remain until the end of days.
If you liked this post, check out his other post: