Tyr glanced down at his right arm which ended at the wrist. Even handicapped, he could not be defeated in one on one battle. He clasped his sword in his left hand, as he contemplated his current situation.
Once known as the father of the Norse gods, he had been the head of their pantheon. His name meant god, for goodness’ sake. Now, look at him. His only legacy consisted of the name of a mediocre day of the week, Tuesday. Big whoop.
He once judged human kind, determining whether they lived or died. He stood for glory, heroism and victory in individual struggles. But it all came down to PR. Odin, the upstart, acted like a big kid, with his hunting and magic and poetry. Thor made a lot of noise with his thunder and that silly hammer.
Did anyone even remember the story of how Tyr lost his hand?
Fenrir, the great wolf, terrorized the gods and humans alike. The demonic animal broke every chain placed upon it.
The dwarves made a magical ribbon called Gleipnir to shackle the beast. It looked like silk but consisted of the sound of a cat's footfall, the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain, the bear's feelings, fish's breath and bird's spittle, none of which exist anymore once the ribbon had been made.
Sensing a trap, Fenrir refused to have the ribbon placed around his neck unless one of the gods would put his hand in the wolf’s mouth. Being the bravest and noblest of gods, Tyr agreed. The wolf was bound but at the cost of Tyr’s right hand.
