When the war between the Aesir and the Vanir was at last ended, the two kindreds of gods made their peace by spitting into a great vat — for the spittle of the gods was the visible sign of agreement — and from the spittle a man took shape, who was the wisest of all men. They called him Kvasir, and he traveled through the worlds answering questions, for there was no question that he could not answer. He had been made of the gods' own substance, and held within himself the wisdom of both the Aesir and the Vanir.
But two dwarves, Fjalar and Galar, invited Kvasir to their hall and slew him there, and caught his blood in two vats and a kettle. They mixed the blood with honey, and from this mixture was made the Mead of Poetry — the drink that gave to whoever tasted it the power of poetry and learning. Whoever drank a measure of the mead became a poet thereafter; whoever drank a small drop became a scholar; and the dwarves kept the mead hidden, and would not share it.
How the mead was won away from the dwarves — by the giant Suttung, whom they had paid in mead for sparing their lives after they had killed his father; and how Odin afterward stole it from Suttung's hall by trickery and seduction of his daughter Gunnlöd; and how Odin returned to Asgard with the mead held in his beak as he flew in the form of an eagle, and disgorged it into vats for the gods — is the great long story of how poetry came to gods and men. Some of the mead, in Odin's flight, was scattered carelessly behind him; that mead the worst poets get.



