The Lay of Hyndla (In Story Form)

In the deep hours of the night, beneath a sky alive with cold stars, the goddess Freyja rode out upon her golden-bristled boar, Hildisvíni. The air shimmered faintly around her; frost glowed blue upon the ground as she approached a cave hollowed into a mountainside.

Inside that cave slept Hyndla, a giantess older than memory itself - a keeper of ancient knowledge and the tangled lines of kinship that bound gods and men together.

Freyja called out softly, her voice carrying through stone and shadow.
“Wake, maiden - wake, my sister Hyndla! Night is falling, and we must ride together. The path is long, and I must reach Valhalla before dawn, to seek a boon from the Allfather himself.”

From within the cave came a low growl of irritation. Hyndla stirred, her eyes like embers in the dark. “You ask falsely, Freyja,” she muttered, “for I see deceit in your shining eyes. You do not ride alone tonight - your lover rides with you, that mortal man, Óttar the Young, son of Innstein.”

Freyja laughed, soft as silver bells. “You dream wildly, old one. My companion is no lover, but my faithful follower. What you see beside me is my boar, Hildisvíni, forged by the dwarves Dáin and Nábbí, whose craft is beyond compare. Together we travel for a noble purpose - for Óttar has wagered his father’s inheritance, and his honour, in a contest of blood and birth. He must prove his lineage before Angantýr, and I have come to you for help.”

The giantess rose, stretching her limbs like an ancient oak groaning in the wind. “So it is another man’s fate you seek to twist,” she said, “and again you come to me.”

Freyja dismounted gracefully, her golden cloak trailing like dawnlight. “Help me, Hyndla. You alone know the hidden threads of ancestry. Speak them aloud so that Óttar may remember, for he has built me a shrine of stones - a gift of faith and love. The rock itself has grown glass-smooth with devotion, and many times has it been reddened with the blood of sacrifice. Now, in return, I would see him restored to his rightful name.”

The goddess’s voice softened. “Tell me now the ancient lines - who are of the Skjoldungs, who of the Skilfings, the Öðlings, the Ylfings? Who are the free-born and the high-born - the noblest of those who dwell in Midgard?”

Hyndla’s eyes gleamed. “You ask much, goddess. But I will speak.”

And so she began.

“Óttar is the son of Innstein, son of Álf the Old, who was born of Úlfr, son of Sæfari, whose father was Svan the Red - a man famed in the days when the world was still young.

Your mother, bright-armed Hleiðis, was a priestess of honour and wisdom. Her father was Fróði, her mother Fríaut, and from them sprang many mighty men.

From these roots came Halfdan the Skjoldung, a warrior whose battles echoed to the edges of the heavens. With Eymund the Strong beside him, he slew Sigtryggr with an ice-cold blade and took Almveig as his bride. Eighteen sons she bore him - all heroes, all fierce with their father’s might.

From their line came kings and jarls - the Skjoldungs, the Skilfings, the Öðlings, the Ynglings. The noblest of men in Midgard’s halls - and all of them your kin, Óttar, though you do not yet see it.”

The goddess listened as Hyndla’s words wove through the air like the threads of fate itself.

The giantess continued, her tone low and powerful.
“Your mother’s mother was Hildigunn, daughter of Sváva and King Sækonungr. They too are your kin. The wife of Dagr, the dawn’s child, was Thora - mother of brave warriors: Fróðmar, Gyrðr, the twin Frekis, Ámr, Jöfurrmar, and Álf the Old.

From Ketill, heir of Klyppr, to Nanna daughter of Nökkvi - your line winds back through time like a golden serpent. All are your forebears, Óttar - and you, fool that you are, never knew your blood ran with heroes.”

Hyndla’s voice grew stronger as she spoke, names tumbling like water from a sacred spring.
“Ísólfr and Ósólfr, sons of Ólmóð; Skurhildr, daughter of Skekkill; Gunnarr the Bulwark; Grímr the Hardy; Þórir the Iron-Shield; Úlfr the Howler - I knew them all. They fought and feasted in the halls of Hrólfr the Old, whose fame will never die.

Hervarðr and Hjörvarðr, Hrani and Angantýr, Búi, Brami, Barri, Reifnir, Tindr, Tyrfingr, and the twin Haddings - fierce warriors, berserks of flame and storm. All of them are your kin, Óttar, though you wander unknowing.”

The cave seemed to tremble with her voice as she went on.
“In the east, in Bólm, were born the sons of Arngrímr and Eyfura, who burned through the world in fury - with sword and fire across land and sea. And even they, Óttar, are your kinsmen.

From the seed of Völsung came heroes and dragon-slayers. Hjörðís, born of Hrauðung’s line; Eylimi, son of the Öðlings - they too are in your blood.

Gunnarr and Högni, sons of Gjúki, and their sister Guðrún, wise and sorrowful - all kin to you. Even Sigurðr Fáfnisbani, slayer of the dragon, breaker of hosts - his blood flows in your veins.

Haraldr Battle-Tooth, born of Auðr the Deep-Minded, wife to Hrœrekr the Ring-Giver; her father was Ívarr, and Ráðbarðr the sire of Randvér - yes, all these great ones are yours, Óttar. You are bound to greatness, though you never knew it.”

When Hyndla’s voice fell silent, the air was thick with the weight of memory. Freyja lifted her hand, blessing her follower.

“Bring now the mead of memory,” she said softly, “so that my faithful one shall recall every name you have spoken. Three nights hence, when Óttar stands before Angantýr, he will speak with the strength of his ancestors, and no man will deny his blood.”

But Hyndla sneered, her eyes flashing. “Go, Freyja. I have no more favours for you. Leave me to my rest, you restless goddess, always leaping through the night like Heiðrún among her goats. Run back to your lover Óðr, whom you so often lose and find again. You are ever wandering, ever seeking.”

Freyja’s calm face hardened. “Then flames shall I raise around you, giantess, until your spite is turned to ash.”

Hyndla laughed, harsh as iron on stone. “I see the fire rising! The earth burns! Let every creature pay for its life. I’ll bring to Óttar a draught of beer - a bitter drink, filled with venom and cursed fate!”

But Freyja only smiled, radiant and terrible.
“Your poison shall fail, Hyndla. Your curses will turn to dust. For Óttar shall drink a fair and holy brew, blessed by my hand and by the favour of the gods.”

And so the goddess departed, riding her shining boar through the dark, the stars blazing above her. Behind her, the mountain smoked with the remnants of Hyndla’s fury, but Freyja’s light endured - carrying with her the power of memory, the song of ancestry, and the unbroken thread that bound mortals to the divine.