The Story of the God Hreidmar

In the days when magic flowed as freely as water and shape-changing was as common as breathing, there lived a powerful sorcerer whose name was Hreidmar. He dwelt in a hall built where three valleys met, and he was father to three sons, each gifted with abilities that would have made them legends in any other family.

The eldest son was Fafnir, strong and fierce, with a heart that burned with fierce pride and ambition. The middle son was Regin, clever beyond measure, who could craft wonders from metal and stone with skills that rivaled even the dwarves. But it was the youngest son, Otr, who brought the most joy to his father’s heart.

Otr possessed the gift of shape-changing, and of all the forms he could take, his favorite was that of an otter. In this shape, he would spend his days diving in the clear streams that ran near their home, catching fish with grace and skill that amazed even his magical family.

“Look at him,” Hreidmar would say with pride as he watched Otr’s sleek form gliding through the water. “See how perfectly he moves, how completely he becomes what he chooses to be. In him lives the old magic at its purest.”

Hreidmar loved all his sons, but there was something special about watching Otr in his otter form—the pure joy of a being perfectly at home in his chosen shape, the simple pleasure of swimming and diving and catching fish in the morning sun. It reminded the old sorcerer of what magic was truly for: not power or domination, but the freedom to be exactly what one was meant to be.

One fateful morning, as was his custom, Otr took his otter shape and went to fish in Andvari’s Falls, where the water ran swift and clear over smooth stones. The fish were plentiful there, and Otr spent a happy morning diving and catching his breakfast. Finally, tired and satisfied, he climbed onto the bank to rest in the warm sun, a large salmon beside him for his lunch.

It was then that three travelers came walking along the stream—Odin, Loki, and Hoenir, out exploring the world in disguise as they often did. They saw what appeared to be simply an otter sunning itself beside the water, and Loki, always quick to act without thinking, picked up a stone and threw it with deadly accuracy.

The stone struck Otr and killed him instantly, and the young god returned to his human form as life left him. The three gods stared in horror at what they had done—not hunting an animal as they had thought, but killing a young man whose only crime was choosing to rest in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“What have we done?” whispered Hoenir, seeing the transformation and understanding the magnitude of their mistake.

“We must make this right,” said Odin grimly, though he knew that some wrongs could never be truly undone.

But Loki, trying to make light of the tragedy, picked up the salmon that lay beside Otr’s body. “At least we have food for our journey,” he said, not yet understanding the full weight of what had occurred.

When they came to Hreidmar’s hall seeking shelter for the night, the old sorcerer welcomed them with the hospitality due to travelers. But when Loki, still oblivious to the connection, proudly displayed both the otter skin and the salmon as proof of his hunting skill, Hreidmar’s face went white as winter snow.

“Do you know what you have done?” he asked, his voice shaking with grief and rising fury. “Do you know whose skin you wear so proudly?”

The gods realized their mistake too late. Hreidmar’s magic bound them where they stood, and his terrible grief transformed into equally terrible rage.

“That is my son!” he cried, taking the otter skin in trembling hands. “My youngest son, Otr, who never harmed anyone, who brought nothing but joy to this house. You have murdered him for sport, as if he were merely an animal!”

The gods stood frozen, bound by both magic and the weight of their accidental crime. Odin’s wisdom, Hoenir’s careful thought, Loki’s silver tongue—none could undo what had been done.

“What compensation do you demand?” Odin asked, for he knew the ancient laws. A life taken required a price paid, and the victim’s family had the right to set that price.

Hreidmar’s eyes burned with grief-madness. “Fill the otter skin with gold,” he commanded. “Fill it completely, then cover it entirely with more gold so that not a single hair shows through. Only then will the blood-debt be paid.”

It seemed a reasonable demand at first—until Loki tried to fill the skin and discovered that it stretched to accommodate whatever was put into it, growing larger and larger as if it could never be satisfied. The gods were forced to seek out Andvari, a dwarf who lived beneath the waterfall, and take from him all his treasure, including a cursed golden ring that the dwarf swore would bring doom to all who possessed it.

When the gold was finally gathered and the terrible price paid, Hreidmar stood in his hall surrounded by more wealth than any mortal had ever possessed. But as he looked at the pile of gold that had bought his son’s life, he felt no joy, no satisfaction—only the cold knowledge that all the treasure in the world could not bring back the sound of Otr’s laughter.

The gods departed, shaken by the consequences of their careless act. But Hreidmar’s story was far from over. The curse that Andvari had laid upon his stolen treasure began to work its poison. The gold whispered to Hreidmar in the dark hours of night, telling him that his remaining sons coveted it, that they planned to steal it from him.

Grief and the curse’s influence twisted Hreidmar’s mind until he trusted no one, not even Fafnir and Regin. He hoarded the gold obsessively, sleeping with it, counting it endlessly, allowing no one else to touch even a single coin.

Eventually, the curse fulfilled its purpose. Fafnir, driven mad by his own desire for the treasure, killed his father to claim the gold. But the curse was not satisfied with one death—it transformed Fafnir into a dragon, a monster who would guard the treasure until Sigurd the Volsung came to slay him.

The skalds tell this tale as a warning about the true cost of compensation that cannot compensate, of justice that serves revenge rather than healing. Hreidmar had every right to demand payment for his son’s life, but the method he chose—gold instead of understanding, treasure instead of truth—brought only more suffering to his family.

In every parent who loses a child, in every heart that chooses bitterness over healing, in every soul that lets grief transform into something destructive—there echoes the tragedy of Hreidmar. His story reminds us that while justice is necessary, the form it takes matters as much as the fact of it.

For in the end, no amount of gold could heal Hreidmar’s broken heart, no treasure could fill the emptiness left by his son’s death. What he truly needed—acknowledgment of his loss, genuine remorse from those who caused it, the comfort of those who understood his pain—could not be bought or demanded, only given freely by hearts that chose compassion over convenience.

The tale of Hreidmar teaches us that the greatest tragedies often begin not with evil intentions, but with careless actions and prideful refusals to truly see the harm we have caused. And it warns us that justice without mercy, compensation without compassion, can become curses that poison not just the guilty, but all who come after them.