Unusually for one of the gods, Thor was sparing in the number of children that he sired. He had three, all—despite some rumors to the contrary—mothered by his wife, Sif.

Magni, the middle child, was all too eager to follow in his father’s footsteps. Besting jötnar as a toddler, with all the arrogance of a firstborn heir. Meanwhile Móði, Thor’s youngest, grew soft and uncertain. No match for his brother in physical prowess, he instead turned to magic to make his mark on the world. Magic, it must be said, is a woman’s art, but Móði’s grandfather, Odin, was its master and so, too, was Móði able to learn with only a minimum of disapproving gossip.

Thor’s eldest child, his daughter, Þrúðr, inherited her mother’s hair. Sif’s hair was not the hair she had been born with. Instead, it was a magic wig of sorts, rooted in her scalp and growing strands of purest gold. Literally gold. Unlike her mother, Þrúðr needed no wig, and rumor was her hair was even finer for it.

There are a few things it’s important to know about golden hair. The first is that it is no small gift to care for. Gold is soft, and malleable, and managing an entire head’s worth of it was a full-time job in brushing and in braiding.

The second thing about gold? It’s heavy. Very, very heavy. Sif had never been quite as energetic and agile after the wig had been placed upon her head, and was plagued instead by aches in her head and neck everyone knew the source of, even if they never spoke it. Because magic items are curses as well as blessings, and Sif paid the cost of her beauty gladly.

Her daughter, however, had no such dilemma. Her hair was just as heavy—heavier, in fact, when it grew longer than her mother’s—but Þrúðr had Thor’s blood running in her veins. The strong blood of the strongest god, no more diluted in her than it was in her brothers. Þrúðr had no need to gain strength by fighting jötunn, like Magni did. Not when her every living moment was weighed down by her golden crown.

The dvergar had made Sif’s hairpiece and they knew about Þrúðr’s inheritance of it. Gold, it goes without saying, is a precious thing, and someone would could produce it without end the most valuable of resources. And so it was that one day a dvergr named Alvíss came to Ásgarðr’s gates, demanding Þrúðr’s hand in marriage. Sif, so the story goes, agreed to the match, knowing she had no right to make it. For only a father could give his daughter’s hand, something Thor knew and the dvergar did not.

Alvíss was to learn, however, when Thor returned from hunting jötnar and demanded to know why squat unpleasant strangers were sitting at his door.

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Alvíss attempted to explain the deal, and Thor attempted to annul it. Not deterred, Alvíss once again pleaded to be allowed to take Þrúðr—and her hair—for his own.

Lest any ever say the gods did not keep their word, Thor agreed to allow Alvíss to woo his daughter if the dvergr could prove his wisdom in a contest of riddles. Thor, while very skilled at killing jötnar, had never been considered an intellectual sort. Alvíss, knowing this, and thinking himself very clever, agreed to Thor’s bargain.

And so Thor asked his questions, and Alvíss did not think them very difficult at all. First, Thor wished to know all the names given to the earth, and Alvíss listed the words used by mortals and gods and jötnar, by álfar and by dvergar. Then Thor repeated the question, this time asking the names of the sky. Alvíss answered. Third, Thor asked for the names of the moon. Again, Alvíss gave them, and though his lists were true, it did occur to him to wonder if Thor could tell the difference if they were not.

Still, Thor asked his questions: The names of the sun, the names of the clouds. The names of the wind and the calm, the sea and the fire, the forest, the night, the seed. By the time Thor got around to asking for all the names of beer, Alvíss was having trouble stifling his laughter. Thor’s father, Odin, was known for his prowess with asking riddles, and perhaps Alvíss felt a little sorry for the Allfather’s violent, thickheaded simpleton of a son. If Thor sought to trick Alvíss with lists of words, then he would be sorely mistaken! Alvíss being the sort with a tendency for the pedantic memorization of useless facts.

And so he listed off the names of beer, noticing how Thor’s dull, coal-black eyes seemed to drift, his mind wandering to dream of mugs of ale for his own, perhaps, and Alvíss, who considered himself generous as well as wise, thought he would offer an entire barrel, when this was done and Þrúðr was his bride.

When Alvíss was done reciting names, Thor licked his lips and smiled, big and slow and lazy.

“My friend,” he said. “In one heart I have never found more ancient lore.”

“You are too kind, my lord,” said Alvíss, who saw no reason not to be gracious in his victory.

Within his smile, Thor’s teeth were very white and very sharp, framed by a beard the color of fresh blood. “Perhaps you will not think so in a moment,” he said. “For I admit I have deceived you. Have allowed you to deceive yourself.”

“How so, my lord?” asked Alvíss, a strange feeling creeping up his spine.

“Your knowledge is so great, friend dvergr,” Thor said, “and so I bow before it. Before it, and before your eagerness to share it with me. So much so that you would forsake to check the progress of the very sun and moon and sky you name. For look, friend. We have spoken all night. And now it is the dawn.”

And, suddenly, Alvíss knew what the strange feeling was on his back: the gentle caress of the first rays of the sun. The sun that turned dvergr flesh to stone.

That day, Thor had a strange new statue for his hall. He placed it outside, near the river, as he watched his only daughter run free across the grass, laughing as the bright sun gleamed against her hair.