There are stories about Óðinn that make sacrifice sound almost noble. This isn’t really one of them.
I think we sometimes soften this section of the myths because we’re deeply uncomfortable with what it’s actually saying. Óðinn didn’t give up something inconvenient. He didn’t give up an afternoon. He didn’t sacrifice a little bit of comfort and then go home feeling spiritually accomplished. He gave up a part of himself that could never be returned. And since there is no myth preserved to aid our understanding, the mystery makes the event itself that much more ominous.
The lore doesn’t tell us what he was seeking, or why he went to Mímir’s well to get it. Which gives us the perfect opportunity to play a little game of “what if…” The following is a completely UPG story to fill in that gap. Enjoy!
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Many are the tales told of the Allfather’s hunger, of the lengths to which the Hooded One will go to strip the blind spots from his map of the nine worlds. Most of those lengths have earned him the well earned title of “Bastard.” He is a god consumed by what is hidden and only obeys the laws that suit him.
Many years after the war with the Vanir had ended, in a rage over a perceived slight they had sent back the severed head of his uncle, the wise Mímir. Yggdrasil itself groaned at the loss of that counsel. In both grief and foresight Óðinn took the cold head, used ancient herbs of preservation to stave off the rot, and sang charms over the dead lips until they moved once more. But he could not grant new life to his uncle. The new oracle would only speak to answer questions of things he had already seen and experienced while alive. No more, no less. Knowing that he could not keep such a powerful knowledge base in Ásgarðr, Óðinn carried the new advisor to the base of Yggdrasil. There he placed what remained of his uncle, resting by the waters near a root, the dew dripping off the world tree slowly running over the head and into the pool below charging the waters with knowledge, insight, and power. Óðinn returned to his home, there to mourn the loss of the man he had known, and prepared to make use of what was left.
He often visited his uncle’s remains to seek guidance for difficult decisions with multiple outcomes. It was on one of those visits that the head brought a whisper of unease to the ruler of Ásgarðr. The dead lips spoke of the deep places in the East, far beyond the unmapped borders, where an iron-hard realm lay under the rule of a giant called Útgarða-Loki. Mímir warned that the magic there was primal—feral and immense, a twisting of illusions deeper than any cunning the Æsir had yet devised.
From that hour, sleep left the Allfather. His uncle had traveled those places in the early years after Ymir’s death. To know that such a place existed was both tempting and terrifying. He looked upon his golden halls and saw only a fortress surrounded by unmeasured shadows. He searched the memories of the ravens, but they had never flown far enough east to confirm or deny his uncle’s words. He cast the runes upon his shield, but the stones remained blind to the giant’s court. He realized then that no ordinary path would lead him there. The map to the uncharted empire was drowned deep within the cold waters of Mímir’s own well. He also knew that the water did not give up its secrets to a king merely because he asked.
Approaching the middle root under which the well resided, Óðinn sat and contemplated. He waited for what seemed an eternity to know what price would be demanded. Finally, when his bones had seemed to sink within the mud, his spirits sagging, his breath barely leaving his chest from weariness, the answer was given: an eye for a single drink.
Stunned, Óðinn got up from his seat by the tree and crawled down alone into the dark, cold beneath the root. For three nights he did not strike. He paced the black stone trying to find another solution. He bartered with the severed head. He sought a loophole in the ancient law, wondering if he could steal the knowledge, or trade a world, or buy the map with gold. But the well was older than the gods, and its terms were rigid. He knew the laws of his own cosmos—he knew that if he went to Iðunna, her golden apples could fend off the grey hair of age, but they could never regenerate what was willingly sacrificed. Once given, he would never grow back the eye.
To see into the east, he had to choose to walk half-blind forever.
When the knife of his own will finally turned, it was no swift, magical blur. It was a physical, agonizing ruin. Blood spilled hot onto the frozen root of Yggdrasil, steaming in the absolute dark. He plucked the eye from his own bone, with fingers that were strong and shaking. Then, held over the well he said the spells of sacrifice and agreed to the terms demanded. He dropped the wet mass of eye and nerves into the water, waiting for the answer. Within a few moments, a ladle appeared made from the root of Yggdrasil. Óðinn picked it up and carefully filled it with the waters. He somehow knew that he would be allowed only one drink, so spilling it was not an option, nor was dipping the ladle in more than once. Lifting it to his lips, he drank until his throat burned with the ice of the deep well.
He received what he paid for. It only took a moment. Bright light flashed behind his remaining eye, the other bloodied socket quickly sealing itself closed. In his mind, the vast, shifting labyrinth of Útgarða-Loki’s realm unfolded. But the knowledge was too heavy, too feral for a wounded king to carry into battle alone. He could not march into the giants’ hall himself while his face was still wet with his own blood. He needed an instrument. A hammer to strike where he could only watch. A hammer.
He had dropped the ladle while the visions flooded his consciousness. Coming back to himself he looked down but all that remained was the well once more. Looking at his Uncle’s head he nodded slowly, accepting what was given, and turned towards the bridge that would lead him home.
He returned to Ásgarðr, the wound raw but healing, and found his son Þórr feasting by the fire. Óðinn spoke no word of the well, nor of his agony. The other gods stared at him in horror at the mutilation. The goddess Eir attempted to place a poultice on the empty socket but he waved her away. As the feast slowly resumed he watched the bi-play between those in attendance carefully composing the words he needed to speak. It couldn’t be obvious. Such a request or demand needed to sound natural rather than hurried. So, after pulling together the thoughts into a cohesion he could accept, he merely dropped a single, calculated hint—a whisper he had heard on his latest travels of an unbroken challenge waiting in the east. He lit the fire of pride in the young god’s belly, stirring within him the need to go, the need to claim for himself. Óðinn knew Þórr would rise, grip Mjölnir, and march straight into the trap his father had just purchased with half his sight. He told him nothing more about what he would encounter. As Þórr moved with the exact motions Óðinn had been assured of, he glanced at Loki who had been watching the entire exchange. The slightest nod to his blood-brother and Loki jumped up offering to go on the journey with Þórr. Laughing and slapping his nephew on the back, they headed towards the doorway to begin the adventure. Loki looked back briefly and locked eyes one more time. The conversations that passed between them might have lasted days if spoken out loud. Instead, Loki winked and crossed the threshold behind Þórr.
Óðinn watched them go. He watched the doors slam shut, watched the firelight dance across the empty space they had left behind, and sat alone in the quiet of his own thoughts. He had the map that had cost him an eye and more he had never asked for. It was there, he could see it in his mind, and he would never again see the worlds the same way.