In the ancient days when the world was young and the gods of Asgard walked the earth, there were three siblings born of the trickster Loki and the giantess Angrboða in the dark woods of Jötunheimr. These three children were destined to be the harbingers of the end: Hel, who ruled the dead; Jörmungandr, the Midgard Serpent who encircled the world; and Fenrir, the Great Wolf whose shadow would one day swallow the sun. While the gods cast Hel into the depths and the serpent into the sea, they brought the wolf pup Fenrir to the halls of Asgard, hoping that by raising him among them, they might tame his wild spirit. But as the seasons turned, Fenrir did not grow like a normal wolf. He grew at a rate that terrified even the bravest of the Æsir. His fur was the color of storm clouds, his eyes burned like embers, and his teeth were as sharp as the swords of giants. Of all the gods, only Týr, the god of justice and war, possessed the courage to approach the beast and feed him daily.
The Norns, who weave the threads of fate at the foot of the world-tree Yggdrasil, whispered prophecies of doom. They foretold that Fenrir would be the death of Odin, the All-Father, during the final battle of Ragnarök. Witnessing the wolf’s size increase daily until his back brushed the ceiling of Valhalla, the gods realized they could no longer let him roam free. They decided that Fenrir must be bound, but they knew he would never submit to chains out of fear or force. They would have to use his own pride against him. The gods forged a massive chain called Lædingr, the strongest ironwork they could produce. They approached the wolf on the plains of Ida and challenged him, claiming that his strength was surely great, but could it stand against the craftsmanship of the gods? Fenrir, sensing the challenge to his vanity, allowed them to bind his limbs. With a single, effortless heave of his powerful muscles, the iron links of Lædingr shattered into fragments like dry glass. The gods marveled at his strength, though their hearts sank with mounting dread.
Refusing to give up, the gods returned to their smithies and spent many nights crafting a second chain, twice as heavy and twice as thick as the first. They named this fetter Drómi. When they presented it to Fenrir, the wolf looked at the massive iron links and felt a flicker of doubt. However, he also knew that great fame is only won through great risk. He allowed the gods to wrap the heavy metal around his neck and legs. The Æsir stepped back, holding their breath. Fenrir strained, his claws digging deep into the earth, his breath coming in hot, ragged bursts. For a moment, the chain held, and the gods felt a glimmer of hope. But then, with a roar that shook the foundations of Asgard, Fenrir lashed out with such ferocity that Drómi snapped into pieces that flew across the horizon. The wolf stood triumphant, his legend growing even as the shadow of fear darkened the eyes of Odin.
Desperate, the All-Father sent the messenger Skírnir down into the subterranean realm of Svartálfaheimr to seek the help of the dwarves, the master craftsmen of the cosmos. He promised the dwarves any treasure they desired if they could create a binding that no strength in the Nine Realms could break. The dwarves worked in secret for days, using materials that defied the laws of nature. They did not use iron or stone; instead, they used the sound of a cat’s footfall, the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain, the sinews of a bear, the breath of a fish, and the spittle of a bird. From these six impossible things, they fashioned a ribbon called Gleipnir. To the touch, it was as soft and thin as a silken cord, but it was imbued with magic more durable than any physical substance. When Skírnir returned to Asgard with the ribbon, the gods were skeptical. How could such a delicate string hold the beast that had shattered Drómi? But Skírnir assured them that the dwarves' magic never failed.
The gods invited Fenrir to the island of Lyngvi in the middle of the lake Ámsvartnir—a place often associated in later traditions with the geography of Lake Vättern. They gathered on the rocky shores and showed the wolf the thin, shimmering ribbon. They mocked him, saying that since he had broken such heavy chains, surely this little thread would be no challenge. Fenrir, however, was no fool. He smelled the magic clinging to Gleipnir and sensed the deceit in the gods' voices. He told them, 'If this ribbon is as weak as it looks, there is no honor in breaking it. But if it is made with craft and malice, then no matter how thin it appears, I will not let it touch my skin.' The gods persisted, telling him that if he could not break a silken cord, he was not the warrior they believed him to be, and they would surely release him. Fenrir snarled, his eyes narrowing. 'I do not trust you,' he growled. 'I will let you bind me only if one of you places your right hand in my mouth as a pledge of good faith. If I cannot break free and you do not release me, you shall lose your hand.'