Imaginary interview with Thor
by Charactorium · Thor · Mythology · 6 min read
Thunder rolled all night above the roofs of Bilskirnir, and in the morning the god receives us in his immense palace of five hundred and forty rooms, Mjölnir placed beside him on the table, still warm from having split a giant's skull. His red beard gleams in the glow of the embers, a horn of mead within reach. He gestures for us to sit down.
—Tell us about this hammer you always keep at hand. Where does it come from?
Mjölnir came out of the dwarves' forge, in the dark beneath the mountains, where the fire never goes out. They say among us that it never misses its mark — thrown, it strikes its target and returns to lodge in my palm like a trained bird returns to the fist. But do not think it is enough to hold it. Without my iron gloves, the Járngreipr, I could not grasp its burning handle; without my belt of strength, the Megingjörð, I would not have the arm to lift it. The dwarves, in their malice, forged the weapon with a handle a bit short — that is all that remains of their prank. Three things make my power, and this one comes before all: a hammer, gloves, a belt. Take one from me, and I become almost a man again.
Thrown, it strikes its target and returns to lodge in my palm like a trained bird returns to the fist.
—You are described as pure brute force. Is that how you see yourself?
Strength, yes, that is what they sing of me in the halls. But strength alone would never have brought back Mjölnir when it was stolen from me. The hammer is the bulwark of Asgard; without it, the bridge Bifrost would be nothing but a path open to the Jötnar, and the Frost Giants would cross the clouds to the threshold of the gods. That is why I guard this weapon like a peasant guards his last cow. I am not a warrior who strikes for the pleasure of striking — I strike because, behind me, there is Midgard, the men, the fields, the herds. When they speak to me of my brutality, I answer that chaos, for its part, knows no measure. Someone must oppose it with an arm that does not tremble.
—Speaking of which, that theft of the hammer gave rise to a strange episode. What happened?
Ah, you touch there on my most burning memory. The giant Thrym had buried Mjölnir eight leagues underground and would only return it in exchange for the goddess Freyja as his wife. Imagine my shame. And yet, it was I who was dressed up: bridal veil, linen gown, the bunch of women's keys at the belt, and over all that my beard which I tucked in as best I could under the fabric. Loki laughed in his corner, disguised as a maid. At the wedding feast, I devoured a whole ox and drank three barrels of mead — my appetite nearly gave everything away. But when they placed the hammer on the 'bride's' knees to bless the union, I threw off the veil. That day, no giant in the hall left Jotunheim alive.
Imagine my shame: bridal veil, linen gown, and my beard which I tucked in as best I could under the fabric.
—That cunning surprises in a god known for his outbursts of temper. Do you accept being made fun of?
They think me incapable of laughing at myself, because my temper flares quickly — it is true, anger rises to my face like sap in spring. But a god who could not bear to be dressed as a woman to save his people would be nothing but a proud fool. The veil of Thrym, I wore it because the hammer was worth more than my pride. The skalds sing of this episode in the halls, and men laugh about it around the fire — let them laugh. Better a god whose cunning is told than a god whose pride is mourned. Loki, that day, was useful for once: his tongue got me out of a trap where my arm alone would have lost me. Strength opens doors; cunning sometimes finds what has been lost.
—There is an adversary you seem to have been waiting for forever. Which one?
The serpent. Jörmungandr, the great serpent of Midgard, so long that it encircles the world of men and bites its own tail in the deep waters. Once already, at sea, I hooked it on a line, and I saw its monstrous head break the surface — but the line was cut before I could finish it. I know how this will end. At Ragnarök, when the sky splits and the gods march to their final battle, he and I will face each other one last time. I will kill him, of that I have no doubt. But his venom will have poisoned my blood, and I will take nine steps before collapsing beside his carcass. That is my fate, written before my birth. A god of thunder does not flee his own.
I will kill him, of that I have no doubt. But I will take nine steps before collapsing beside his carcass.
—How does one live knowing the time and manner of one's own death?
You ask the question like a man who fears death. We in Asgard live with Ragnarök as the sailor lives with the storm on the horizon: it will come, and so what? Knowing that I will die from the venom of Jörmungandr does not take away the taste of mead nor the joy of battle — on the contrary, it makes them fuller. Every giant I strike down today pushes back by a breath the night when Yggdrasil, the world tree, will tremble at its roots. Men think me sad to know my end. They are mistaken. What would make a warrior miserable would be to die without knowing why he fought. I, I know: I will fall killing the thing that wanted to devour the world. What finer last image to take into the silence?
—Far from the gods, it was the peasants who seemed to cherish you. How do you explain that?
Because I am the god who resembles them. Odin my father rules for kings and poets; I stand with the plowmen and fishermen, those who fear hail on the crops and the giant lurking at the edge of the field. When thunder rolls, they know that I pass above them in my chariot and that the forces of Frost will not dare to descend. That is why so many children bear my name, and so many places too — all the way to Thorshavn, out there in the northern islands. They carved the little hammer on their amulets and hung it around their necks, against illness, against bad luck, against everything that lurks. A king prays for victory. A peasant prays for the harvest to hold. It is to the latter that I lend my ear.
A king prays for victory. A peasant prays for the harvest to hold. It is to the latter that I lend my ear.
—That little hammer hung around the neck, what meaning did those who wore it give it?
It was Mjölnir in miniature, my weapon reduced to the size of a grain, but charged with the same promise: where the hammer passes, chaos retreats. It was blessed at weddings so the union would be fruitful, placed on the cradle of the newborn, clutched in the hand of the dying. The same gesture as at the wedding of Thrym, you see — placing the hammer to seal, to protect, to make sacred. Later, when the new faith of Christ came from the south, many continued to wear my hammer alongside the cross, unwilling to abandon either. The skalds then wrote down what they still knew of me, so that I would not be entirely forgotten. As long as a single heart bears this sign, I will not have completely left Midgard.
—Describe your chariot. They say it is what makes the thunder.
Two goats pull it: Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr, 'the one who shows teeth' and 'the one who grinds teeth'. When I cross the clouds above Midgard, the iron wheels roll on the vault of the sky, and that crash which men below call thunder is simply my passage. My goats have a secret: in the evening, I slaughter them and roast them, I eat their flesh down to the bone — but if one takes care not to break any bone and in the morning I bless their skins with Mjölnir, they rise again alive, ready to take up the harness. Thus I travel without ever exhausting my team. A god who journeys through the nine worlds cannot burden himself with mortal mounts. Mine die and are reborn each day, like lightning itself.
That crash which men below call thunder is simply my passage.
—Your appetite is legendary. What does it represent for you?
Eat with me one evening at Bilskirnir, in one of my five hundred and forty rooms, and you will understand. I devour a whole ox, sometimes two, and mead flows by whole barrels down my throat. At Thrym's wedding, it was precisely this appetite that nearly betrayed me: what 'bride' devours eight salmon and drinks three bushels alone? But this hunger is not a flaw, it is the measure of my strength. A god who must, tomorrow, push back the Jötnar to the edges of Jotunheim does not eat like a monk. The banquet, among us, is not gluttony — it is the place where the Æsir gather, where alliances are sealed, where the deeds of the day are told. I eat as I fight: without restraint, and with all my heart.
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This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Thor's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.