The Lay of Svipdag (In story form)
There was once a young man named Svipdag, whose father had taken a new wife. She was a harsh and false woman, and out of malice she set him a cruel task: to find and win the maiden Menglöð, who dwelt in a hall far away, beyond all mortal paths. The quest was meant to doom him, for no man had ever reached her.
In his despair, Svipdag remembered the words of his real mother, Gróa, a woman skilled in magic. Before she died, she told him that if ever he was in great need, he should call upon her at her grave. So Svipdag went to the burial mound and cried out at the gates of the dead:
“Wake, mother! Wake, good Gróa! I need your help now more than ever. You told me to seek your aid, even from beyond death. Your son calls to you!”
From the earth, Gróa answered, rising from her rest. She asked what evil had befallen him, and Svipdag explained how his stepmother had forced him onto this hopeless path. Hearing this, Gróa did not despair, but promised to aid him. She began to chant powerful protective spells - charms to guard him against every danger:
Spells to shake off sickness and harm.
Spells to keep him safe on unknown roads.
Spells to part raging rivers so he might cross.
Spells to make his enemies falter in battle.
Spells to break fetters and chains.
Spells to calm the sea in storms.
Spells to shield him from deadly frost.
Spells to turn away curses and restless spirits.
Spells to fill his heart with wisdom and his tongue with sharp words against giants.
When she had finished, Gróa blessed him one last time: “Carry these charms in your heart, my son, and fortune will be yours as long as my words endure.”
Armed with his mother’s magic, Svipdag set forth. His journey was long and perilous - though the tales of his trials are lost to us, we know he endured many hardships, shielded by her spells. At last, he came to the foot of a great fortress, its walls blazing with magical fire. This was the hall of Menglöð, the maiden of his fate.
At the gates stood a watchman named Fjölsviðr - “Much-Wise.” He challenged Svipdag, demanding to know who he was and what he sought. Svipdag, calling himself “Vindkald” to hide his true name, answered him with riddles of his own. Thus began a long contest of questions and answers.
Svipdag asked about the walls, the gates, and the hounds that guarded the hall. Fjölsviðr explained that the gates, called Thrymgjol, were forged by giants and bound fast like fetters; that the wall, called Gastrópnir, would stand for as long as mankind lived; and that the hounds Gífr and Geri never both slept at once, guarding the way day and night.
Svipdag pressed further: could no one slip past while the hounds were fed? Fjölsviðr told him that only the wing-joints of the mighty cock Víðófnir, who sat shining like lightning atop the great world-tree Mímameið, could sate them. Svipdag then asked what weapon might strike Víðófnir down. Fjölsviðr revealed it was Lævateinn, a sword forged by Loki at the doors of death, locked in the chest of the giantess Sinmora and sealed by nine locks. To win it, a man must bring her a rare treasure - a shining sickle found among Víðófnir’s feathers.
The riddles continued. Fjölsviðr told how the fruit of Mímameið was sought by women in childbirth, for it brought life forth safely. He told of Lyfjaberg, the mountain of healing, where those who climbed were cured of illness. He named the nine maidens who served Menglöð, bringers of protection and aid to those who made offerings at holy altars.
At last, Svipdag asked the question that burned in his heart: “Is there any man who may lie in Menglöð’s arms, so fair to see?”
Fjölsviðr answered: “None but Svipdag alone - for she is destined to be his bride.”
Then Svipdag cast off his disguise and cried: “Open the gates! For I am Svipdag himself, come at last!” The doors burst wide, the hounds fawned instead of attacking, and Fjölsviðr called to Menglöð: “Go forth, a man has come - I believe it is Svipdag!”
At first, Menglöð doubted, fearing it was a lie. But when she saw him, she asked his name and lineage. He told her truly: “I am Svipdag, son of Sólbjart. By wind-cold ways I came, for none may resist the will of fate.”
At these words, Menglöð rejoiced: “Welcome, at last! Long have I waited here upon Lyfjaberg, day after day, hoping for your coming. Now my hope is fulfilled - for you are here. Two who have yearned are united, and together we shall live our lives to the end.”
And so the tale ends: Svipdag, armed with his mother’s love and magic, survives an impossible journey and wins Menglöð, the bride destined for him.
This is the story of Grógaldr and Fjölsvinnsmál together - a myth of fate, love, and the bond between mother and son that even death cannot sever.