In the end, she chose me
because my feet were the prettiest
(to be honest, it had been awhile since fair Baldr,
who she really wanted, had trimmed his toenails);
it’s not a man’s feet that a woman looks at in bed,
nor what another man looks for, either.
So the mighty huntress was stuck with me,
and don’t think she was happy with that, you bet.
Even before she saw Nóatún, my sea-home, she found
little enough to like about me.
She wanted Baldr, but she might
have been satisfied with my son;
Freyr is not considered to look upon,
or share a bed with, either.
(My son and daughter weren’t thrilled with
the idea of a stepmother,
but they respected her well enough,
although she and Freyja were never going to
share any girls’ nights, no.)
But I am an old man, with grown children and a wife already;
I would not have agreed to take a second if
I found that thought a burden,
but all we did was fight.
She could not bear my home for
the shrieks of the gulls,
nor could I stand hers with the howls of the wolves.
Don’t get me wrong;
I don’t hate her, nor she, me;
we simply weren’t suited for each other.
Bu twe gave it a fair try,
then parted amicably enough.
She went on to bed Odin–
funny, they almost all do
(him and Jotun-maids, don’tcha know!)
–and had herself plenty of children,
big and strong,
and she seemed content with that.
As for me, I wager I learned something.
Having the prettiest feet is not necessarily an advantage.
Maybe I should let my toenails grow out a bit.
All Their Voices 