The Story of the Wolf Skoll and Hati

In the time before time, when the gods first set the cosmic order and hung the lights in the sky to give illumination to the newly-formed realms, they created a system of such perfect balance that day and night would alternate in eternal rhythm, bringing light and darkness to all the worlds in their proper measure.

Sol, the radiant goddess of the sun, drove her golden chariot across the heavens each day, her magnificent steeds Árvakr and Alsviðr pulling her blazing orb from east to west. Behind her, at a distance measured by divine design, followed Máni, the gentle god of the moon, in his silver chariot drawn by swift horses whose hoofbeats marked the passage of time itself.

The gods believed they had created a perfect system—one that would endure until the end of all things. But they had not reckoned with the consequences of their treatment of the wolf-children of Loki, nor with the ancient prophecies that spoke of cosmic vengeance for injustices done.

Among the offspring of Loki and the giantess Angrboda were many creatures of power and significance, but none were more important to the fate of the cosmos than the wolf Fenrir and his siblings. When the gods, fearing the prophecies surrounding these children, chose to bind Fenrir and cast Jormungandr into the sea, they thought they had prevented catastrophe. But fate is not so easily cheated, and the injustices done to Loki’s family would echo through the generations.

From the line of Fenrir came two wolves whose destiny would be inextricably linked with the lights in the sky. These were Sköll, whose name meant “Treachery” or “Mockery,” and Hati Hróðvitnisson, called “He Who Hates” or “Enemy.” Unlike their mighty ancestor Fenrir, these wolves were not bound by the gods, for their purpose was not to bring immediate destruction but to serve as instruments of inevitable fate.

Sköll was born under a new moon, when the sky was darkest and the stars shone with cold light. From the moment of his birth, his eyes were fixed upward, drawn irresistibly to the blazing path of Sol’s chariot. Even as a pup, he would howl at the sun, a sound that sent chills through all who heard it, for it carried within it the promise of future pursuit.

Hati was born during a solar eclipse, when the sun was hidden and the world lay in unnatural twilight. His gaze was drawn not to the harsh brilliance of day, but to the gentle silver light of Máni’s moon. Where Sköll’s howl was harsh and mocking, Hati’s was mournful and filled with inexorable purpose.

As the young wolves grew, their obsession with the celestial lights intensified. They spent their days gazing upward, tracking the movements of sun and moon, learning the patterns of their prey with the patience that only predators possess. Other wolves hunted deer and elk, but Sköll and Hati had prey worthy of their divine heritage.

The first sign that the cosmic order was not as stable as the gods believed came when Sköll began his pursuit. On a day when the summer sun blazed at its highest and brightest, the great wolf rose from his watching place and began to run. His powerful legs carried him across the earth with supernatural speed, and when he leaped into the sky itself, the laws of nature bent to accommodate his divine purpose.

Sol, driving her golden chariot across the heavens, suddenly felt a chill that had nothing to do with wind or weather. Looking back, she saw a sight that filled her divine heart with terror—a massive wolf, dark as shadow against the brightness of the sky, pursuing her with relentless determination.

“Faster!” she cried to her horses Árvakr and Alsviðr. “Faster, my faithful steeds, for if he catches us, the light of the world will be extinguished!”

The horses, understanding the urgency in their mistress’s voice, stretched their legs and ran with speed that made their golden light streak across the sky like a comet. But behind them, Sköll matched their pace, his massive paws finding purchase on air itself as he bounded through the heavens.

Thus began the eternal chase that has continued from that day to this. Each morning, Sol rises in the east and begins her journey across the sky, and each morning Sköll takes up the pursuit, following her blazing path with hunger that never diminishes. Sometimes he draws closer, and on those days the sun seems dimmer, shadows grow longer, and the world feels the chill of approaching darkness. But always, just as he seems about to close his jaws on the sun’s chariot, Sol manages to pull ahead, keeping light in the world for another day.

When night falls and Sol disappears below the western horizon, Sköll loses her trail and must begin the hunt anew the next morning. But his pursuit has given the goddess an urgency she never possessed before—where once she drove her chariot at a leisurely pace, now she races across the sky, always listening for the sound of paws on the wind behind her.

Hati’s pursuit of the moon began somewhat later, for Máni’s silver light was more subtle and required different hunting skills. The wolf of hatred studied his prey for months, learning the moon’s phases, understanding how the gentle god waxed and waned in a cycle that seemed connected to the very life-force of the growing things below.

On a night when the moon hung full and bright in the star-filled sky, Hati began his own chase. Unlike his companion’s pursuit of the sun, Hati’s hunt was quieter, more patient. He moved through the darkness like a shadow among shadows, his silver-gray fur blending with the moonbeams until he seemed almost a part of the night itself.

Máni, more contemplative than his sister Sol, noticed the pursuit sooner. The god of the moon was accustomed to solitude during his nightly journeys, and the presence of a hunter in his domain disturbed the peace he had always known.

“Who dares pursue the moon through the night sky?” Máni called out, his voice echoing strangely in the vast emptiness of space.

Hati’s answer came not in words but in a howl that spoke of ancient grievances and promised vengeance. It was a sound that reached not just the moon god’s ears but echoed through all the Nine Realms, causing mothers to draw their children closer and warriors to check their weapons.

From that night forward, Hati has followed Máni across the dark sky, sometimes so close that his breath seems to dim the moon’s silver light, other times falling behind when the moon god finds reserves of speed that surprise even himself. The phases of the moon, which mortals mark to measure the passage of time, are partly the result of this eternal chase—when Hati draws near, the moon seems to diminish and hide, and when the wolf falls behind, the moon blazes forth in full glory.

The gods watched these pursuits with growing alarm, for they understood the implications better than mortals could. The wolves were not merely hunting for sport or hunger—they were instruments of fate, and their successful capture of their prey would herald the beginning of Ragnarök.

Odin, ever wise and ever troubled by his knowledge of the future, convened the gods in Gladsheim to discuss what could be done.

“The wolves grow stronger with each passing day,” he reported to the assembled gods. “My ravens bring word that Sköll now runs closer to Sol’s chariot than ever before, and Hati’s pursuit of Máni grows more relentless. If they succeed in catching their prey…”

“The sun and moon will be devoured,” Frigg finished, her voice heavy with sorrow. “And without their light, the worlds will be plunged into the darkness that precedes the end of all things.”

Thor, as always, proposed a direct solution. “Then let us hunt down these wolves and slay them before they can complete their purpose. I will take Mjolnir and—”

“No,” Odin interrupted. “The wolves serve fate itself. To slay them would only delay the inevitable, and fate has ways of ensuring its will is done. We cannot change what must come to pass, only prepare for it.”

Baldr, wisest and most beloved of the gods, spoke thoughtfully: “Perhaps the purpose of the chase is not merely to bring about Ragnarök, but to ensure that Sol and Máni do their duty properly. Before the wolves began their pursuit, did not the sun sometimes linger too long in one part of the sky? Did not the moon sometimes forget to rise or set?”

The other gods considered this, and recognized the truth in Baldr’s words. Since the chase began, the movements of sun and moon had become more regular, more predictable. The fear of capture had driven both celestial beings to maintain their proper courses with greater diligence than ever before.

And so the gods learned to live with the knowledge that overhead, the eternal chase continued. They established watch-posts and appointed seers to monitor the progress of the pursuit, for they knew that when the wolves finally succeeded, it would be their warning that the final battle was at hand.

In Midgard, mortals developed their own understanding of the chase. They learned to read the signs—when the sun seemed dimmer or moved more swiftly across the sky, they knew that Sköll was drawing near. When the moon waxed and waned in its phases, they understood it as the ebb and flow of Hati’s pursuit.

Some mortal heroes attempted to aid the sun and moon in their flight. They would stand on mountaintops and shout challenges at the wolves, or shoot arrows into the sky hoping to distract the hunters. But their efforts, though brave, were futile against creatures of such divine power and purpose.

The wolves themselves evolved as their eternal hunt continued. Sköll grew swifter and more cunning, learning to anticipate Sol’s movements and cut across her path rather than simply following behind. His endurance became legendary—he could run for days without rest, his hunger for the sun sustaining him better than any earthly food.

Hati developed different skills, becoming a master of stealth and patience. He learned to use the darkness itself as camouflage, disappearing into shadows so completely that even Máni sometimes lost track of his pursuer. His silver eyes reflected the moonlight in such a way that they sometimes seemed to be additional stars in the sky.

As the ages passed, both wolves and their prey began to understand that they were locked in a cosmic dance that was larger than any of them individually. Sol and Máni were not merely fleeing from death—they were playing their part in the great story that would culminate in the world’s ending and rebirth. The wolves were not simply hunting—they were serving as agents of time itself, measuring out the days and nights until the appointed moment.

In the prophetic poems sung by the völur, the wise women who could see into the future, the final success of the wolves’ hunt was described with terrible clarity:

“A wolf shall swallow the sun, And this will seem a great harm to men. Another will seize the moon, And cause even greater damage. The stars will disappear from the sky, And steam will rage against the life-nourishing tree.”

But the poems also spoke of what would come after—how the daughter of Sol would take up her mother’s burden and drive a new sun across the sky, and how the world would be renewed and made green again. The chase of the wolves was not merely an ending, but a necessary part of the cosmic cycle of death and rebirth.

And so Sköll and Hati continue their eternal pursuit, day after day, night after night, century after century. They run with the patience of mountains and the determination of the tides, knowing that their success is inevitable but not hurrying toward it. They are content to serve their role as measurers of time, driving the sun and moon to fulfill their duties while awaiting the moment when fate will allow them to finally catch their prey.

When that moment comes—when Sköll’s jaws finally close around the sun and Hati devours the moon—the skies will go dark and the final phase of Ragnarök will begin. But until that day, the chase continues, beautiful and terrible, a reminder that even the lights in the sky are not eternal, and that all things, even gods and cosmic forces, must eventually yield to the turning of fate’s great wheel.

The story of Sköll and Hati teaches that some pursuits span not just lifetimes but entire ages, and that the greatest hunts are not about the moment of capture but about the meaning found in the chase itself. They remind us that time moves forward relentlessly, measured not in human moments but in cosmic cycles that dwarf our brief lives, yet which give meaning and structure to the very existence we cherish.