The sea is red and at a rolling boil
In the darkness of the deep he waits
Dawn and a deathly storm
In the deep lies Miðgarðsormur
Walk out onto a grassy noll
and behold the Pride of the Deeps
There , across sea and sand,
onwards creeps Jörmungandur
Hark! He is great, I say:
Miðgarðsormur spans the lands great and small.
He, who would meet me will
retreat bleeding, bereft of courage.
I toss out my fishing line for the first time
and tie the other end to the oarsman's seat in my boat.
A second time I toss, he still doesn't bite,
untouched, the bait bobs up to the surface.
The head of the mighty bull Himinhrjóður
Hilmar uses as bait for the worm – this will not end well!
Deathly though the bait seems,
the beast's blood is maddening.
Beauty will be your companion – should you kill the long
worm – every step of your way.
The venom may eat at your flesh and face
should you lose.
At the third toss he bites,
smashing the seat and shaking the boat.
The fishing line must now be pulled with force,
though the hand is a poor match to the worms mighty jaws.
The line cuts, tearing the glove,
Through the glove, cutting the hand.
The hook tears at the worm's jaw,
it cuts like a knife.
On and on they both struggle,
like brothers, exhausted, hurting.
On they fight, time passes,
bonding through line and hook.
The head appears among the waves,
biting the boat, struggling.
With my blade I stab. Blood flows.
With a cry, the beast sinks beneath the waves.
When I meet Þór
we will fight.
Focussed and large,
he will defend himself.
Apparently I took the bait,
Ásgarður has betrayed me.
Jörmungandur, yes,
even I am the one who yields.
The boat cleaves the waves,
the boatswain is cheerful.
Reaches land,
ties up his boat.
Again the Beast crawls
into it's lair where it waits.
The weather cleared, the storm blew out,
when Hilmar defeated the Miðgarðsormur.