403: Norse sagas: Wormtongue

Brief disclaimer, there's some stronger than usual violence this week.

We're in the Icelandic sagas after all.

So if that's of concern, please check out the post on mythpodcast.com.

This week, on Myths and Legends, we're back in the Icelandic sagas, and we'll see what it costs to become a celebrity poet, basically everything, and how if you manage to get that gig, do not throw it away on a revenge marriage.

On the criteria this week, we'll see that the insect buzzing in your backyard might just be a little old man begging for death.

This is Myths and Legends, episode 403, Worm Tongue.

This is a podcast where we tell stories from mythology and folklore.

Some are incredibly popular tales you might think you know, but with surprising origins.

Others are stories that might be new to you, but are definitely worth a listen.

We're in Icelandic folklore, and this week is a legend, so a folk story with some connection to history.

We're after 1000 AD, and technically still in the Viking Age, so the people of the Nordic countries aren't above a little rating when it comes to Britain, Ireland, and continental Europe.

But as profitable as pillaging may be, there's something even better.

Becoming a celebrity poet.

Yes.

Really!

Today, we follow the stories of some Icelandic poets and all the death that results from being an Icelandic poet during the Viking Age.

We'll jump in not with a poet, though, but with a farmer who's just waking up from a nap.

Yeah, I know, Thorstein's traveling companion said.

You were pretty upset, but I figured it was better to let you sleep.

Waking a Viking guy from a bad dream, probably not a great idea.

Your name is Eastman, right?

Thorstein, the farmer who was traveling around and meeting with his tenants, asked the man from the east.

No, no, it's not.

That's not my name.

I'm from the East.

Could be the Slavic lands, could be as far as Byzantium.

I do have a name, though, the man said.

Great, Eastman, think you can unriddle unriddle my dreams?

I know you have a talent for that, Thorstein said.

The man said he did have a talent for that, but also, no, please.

Good, great, Thorstein said.

Okay, in his dream, there was a beautiful swan sitting on his roof.

Beautiful, but not like, you know, beautiful.

Like he loved this female swan, but in a, I don't know, what's the word?

Fatherly way?

Anyway, an eagle arrived with iron talons and he was great.

He was black-eyed, valiant.

The swan was into him and she was happy.

But then another eagle comes and ruffles the feathers of the first.

They fought, they killed each other, everyone was sad.

Then a falcon arrived and took the swan, the end.

What do you think, Eastman?

Thorstein said.

The guy, who wasn't named Eastman, said, well, that's all great, All good stuff.

He was gonna have a gonna have a happy life, gonna farm a lot of stuff and have kids, all just great stuff, all great, wonderful.

Thorstein said, Hold up.

It felt a little disingenuous.

He wanted to know if something bad was coming his way and his dream was trying to warn him.

Eastman didn't have to baby him.

He understood that Eastman wasn't the author of his fate, just a communicator.

You sure?

the traveling companion said to Thorstein.

Absolutely.

You won't be mad.

Not at all.

The companion said, Okay.

Well, it seemed pretty obvious that Thorstein's wife was with child, and she would give birth to a daughter.

Two men would fight over her, they would kill each other, and a falcon, a third man, would come and take her away.

But she would mourn forever.

Thorstein looked at the man, nodded, and and then said, all right,

get out.

What?

You heard me.

Get out.

Leave.

Why would you say that?

Thorstein shook his head.

Because that's what your dream meant, the man said.

There you go again.

Stop it.

Thorstein rose and Eastman read the room or the angry Viking on the side of the stable.

Not knowing where he was going or what he was going to do, he took off into the country.

Thorstein sat back down, down, ridiculous.

There was no telling what that meant.

He might not even have a girl.

Still,

if he did, no, Eastman couldn't be right.

He stood and called his servants to himself.

They were leaving.

He had to go home.

So I noticed you're with child, Thorstein pointed out the very obvious as his wife, Jofrid, fanned herself in the summer warmth.

Yes, I'm pregnant.

You know this, I have been for months.

What are you trying not to say, honey?

I am so excited for you to give birth to our child, our son, Thorstein clasped his hands.

We don't know that's what it is yet, Jofrid pointed out.

Thorstein said he was pretty clear he felt.

If she gave birth and it was a son, that was their child.

Jofrid felt like

there were some pretty big ellipses just hanging there in the air.

And, you know, fun little thought experiment.

If it was a daughter?

Nope, Thorstein nodded.

Nope, I'm sorry, what is nope?

Jofrid's confusion was morphing into indignation.

If you have a girl child, it's not ours.

Cast it forth.

Thorstein pointed and then rose.

Jofred fumed.

Where was this coming from?

I have to leave for the thing,

he said, grabbing his cloak.

And he wasn't just being vague.

The thing, capital T, was a public assembly.

It could function as a parliament or a court.

It happened yearly during the Viking Age.

And all the free men of the country went to it.

And Thorstein was going to it.

He would await news of his son.

Bye!

Not doing that!

Jofrid yelled, and she didn't.

When she had her daughter, she couldn't bear to cast the baby out because her husband had a weird dream.

So she called a servant over.

Thorstein's sister just had a baby, and so she could nurse the girl.

The servant sat atop Jofrid's fastest horse, and Jofrid handed him the girl.

The servant was to take enough silver to leave Iceland forever and ride with the girl to her aunt's, and then leave Iceland forever.

Um, okay, one problem with that though, the servant pointed out.

Jofrid said directions, it's just down the coast, like a day's ride.

No, it's not directions, it's the leaving Iceland forever.

Oh, that's easy, just hop aboard a boat, go to Norway or Denmark, maybe Britain or Ireland if you're feeling pillagey.

But this is my my home, the servant said.

Oh, yeah, not any more.

I can't trust you not to talk.

And you won't be allowed to stay here after I report this horse stolen.

Wait, what?

The servant asked.

But Jofrid smacked the horse and it took off.

We have a lot of story to get to, and I won't belabor the discovery of Helga, who, after the herdsman dropped her off, grew up as the daughter of Thorstein's sister.

Thorstein was so glad his wife cast the girl out, and for six years they didn't have another child because why would they?

Over those six years, though, whenever Thorstein visited his sister, he got to know the little girl called Helga the Fair.

As time passed, Thorstein grew to love her as if she was his own daughter, because she was his own daughter.

Because dreams fade for all of us, and frankly, that dream wasn't all that bad to begin with.

Thorstein accepted Helga as his daughter.

Thorstein, to his credit, did ask forgiveness for his folly and thanked his sister and wife for looking after the girl.

He said things will fall where they are faded, and they covered over his foolishness.

Gunlog Wormtongue finished his poem.

So, what did they think?

His dad, Ilugi, said it was certainly a poem.

He was so proud of his boy, his skull, playing for the local king.

It was good the king was so bad with money and Ilugi had so much of it, because, well, never mind.

He nodded to his wife and servants.

They could surreptitiously take the beeswax out of their ears now.

He was the Odysseus to whatever was the opposite of the siren song.

This wouldn't kill you, though, just make you wish you were dead.

Any thoughts?

Anybody?

I'm always looking for feedback, Gunlog wormtongue asked.

Elugi shook his head, just like, make it longer.

He wanted more, love it.

Those were his only notes.

Gunlog took a deep breath and the room winced while the civilians rushed to stuff their ears, but Gunlaug wasn't going again.

That deep breath was nerves.

He wanted to ask his father if he could borrow a ship.

Um

why?

Gunlaugh said because he wanted to try his hand with his poetry out in the world.

The room was completely silent.

I mean,

you all love it.

Our king loves it.

The people love it.

But what if I could do more?

What if I could bring my art to the world?

The father, Elugi, nodded.

Yeah, mm-hmm.

And this...

this art would be

my poetry, Gunlog said.

Right, yes.

Hmm, I'm just thinking, like, what if the world isn't ready for it?

I mean, why leave, though, right?

All the cold seas and the rocking and the strange kingdoms.

you got a good thing going here where I have so much money and can look out for you and like threaten violence what what the dad said well gun log was staying then good talk great

When your child wants to be a world-roaming poet and they can't write poetry, or even if they are halfway decent at it, you want to nip that in the bud, or at least lock up the car keys, or in this case, the horses, until that blows over.

Completely unaware of the deep-seated nepotism he was benefiting from, Gunlaugh took the horses and enough grain to pay for passage on a ship and paid for passage on a ship.

Gunlaugh, without his dad paying and paving his way into a job at court, had no idea how to make his way as a a poet in the medieval world.

And that's not a knock at him.

It appears just as difficult then as it is now to make a living composing poems, which is how he ended up pitching his poems to Thorstein, the farmer, from the top of the episode.

Please stop that.

Those are horrible.

Thorstein held up a hand.

Gunlaugh said it was art.

It was subjective.

What might be horrible to him was art to someone else who might have, you know, more refined tastes.

No, that was just objectively bad in almost every way.

Thorstein relaxed his axe hand, meant to sever the source of those words should they not cease.

Okay, I'm not saying that it is, but, you know, sometimes art is bad for a reason, you know, like sometimes it's meant to communicate something through its subversion of expected norms.

Gunlug crossed his arms.

And is that what you did there?

Did you do it bad on purpose?

Thorstein zeroed in.

No, Gunlaug hung his head.

Thorstein sighed.

All right, when could the 15-year-old start?

Gunlaug's ears pricked up.

What?

He was hiring Gunlaug as a poet?

No, no, no, no, mmm.

Thorstein gagged like he just swallowed a live mouse.

No, but Gunlaugh seemed halfway clever.

He could study law under Thorstein.

And yeah, the literature major to law school pipeline existed even back then.

It's not difficult difficult to see what would happen next.

Gunlaugh and Helga were about the same age and would spend time together when Gunlaugh wasn't studying.

Over chess games, meals, and by never once sharing his poetry, Gunlaug won her heart, which was why, at his final study sessions nearly three years later, he told his teacher that he had learned many things studying the law.

That's the point of studying.

Yes, Thorstein looked warily on this setup.

But there is one thing the law has not taught me, and that is how to woo a wife,

Gunlaugh said.

And Thorstein smiled.

Then the smile faded wait.

Maybe knowing that it was fruitless to try to stop the two people who had fallen in love, because, you know, of the drastic consequences when that sort of thing happens.

Maybe because he still felt guilty for trying to have her murdered as a baby.

Whatever it was,

Thorstein begrudgingly approved.

And Gunlaugh and Helga were betrothed.

Wow, that's great.

Honey, I love you.

Gunlaugh looked into Helga's eyes.

She looked back, telling him she loved him too.

All right, I'm out.

See you in three years.

Gunlaugh rose.

Um, what?

I think it's pretty obvious what see you in three years means.

It means I'll be back.

In three years, ish, or less, maybe.

Why are you leaving?

And if you're leaving, you're not marrying her.

Thorstein pulled his daughter close.

Gunlaugh said he still wanted to make his way in the world.

He was a grown man and wanted to prove himself.

Thorstein was not hearing it.

He told Gunlaugh that this was a stretch to begin with, but him leaving for three years?

No.

If he wanted to leave, go.

But he wasn't going to leave betrothed to Thorstein's daughter.

Gunlaugh, a young man desperate to be taken seriously as an adult, did what all people desperate to be taken seriously as adults do.

He rode home to get dad to fix his problem.

Gunlaugh's dad might hate his son's poetry, but he loved his son.

We'll see what happens when he goes to talk to Thorstein, but that will be read after this.

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Ilugi was impressed that his son had managed to do anything and that he had changed careers when poetry wasn't working out.

Not realizing that writing poetry sits dormant in your system like a disease and never really leaves you, Gunlaug was still thinking he could make a go of it, but we'll get to that.

As a parent, I understand wanting to look out for your kids.

I also feel like rolling up with 11 full-grown Viking warriors to have a talk with your kids' friends' parents, that sends a very specific message.

Thorstein welcomed the Vikings in because what are you gonna do, really?

And inside, Ilugi talked about how he held Thorstein in high esteem.

And Thorstein reciprocated his thoughts.

He just hated the man's kid.

Ilugi nodded.

Even still, it was his kid.

And if Thorstein didn't treat him with the same respect, Ilugi would treat that as disrespecting their whole family.

It would be as if, I don't know, Thorstein took a sword, and at this time one of Elugi's guys placed a sword in his hand, and cut Alugi across the belly, his steaming entrails spilling out on the floor.

He wouldn't do something like that, would he?

Because Elugi would hate to do something like that to Thorstein, metaphorically, of course.

Thorstein swallowed, of course.

And with a dad like that, you can see why Gunlaugh's poetry career was going so well back home.

His voice quivering, Thorstein said the two would be betrothed.

But if Gunlaugh didn't return, Thorstein would be free to marry her to whomever he wished.

Yay!

Gunlaugh clapped.

Having been sitting there the whole time, he was so glad they were able to work it out.

Thanks, pops.

You're the best, he hugged Elugi, and then grasped Thorstein's shaking, sweaty palm.

You too, dad.

Thorstein allowed himself a grimace.

Yeah.

Gunlaugh rode to his ship that afternoon and made made his way to Norway.

There was blood in the water, or rather, on the floor.

Gunlaugh had made it to Norway, and thanks to his dad's connections via his friend Scotty, he was sitting down at the Jarl's table.

I'm sorry, is your foot bleeding?

Yarl Eric asked.

The room stopped and looked at Gunlaw, who shook his head, as his weight was coming down on his left instep, and the bloody boil was oozing out like a cherry tomato in the mouth of Denithor.

Oh, my boil, yeah.

Got a little blister, Gunlaugh said.

And he did.

He had an oozing, bloody boil that squeezed out with every step.

You don't want to have a seat?

The Yarl asked.

And Gunlaugh froze.

You know those scenes in Westerns where a guy walks into the bar and it's all tense because you don't know what's going to happen next?

That's how it was for Gunlaugh.

He realized he just showed weakness in front of all these Viking warriors.

If he didn't immediately go up to the biggest guy in here, he was fresh meat himself.

And we've already established that Gunlaugh is a terrible poet.

So he doesn't take issue with mixing metaphors when it comes to the Wild West and prison stereotypes.

And, like in the Wild West and prison, this called for poetry.

A finger out, he spun to face the Yarl.

A courtman there is, full evil, I whiz, a bad man in black, belief let him lack.

Um

what?

The Yarl looked back and forth.

The men weren't sure whether that was but that was insulting, right?

Oh,

it was insulting, Gunlaugh grinned.

How old are you?

Yarl Eric asked Gunlaugh.

I am eighteen winters old.

Yeah,

with tact like that, I don't think you're going to live another eighteen winters, Yarl Eric said, and the court laughed with him.

Pray not against me, but for thyself, rather, Gunlaug mumbled.

Um

what was that?

Yarl Eric asked.

What was what?

Gunlaug shook his head.

That mumbling after I made my comment, The Jarl pressed further.

I didn't mumble anything, Gunlaug said.

But the guy next to him pointed out that, yeah, contrary to what Gunlaug said, yahu he did.

What did you say?

the Jarl demanded.

Gunlaug said that, okay.

He said that the Jarl shouldn't pray for him, for Gunlaug, but for himself, rather.

And what should I pray?

the Jarl crossed his arms.

That you don't end up stabbed to death in a pigsty by your slave like your dad, Jarl Hakon, Gunlaugh said.

Now, there are things you don't bring up at a dinner party.

The brutal stabbing betrayal and murder of the host's dad probably being a big one.

Scotty was able to get Gunlaugh the introduction, and now he was able to get Gunlaugh a goodbye, pleating with the Jarl long enough for Gunlaugh to get to the boats and get passage on the first ship leaving at that moment for England, on the condition that he never sets foot again in Norway.

I'm not saying I want to write something so terrible that it gets me permabanned from a modern nation-state, but that is kind of an achievement in its own right.

King Ethelred of England was unready.

For just how brilliant Gunlaugh's verses were, wow!

As God are all folk-fearing, the free Lord King of England, kin of all kings and all folk, to Ethelred the headbow.

Gunlaugh took a bow.

Ethelred clapped, song reward, get this kid a song reward.

His courtiers draped a fur-lined cloak over him.

It had a gold-embroidered hem.

You are now my man.

Ethelred took Gunlaugh into his service.

Please don't invade.

Gunlaugh said a what?

Yeah, you're from the Nordic countries, right?

I'll give you more free stuff.

Give them more free stuff.

Ethelred nudged one of his knights before that was a thing.

Don't you like my poetry?

Gunlaug was confused.

I love your poetry, and I love living.

Do with that information what you will, Ethelred said.

Now that they weren't going to invade, Gunlaugh should winter here, do some shows.

Tell all his other friends in the Nordic countries that all the cool guys are choosing not to invade England.

And for all of those who might not be quite as big of history nerds as I am, the pre-Norman king Ethelred the Unready or Ethelred the Ill-Advised was famous for his ill-advised Viking strategy of paying the attacking Vikings to go away, which is like repelling stray cats with open cans of tuna fish.

I mean, yeah, they'll get full and wander off, but they will absolutely be back.

Gunlaugh, to his credit, did cut a guy in half in England.

Reavers and raiders were roaming the London streets and demanded a cash loan from Gunlaugh, on account of him having such a nice cloak.

As we learned with Gunlaugh's dad, if you're gonna ask anyone for anything, it almost always helps to have a baker's dozen of the toughest Viking warriors you can find, implying physical violence if you don't get what you want.

Gunlaugh gave up the gold, told the king, who gave him more gold, and after that was stolen too, Gunlaugh cut the guy in half.

It just goes to show that Gunlaugh did have some skills, even if poetry wasn't among them.

Praise worth I can, well measure a man, and kings, one by one, lo here, Gvaran's son, grudgeth the king.

Gift of gold ring, I, singer, know, his wont to bestow.

Let the high king say, heard he or this day, song drepu measure, dearer a treasure.

Well, that is certainly a song.

King Sigtrig Silky Beard, Norse king of Dublin, said,

It had, well, it had words and a meter.

King Sigtrig's Silky Beard noticed Gunlaugh was still standing there.

He wanted something.

Well, uh, King Sigtrig's Silky Beard said that he had a lot on his plate.

Between the constant revolts and conflicts with other legitimate kings in Ireland, as well as presumably conditioning his beard, he didn't get a lot of singers in here.

What was a good reward for a song?

Two ships?

His advisor rushed to his side, and he did say that in the original.

That was too much.

It's like a sword or something, maybe rings?

So that's what Gunlaw got in Ireland.

He got an axe in Orkney in Scotland, and soon he was on to Sweden by way of Norway.

So just stepping back a little bit here, one of the things I've learned being entertainment industry adjacent for about 10 years now is that talent matters, skill matters, but sometimes, more than anything, perception matters.

I'll be real, no one really knows what's up or what will be successful.

Not to get too inside baseball here, but Myths and Legends is what's known as an always-on show.

A few years after we started, we were told that those were old news.

Do a limited run series, those get big numbers and make a big splash and get awards.

Then it was interview shows, then it was daily podcasts.

Then about two or three years ago, guess what everyone wanted?

Always on shows because while they're not sexy, they're reliable in an increasingly unstable market.

Like I said, no one knows anything.

Likewise, sometimes people become that it person.

And talent or skill or no, the whole world kind of agrees to go along with it because there has to be somebody, right?

And everyone in the process has to get paid, so when marketing, interviews, blurbs, and social media are saying this person's the next big thing, it kind of doesn't matter if their work lives up to the hype.

I mean, it does matter in the long run, and it will be seen for what it is eventually.

But by then, the checks have been cut and the world has moved on to the next big thing.

Gun log is the big thing.

Art is subjective, so when this guy is getting an audience with kings all over Britain, Ireland, and the Nordic countries and getting all manner of gifts for his poetry, no one really wants to be the uncultured one and point out that the emperor is looking a little chilly, walking around without any clothes.

It did help him smooth things over with Jarl Eric, though.

Maybe Gunlaugh learned a thing or two about not bringing up your host's father's violent murder in a threatening manner.

Or any manner.

Maybe he was just able to finally perfect the art of pandering to your audience.

Something that, frankly, I've never really needed to do.

Because anyone with the good taste to listen to this podcast would be too smart to fall for that sort of thing anyway.

Gunlaug composed a poem about how great Jarl Eric was one evening while spending Yule at a farmer's house with some of Eric's men.

Word made it back to the Jarl, and Gunlaug was permitted to exist in Norway without being stabbed to death.

King Olaf the Swede ruled over Sweden.

Not terribly surprising.

It also wasn't surprising that Gunlaug made his way to the man's court.

At this point, He was kind of a big deal.

His reputation preceded him.

Not to the king, the king king didn't keep up with poetry, but the court poet, Raven, a jacked and burly skull, said he was aware of Gunlaug.

So that was good enough for King Olaf, the Swede, of Sweden.

It was also great to see one of his countrymen, a fellow Icelander, having gained so much acclaim.

Gunlaugh Wormtongue was invited to join the court.

By the end of the thing, though, The king wanted to hear a song.

Both Raven and Gunlaug stepped forward.

They both chuckled awkwardly.

Oh my.

They both opened their mouths and looked to the other.

The king said, um, but

what was happening?

Gunlog said that he was the guest of honor.

He was the visiting professor.

He should go first.

Yeah, but you're only the guest of honor because I vouched for you, Raven replied.

He was...

He had been here for years.

He should go first.

Gunlog held up a hand.

Um, did they know who he was?

Did they know how many fancy axes and and plush red cloaks he had for his poetry?

Oh my gosh, the king said, Gunlaw, go.

So Gunlaugh sang his poem.

The king said that, wow, that was certainly a poem.

He turned to Raven.

Would Raven help him out here?

What was his reading of that work?

Was it good?

Because it didn't seem like it was good.

Well, it was a song full of big words and little beauty.

It was rugged, a little rough around the edges.

Like Gunlaug here, Raven smiled, then sang his own song.

I will give my interpretation, Gunlaug said.

The king replied that that only seemed fair, though he always enjoyed Raven's poetry and didn't.

It's short.

Why'd you make it so short?

King wasn't worthy of a long one, Gunlaugh smirked.

Got him.

Even King Olaf knew that art was done when it was done, and long works or big words don't necessarily make something better art.

Gunlaug decided to leave after that.

Raven, too, decided to travel abroad.

If he could outpoet someone who had garnered so much acclaim, maybe he could be more than just a simple court poet.

Hi, Raven said as he was leaving.

Look, there was no hiding it.

They hadn't gotten along well.

Raven thought that Gunlaugh was an overhyped hack who didn't deserve a tenth of his praise.

and Gunlaug was intimidated by Raven's ability to craft a song or poem and do things Gunlaug could never in a million years manage to do himself.

Gunlaugh was about to reply, but Raven continued.

Where their problems came from was that Gunlaug had tried to shame him here before great men.

But the time would come when he would cast on Gunlaugh no less shame than Gunlaug had cast on him here.

Gunlaug scoffed.

Thy threats grieve me not.

Nowhere are we likely to come where I shall be thought less worthy than thou.

Raven smiled.

They would see.

They would see.

As Raven left, a messenger arrived for Gunlaug.

He had been invited back to England, to the court of Ethelred.

Gunlaug did some math.

Sure, he had to be back in Iceland this year to marry Helga, but

he had a whole year.

Yeah, he could swing another trip to England.

We'll see that a Danish blockade can really mess with your poetry vacation, but that will, once again, be right after this.

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We demand demand to be seen.

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Suffs.

Playing the Orpheum Theater October 22nd through November 9th.

Tickets at BroadwaySF.com.

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How about a powered-up paycheck and an amped-up career?

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The career you want and a life you'll love.

Have it all in the heart of it all.

Build your future at callohiohome.com.

Sucks.

The new musical has made Tony award-winning history on Broadway.

We demand to be home.

Winner, best score.

We demand to be seen.

Winner, best book.

It's a theatrical masterpiece that's thrilling, inspiring, dazzlingly entertaining, and unquestionably the most emotionally stirring musical this season.

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Playing the Orpheum Theater, October 22nd through November 9th.

Tickets at BroadwaySF.com.

It was time for Gunlaugh to go home.

It was nearly winter.

He just had to say goodbye to the king.

Oh, you can't leave, Ethelred said.

Sorry, yeah.

The Danes were attacking.

Turns out that they don't like it when you massacre Danish settlers.

King Swain was on his way, he and that son of his, Knut.

I've seen Vinland Saga, and those guys are not messing around.

I'm probably going to nope on out of here to Normandy the first chance I get.

Gunlaugh said he couldn't stay through the winter.

He had to get home to Iceland.

He was getting married.

Ethelred laughed.

Nope, not this winter.

All the ships to Iceland already sailed.

He was stuck there.

And he was.

He hung around England while the court fretted about Knut taking Wessex.

But Gunlaug actually managed to make it out before the Danes besieged London.

He was going to make it home to marry Helga.

As soon as Iceland Iceland was within view, Gunlaug ordered his men to make landfall.

He had to get to Helga's before Yule.

He jumped from the boat and splashed in the frigid water to see

Thord, not Thor.

Um, hi, Gunlaug said.

Apologies for having to land on their farm.

The men would be heading off to port, but he had to make his way north.

He was getting married to Helga.

The man laughed.

Gunlaugh didn't know what was so funny, but didn't have time to talk.

He was down down to hours because of that pointless trip to England, even though he did get a cool sword out of it.

Thor pointed.

What did the man have there?

Gunlaug looked over his shoulder to the bag he was carrying.

Um three years of riches from every court in the North Sea.

Wait, this guy wasn't robbing him, was he?

Gunlaugh would gladly pay for passage over his land.

Thord nodded.

Oh yeah.

Gunlaug would pay all right.

Gunlaug sighed and unhooked his bag.

He had like three scarlet cloaks.

Would the man take one of those?

You'll pay with a wrestling match.

Thor had started taking off his shirt.

Um

what?

Yeah, I wrestle people.

It's my thing.

Wrestle me.

Thor pounded an open palm with his fist.

Um no, I'm I'm not doing that, Gunlaugh said and closed his bag.

So wrestling matches should be consensual.

The problem, though is that as soon as that burly Viking boy tackles you on the moor, you're in a wrestling match whether you agree to it or not.

That's not how the world should work, but people challenging strangers to wrestling matches on the road are already existing kind of outside the expectations of normal society and we should all act accordingly.

Gunlog, to both his credit and his foolishness, fought back.

Like, if a single wrestler was standing in between me and my wedding, I'd be like, like, one, two, three, oh, you pinned me.

You're so strong and brave.

Bye now.

Gunlaugh, though, wasn't about to go down without a fight.

This was his home.

He wasn't about to be shamed by this guy with

obvious issues.

Anyway, Gunlaugh kind of won.

But just before Thord submitted, he popped Gunlaugh's ankle from its joint.

Gunlaw won, but he couldn't walk on his swollen and purple ankle.

He just hoped that his future father-in-law wouldn't hold to the letter of the law, could still marry Helga.

Oh, that's why I was laughing earlier, Thord said, putting his shirt back on.

Helga has been betrothed.

I was at the thing this last summer.

What?

To who?

Gunlaugh demanded.

The farmer's son only shrugged.

I don't know, some famous poet.

Gunlaugh relaxed.

Oh, yeah, no, that was actually him.

Your name is Raven?

Gunlaugh said up.

No, his name-wha-what?

Gunlaugh made it for the wedding.

Only it wasn't Raven and Helga's wedding.

That had happened days prior, just as his own betrothal had run out.

It was over.

She was with Raven now.

So, I'm gonna say, I agree with Thorstein, Helga's father.

If Gunlaugh loved his daughter so much, maybe don't leave for three years immediately after getting engaged.

The problem, though, was that while Gunlaugh was traveling the world and being famous and not thinking of Helga until the 11th hour, Helga was stuck in rural medieval Iceland and had nothing to do but dream of the life with the man she loved.

She didn't know Raven really, and while he was kind enough, He wasn't the man she had been dreaming about marrying for literal years.

He wasn't Gunlaugh.

And Gunlaugh, for his part, really wanted to marry her now, definitely because of strong feelings that had been there the whole time.

Probably also because his professional rival of all of about 10 minutes had married her while he was delayed getting cool stuff from the King of England.

So he sat through an unrelated wedding in the audience with his father.

Helga was part of the ceremony with Raven by her side, but she was distracted, being unable to look away from him, the man she had loved for years, having returned, but only just too late.

After the ceremony, Gunlaug walked up and unclasped his cloak.

He cleared his throat.

Light heart lived the worm tongue, all day long no longer, in mountain home since Helga had name of wife of Raven, not foresaw thy father, hardener white of Fightthal.

What my words should come to, the maid to gold was wedded.

Worst reward I owe them, father thine, O wine may,

and mother that they made thee so fair beneath thy maid gear, ew.

For thou, sweet field of sea flame, all joy hast slain without me.

Lo, here take it, loveliest, ere made of lord and lady.

She gasped as he put the beautiful scarlet cloak around her shoulders.

Nodding to Raven, Gunlaugh walked out into the cold, where, his horse waiting, he leapt atop it.

But he couldn't couldn't move.

He looked down and Raven held the horse's bridle.

God of wound flames glitter, glorier of fight goddess, must we fall a fighting for fairest kirtle-bearer?

Death staff, many such like, fairest she is are there, in southlands o'er the sea floods.

Sooth saith he who knoweth.

I don't know.

Gunlaugh laughed, as Alugi and Thorstein ran up to not take their respective sides, but to argue for peace.

Thorstein saying that the terms were clearly laid out when Gunlaugh left, and Alugi saying that Gunlaugh was

somehow a world-famous poet now, and could marry almost anyone he wanted.

But Gunlaug responded, of course, in verse, and I won't, we don't need to keep doing that.

He basically said he was delayed in England because Ethreb was at war.

Which, yeah, it probably didn't need to be in verse.

Gunlaugh spurred his horse on, and Raven let go, returning to his wife, who was holding Gunlaugh's cloak closely around her shoulders.

The surprising thing for everyone was that it took until the all thing, in the summer, for one to challenge the other to a duel to the death.

Everyone thought it would be Raven, whose wife would barely speak to him for all of her wistful looks out the window.

But it was Gunlaug, who called out to Raven that, since he got to wife Gunlaug's avowed bride, he had made himself Gunlaug's foe, and Gunlaug was challenging him to a duel in three nights' time.

I will not bore you with more translated poetry, but Gunlaugh was excited to cut Raven's head off with his fancy axe, and Raven called the weapons wound scythes and hoped Helga would hear how he fought for her.

Remember, no one except for Gunlaw wanted this to happen, so after Raven hit Gunlaugh's shield and his sword broke, a shard slicing Gunlaug's cheek, all the dads rushed in.

Gunlaugs, Helgas, and yes, even Ravens.

Elugi said that Raven should yield because he was weaponless, and Thorstein that Gunlaug should because he was wounded.

Gunlaug protested, but he was dragged away to get his cheek looked at, and while they couldn't keep Gunlaugh from challenging Raven again, the conspiracy of dads could keep them from fighting.

Since the all thing was still going on, together Thorstein, Alugi, and Raven's dad had enough political muscle and muscle muscle in Alugi's case that they worked together to get home gongs outlawed in all of Iceland.

Formal duels would no longer be allowed.

An agreement that everyone thought was kind of a long time coming because sagas are like 40% revenge killings.

Gunlog and Raven wouldn't be allowed to try the matter again.

At least in Iceland.

On a field in Norway, Gunlaug and Raven both gripped their swords.

They were gonna try this matter again.

It was at Raven's prompting this time.

He didn't want Gunlaug to die.

Sure, he married Helga to get back at Gunlaug for shaming him in Sweden, but he loved her now.

It had been good, too, for months.

Until Gunlaug returned.

Now, as long as Gunlaugh lived, Raven would never be the only man in Helga's life.

And if he wasn't the only man for the woman he loved,

well, let's just say he was okay with any outcome of the duel.

The men didn't hide what they were doing.

And while no one really approved of their murder tourism, they couldn't do anything to stop them.

They would wait in Iceland to see which man returned.

mainly because none of the family had been invited.

So the men took separate routes to Norway where, come spring, after Gunlaugh stayed with Jarl Erik, who was so happy his celebrity friend was in town, he hiked up the mountains where he saw Raven's servants laying out a circle of stones.

The rules for this particular type of duel elude me, because usually a duel is between two people, but this had some buildup.

Gunlaugh had to fight and kill two of Raven's friends, and Raven had to do the same before the main event.

which was Gunlaug vs.

Raven.

Now, you'd think with all their closest friends dead, their families not wanting this, and both of them fighting for a woman they only loved when they found out the other was set to, or did, marry her, that maybe cooler heads would prevail.

But those cooler heads were currently sitting on the grass, separated from their respective bodies because of a duel that, no joke, Jarl Eric was rushing to outlaw.

So, only with some nominal servants and friends, they ordered to stay back and tell the story of this day, Raven and Gunlaug's final battle began.

Gunlaug fought with fury, with the man who was with the woman he had loved since he was a child, with only a conspicuous three-year gap in there.

Raven fought with despair.

He knew Helga loved Gunlaugh, and he knew that, should he fall here, she would be in his arms as soon as Gunlaugh could make it back to Iceland, barring any more quick stop-offs in England.

He might have won her hand, but he had lost everything.

It just goes to show that no marriage based on getting back at someone who kind of embarrassed you at work that one time is destined to be long and happy.

It should come as no surprise that Gunlaug cut off Raven's leg, though the story, in its backhanded fashion of both congratulating Gunlaugh and making sure he doesn't get any of the credit, notes that he had a sword called Ethelred's Gift, the best of weapons.

So that's why he was able to deal such a blow to Raven.

Not to state the obvious, but if Ethelred, a notorious failure of a king, had a sword that could win battles, maybe he should have held on to that instead of giving it to celebrity poets.

Raven spun and caught the tree, managing to keep from going down and losing the fight.

Still, this wasn't Monty Python.

Raven wasn't going to bounce around saying that it was a flesh wound until he lost all of his limbs.

He was pale and already getting lightheaded.

The blood was rushing from his severed knee.

He was dying.

Gunlaug sheathed Ethelred's gift, and Raven steadied himself on a tree, taking a deep breath.

He coughed water.

Could he have some water?

Gunlaugh nodded, took off his helm, and made his way down to the cool, flowing river.

I would imagine that facing imminent death would change your priorities, at least when it comes to drinking out of your enemy's sweaty helmet.

After a long draught, Raven, pale and weak, managed to smile.

In the end, it all seemed so trivial.

Either could have moved on, left Iceland, gone anywhere in the world.

Yet, here they were, both now dead by the other's hand.

Gunlaug, still holding the helm so his enemy could drink, asked what Raven meant.

He was fine.

He was emphatically not fine when Raven jammed a dagger into the side of his head.

Raven said he was sorry.

That was shameful, but he couldn't bear the thought of Gunlaugh sharing Helga's bed while Raven slept in the grave.

Both men slumped to the ground, fulfilling the dream Thorstein had regarding his daughter all those years ago.

If you remember, Gunlog was only betrothed to Helga because Elugi, his dad, was of the opinion that his sweet, precious boy gets what he wants, no matter how bad his work or personality is.

And, to do that, took 11 goons to go have a chat with Thorstein, Helga's dad.

Well, he rode with 30 guys to Onan's, Raven's dad's house, who, mourning his son, was soon mourning at least two other family members.

Elugi was gracious and spared the third family member for Raven's treachery.

He merely cut off the man's feet and made him walk home.

Helga was married again when a man named Thorkel, the falcon from the dream, asked for her hand.

And though he was brave and a kind man, wealthy of goods, and according to the writer, a good scald, she never quite loved him.

They had children together, at least three.

But Helga's greatest joy and her deepest anguish was sitting and plucking the threads of the scarlet cloak that Gunlaug had given her.

She existed like a ghost in her own life, gazing at the cloak and dreaming of Gunlaugh.

A sickness came over the house of Thorkel and Helga, and though all ostensibly recovered, Helga remained wistful.

One night, sitting by the fire with Thorkel, she called for a servant to bring her the cloak.

She wrapped it around herself and cozied up to her husband, and died there, dreaming of Gunlaugh and the life that could have been.

As you do when your spouse dies unexpectedly while sitting next to you, Thorkel, the only poet the story itself calls good, composed a poem.

Death in mine arms she droopeth, my dear one, gold rings bearer, for God hath changed the life days of this lady of the linen.

Weary pain hath pined her, but unto me the seeker of hoard of fish's highway, abiding here is wearier.

Yep, there you go.

That's it.

The good stuff.

Of course, these are public domain English translations of medieval Icelandic poetry.

And poetry isn't just straight conveyed meaning, but imagery, meter, rhyme, connotation, cultural context.

So I'll say about 80% of the poem is probably lost in translation, and that feels like a low estimate.

I've heard from a few of you that you actually like the context and some of the historical stuff, so I've been trying to weave that in more.

If you want to try to read the poetry, I link the source in the show notes.

It was a fun episode because it kind of looked at the concepts of fame and art in unexpected ways, while still ending up with all the main characters dead in the end.

Sometimes violently, which was very saga of it all.

Next time, we're back in the journey to the west with the monkey king and friends, and they have finally made it big.

Xuanzong, Monkey, Pigsy, and Sandy are big shot horse merchants making silver and staying in fancy hotels.

They're not monks, never were.

They don't know where you heard all those lies.

That's next time on Myths and Legends.

The creature this time is the cicada, from everywhere, because it's a real thing.

It's an insect.

But before it was an insect, it was a man.

A prince, specifically, a prince of Troy.

Now, if you have to be a prince of anywhere, do not choose Troy.

The princes of Troy generally have it very good and then very, very bad.

Paris, Hector, Tithonis.

Tithonis was an uncle of the other two, a brother of Priam, a one-time prince, one-time king of Troy, who, in addition to getting besieged for 10 years and eventually murdered by Achilles' son, had to watch Achilles desecrate his son's body after his son Hector fought a guy who he thought was Achilles.

Once again, don't be a prince of Troy.

Tithonis wasn't around for any of this, though.

I mean, he was around.

But the guy got lucky and caught the eye of the goddess of the dawn.

Yes.

So he was whisked away to the sky to, essentially, live out his days as as the thrall of a goddess.

And like, this wasn't your usual, horrifying Greek god-human encounter.

He was into it.

And so was she.

It said she left him in bed each morning to go bring on the day and disperse the night.

And they got on super well.

So much so that Eos wanted to be together forever.

But her type of forever, like literally forever.

To do that, she went to go talk to Zeus.

And Zeus said, yes, unqualified yes, it's done.

Eos was probably surprised.

No catch to her lover living forever?

Zeus said nope, he would give her exactly what she asked for.

And so they were happy.

For a time, until she noticed Tithonis' spots of gray becoming streaks and his cheeks becoming jowly.

She went to Zeus, demanding an explanation.

and Zeus only laughed.

He had fulfilled her request to the letter.

Tithonis would would live forever.

She just forgot to ask for eternal youth.

Oops.

To Eos' credit, she did stand by him.

She gave him his own room when he became too old to move, and there he stayed for eons, babbling endlessly after all of his teeth fell out, and his body became too weak to do anything at all.

She would still stay with him and embrace him, cursing the gods for him.

Zeus finally came around, though, and took some pity.

It was a fun joke, but he would help.

He would turn Tithonis into a cicada.

Babbling and buzzing endlessly, the little cicada is said to be the most active in the early hours of the morning, when dawn appears over the sky, remembering his old love and old life, and begging for death to take him.

It never does.

As we all know, cicadas live forever because they can shed their skin.

And a fun little note, the Iliad apparently compares the talk of old men to the noise of cicadas.

So yeah, the next time we have another cicada brood, think about all the little old men around you absolutely begging for death.

The lesson here is twofold.

One, watch what you say around Zeus, because for someone so keen to ignore the suffering of others, he's more than happy to inflict it if you slip up.

And two,

really, really don't be a Prince of Troy.

It almost never works out.

That's it for this time.

Myths and Legends is by Jason and Carissa Weiser.

Our theme song is by Broke for Free, and the Creature of the Week music is by Steve Combs.

There are links to even more of the music we used in the show notes.

Thank you so much for listening, and we'll see you next time.

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