Comparing the Pantheons of Irish and Norse Mythology (And Exploring the Overlaps)

Between the Thor movies and Neil Gaiman’s book and the criminally underrated film The Northman, Norse mythology has been having a moment.

But did you know Norse mythology and Irish mythology likely branched off from the same ancient storytelling tradition?

We can see evidence of this in shared narratives about catching super smart salmon, birds of prey stealing magical apples, and my personal favorite: cross-dressing heroes sneaking behind enemy lines. (More on those later.)

But what about the gods themselves?

Can we find divine parallels within the Norse and Irish pantheons?

Hold onto your hammers. It’s time for a comparative mythology deep dive.

Pssst. You can watch a video adaptation of this essay right here.

Proto-Indo-European Mythology

Here’s the deal: the Irish language evolved from Old Irish, which was preceded by Primitive Irish, which was the earliest form of the Gaelic or Goidelic languages, which branched off from Insular Celtic or Q-Celtic depending on which hypothesis you prefer (it’s a whole thing).

Either way, before that we had Proto-Celtic a.k.a. Common Celtic, which branched off from Proto-Indo-European in the Late Bronze Age—probably around 1300 BCE.

About a thousand years before that, the Germanic parent language a.k.a. Pre-Proto-Germanic split from Proto-Indo-European. Ater that we got Proto-Germanic and then Proto-Norse, which was the earliest form of North Germanic, and then came Old Norse, and then that split into Old West Norse, which gave us Icelandic and Norwegian, and Old East Norse which gave us Danish and Swedish.

All this to say, the languages that were first used to convey the Norse myths and the Irish myths had a common linguistic ancestor: Proto-Indo-European.

So it makes sense that we’d find some similarities in those two mythologies—remnants, if you will, of a Proto-Indo-European mythology.

Granted, there are a lot of languages that came out of that tradition, which is why we can also find common themes in Hindu mythology and Greco-Roman mythology.

And of course the Gaulish and Welsh traditions, like the Irish tradition, evolved from a shared Proto-Celtic tradition, so there are a lot of similarities to be found there.

Hence the umbrella term Celtic mythology, which can be applied to all three: Gaulish, Welsh, and Irish. And yes, the Gaelic-speakers of Ireland spread their mythology to Scotland and the Isle of Man, so Gaelic mythology is arguably a better term for the tradition than Irish mythology.

But I digress.

This essay is about Norse mythology and Irish mythology, and the very specific details that pop up in both.

Are Norse Mythology and Irish Mythology the Same? (Of course not. But…)

In Irish mythology we have a couple of wise characters who shape-shift into salmon, namely Tuan mac Cairill and Fintan mac Bóchra.

That latter figure is sometimes conflated with the Salmon of Knowledge, who takes center stage in one of the Fenian Cycle’s most popular myths, which sees the bard/druid Finn Eces (Finegas) spend seven years fishing for the famed salmon, only for his understudy Demne to burn his thumb on its scales while cooking it for him.

Demne sticks his thumb in his mouth to soothe the burn and bada bing bada boom he’s imbued with all of the world’s knowledge. And he acquires a new name: Fionn, meaning Fair One or Bright One.

You probably know this character better as Fionn mac Cumhail, or Finn McCool.

Now, in Norse mythology, when the gods are pursuing Loki, the notorious trickster transforms into a salmon and hides in a river.

They nearly catch him with a net, but he jumps over it and ultimately it is Thor who snatches the leaping Loki salmon with one hand.

But he’s a slippery fella and Thor’s hand slides down the fish’s body, stopping at the tail and giving the salmon its signature tapered shape.

In another story, Loki, Odin, and Hœnir are fishing and Loki catches, kills, skins, and eats an otter, which turns out to be a shapeshifting dwarf who, conveniently, is named Ótr.

Later in that same story, one of Ótr’s brothers, Fáfnir, transforms into a dragon/worm and Ótr’s other brother Regin convinces the hero Sigurd to kill the dragon/worm and cook his heart for him.

But while Sigurd is cooking the heart for Regin he accidentally burns his finger and sticks it in his mouth to soothe it and bada bing bada boom, he’s imbued with the power to understand birds.

Speaking of birds…

In the story The Sons of Tuireann from the redundantly named Mythological cycle of Irish mythology, the eponymous sons transform themselves into hawks—courtesy of a tappity tap tap of a druid rod—so they can steal three golden apples that, once consumed, prevent sickness and injury. Oh, and the apples regenerate so they can be consumed forever.

The sons are successful in their heist but are pursued by three princesses who transform into either ospreys or griffins, depending on the telling.

Meanwhile, in Norse mythology, the goddess Iðunn is the keeper of magical apples that grant the Norse deities eternal youth.

Then one day, after being dragged around by a jötunn (or frost giant) who has taken the shape of an eagle, Loki agrees to lure Iðunn into the woods so that the jötunn-eagle can swoop down and snatch her and her apples.

With the apples gone, the gods start to grow old and they say “hey Loki my dude you better fix this” (paraphrasing). So Loki transforms into a falcon and steals the apples (and Iðunn) back, but is pursued by the jötunn-eagle.

One final example.

And this time I’m going to start with a Norse myth.

In which the jötunn lord Thrymr steals Thor’s hammer Mjǫllnir and vows not to return it lest the Norse goddess Freyja agrees to marry him.

But that ain’t gonna happen so Heimdallr suggests that Thor dress up like Freyja and go to Jötunheimr, which he does, with Loki accompanying him dressed as a maid.

Ultimately, Thrymr is fooled by the disguises and by Loki’s explanations for why his bride to be looks so…Thor-like.

The hammer is brought out and put on Thor’s lap as part of the wedding ceremony. And I’m sure you can guess what happens next.

Smashy smashy.

A similar scenario can be found in Irish mythology when the Fomorians, a race of marauding monsters, steal The Dagda’s magical harp, Uaithne. Although some modern scholars now think that Uaithne was the name of the harper, not the actual instrument.

Anyway, accompanied by his fellow Irish gods Lugh and Ogma, The Dagda travels to the Hall of the Fomorians on Tory Island and calls for his harp, which flies to his hand, killing nine Fomorians in the process.

I know, I know. No one dresses in drag in this story. But that does happen in Irish folklore when the Fomorian leader Balor steals the Irish god Cian’s magical cow.

Cian enacts his revenge by going to the crystal tower where Balor has locked up his only daughter Ethniu and a different kind of smashy smashy ensues.

Specifically the kind that will result in the birth of the Irish god Lugh.

But first Cian needs to get past Ethniu’s all-female caretakers, which he accomplishes by having the druidess/leanan sídhe (or fairy familiar) Biróg dress him up like a woman.

The question now is: Did all of these stories start out as Proto-Indo-European myths?

And the answer is:

Not necessarily.

For example, while the stolen hammer and harp storylines fit rather snuggly into a Indo-European motif known as “The Theft of the Thunder-Instrument,” philologist Jan de Vries argued that the gods dressing up like women storylines are the result of Christian scribes mocking paganism.

Meanwhile, the Sons of Tuireann and Iðunn myths do indeed seem to be rooted in an Indo-European motif wherein a bird of prey “steals the celestial means of immortality.” This according to the historian of religions David Knipe.

As for the ”gaining knowledge through a cooking mishap” storyline, we’ve got a motif for that too: “The White Serpent’s Flesh.”

But linguist Heinrich Zimmer contended that the Salmon of Knowledge story specifically was likely transferred from Norse mythology to Irish mythology courtesy of the Vikings.

Although “courtesy” is probably the wrong word here.

And while the intermingling of Norse and Gaelic cultures is well-documented, with the so-called Norse-Gaels controlling much of coastal Ireland and Scotland—and the islands in between—throughout the Viking Age, we also can’t rule out the possibility that there was some mythical cross-pollination going on between ancient Germanic and Celtic tribes hundreds of years earlier on the European continent.

Origins aside, the similarities between Norse and Irish mythology don’t just apply to mythical narratives, but also to mythical figures.

One of the most obvious examples being the presence of a wise, paternal, warrior Santa Claus-esque character:

From Irish mythology, we have the Dagda, and from Norse mythology, Odin.

Is The Dagda the Same as Odin?

One is a god of wisdom. The master of its culture’s magic. Capable of dealing out both life and death. An all-father to his people.

And the other is… also all of that.

The Dagda is the chief god of Ireland’s divine tribe, the Tuatha Dé Danann.

Granted, there are other mythical Irish tribes, as detailed in the Lebor Gabála Érenn, or Book of the Taking of Ireland, commonly known as the Book of Invasions, such as the Fir Bolg, who settle in Ireland directly before the Tuatha Dé Danann, then there’s the battle of Magh Tuireadh (the first one) and the Dadga’s team, the Tuatha Dé Danann, defeat the Fir Bolg.

Similarly, Odin is the chief God of the Æsir, the principal group of Norse gods, if you will, buuut you’ve also got the Vanir, another group of Norse gods (who famously count Freyja and Freyr among their ranks, more on them later).

Then there’s the Æsir–Vanir War, and Odin’s team, the Æsir, defeat the Vanir.

Odin doesn’t just watch from the sidelines, of course, he is a formidable opponent thanks in part to his spear Gungnir, which never misses its mark.

The Dagda is also someone you wouldn’t want to mess with on the battlefield on account of his great staff or club the Lorg Mór, the rough end of which can slay nine enemies with a single touch, while a touch from the smooth end can bring those slain back to life.

Okay to be sure the weapons don’t line up. There is a nearly identical spear to Odin’s in Irish mythology, the Spear of Assal or Lightning Spear, but this is wielded by the god Lugh.

However, when you consider that the Dagda’s Lorg Mór is described as a forked tree branch, essentially, which is so huge, eight guys have to drag it around on wheels, it’s almost like he’s dragging around a representation of the Norse Yggdrasil—a sacred ash tree at the center of the universe that is so strongly associated with Odin it’s named for him. (And his horse.)

By the way did I mention that three of the five sacred trees of Ireland, as detailed in poems 23 and 24 of the Dindshenchas, or Lore of Places, are ash trees?

Am I reaching?

Of course I’m reaching.

But only because I’ve been sitting on the good stuff.

The names.

The Dagda and Odin both have a lot of names. More than me and I’m from Massachusetts.

(Dev. Dev dog. Special K. Big Tall Goofy Kid.)

And when you look at some of these divine names side by side…

The Dagda is called Eochaid Ollathair (which translates to horseman, all-father) while Odin is called Alfǫðr (all-father) and Reiðartýr (god of riders).

The Dagda is Ruad Rofhessa (lord of great knowledge or mighty one); Odin is Fimbulþulr/Fimbulthul (mighty wise one).

The Dagda is Cera (creator); Odin is Veratyr (god of being).

The Dagda is Aed (the fiery one); Odin is Báleygr/Baleyg (the one with flaming eyes).

The Dagda is Cerrce (striker); Odin is Hnikarr (thruster) and Atriðr (attacker).

The Dagda is Dáire (the fertile one, or oak) and Odin is Darraðr (spearman).

Is that last one a stretch? Of course it’s a stretch.

I thought the Irish word for oak and the Old Norse word for spear might have a common Proto-Indo-European progenitor. Turns out they don’t.

And I thought you could interpret “spearman” as a wink and a nod toward a man who is, uh, standing at attention.

Because in Irish mythology, The Dagda, when he’s about to get busy, jokingly refers to himself as Fer Benn (“horned man” or “man of the peak”).

But given that Odin is also known as Geirǫlnir (Spear charger), Geirtýr (Spear god), Geirvaldr (Spear master), Geirlǫðnir (Spear inviter), and Váfuðr Gungnis (Swinger of Gungnir), I’m starting to accept that there’s probably no wink and a nod there.

Unless by “swinger” they mean…

Moving on.

Did you know that according to the Leabhar Buidhe Leacáin (Yellow Book of Lecan), the Dagda has a magical cloak called the lumman that allows him to shapeshift.

And did you know that another one of Odin’s names is Svipall (shape-shifter) and that he also goes by Lǫndungr (shaggy cloak wearer)?

Then there’s the whole Kris Kringle angle.

I actually have a separate essay/video exploring potential connections between The Dagda and Jolly Old Saint Sick.

And by Saint Nick I mean both the legendary figure Santa Claus, who carries around a big ole sack full of gifts, and the historical person he was partly inspired by, Saint Nicholas of Myra, the latter of whom is said to have resurrected three children in a barrel.

I bring this up because in addition to having a magical resurrection club in his arsenal, and a magical cloak, The Dagda is the owner of the coire ansic, a magical cauldron that no one ever goes away from hungry.

Couple this with the Dagda’s big beard, big belly, and playful demeanor—the word jolly is often used to describe him—and I can’t help but feel Santa Claus vibes.

Then there’s Odin who, in the Norse myths, is explicitly called Jólnir (Yule figure) and Jǫlfǫðr (Yule father).

Yule being the Germanic winter festival that would ultimately be folded into Christmas.

And I’d be remiss not to mention that the word jolly may have come from the Old Norse word for Yule (jol), by way of the French joli.

But admittedly “may” is doing a lot of heavy-lifting there.

Not in dispute are these other Odin pseudonyms: Harbard (Hoary beard), Viðhrimnir (Wide hoary beard), and Langbard, Sidgrani, and Sidskegg, all of which mean Long-beard.

And while Odin doesn’t have eight reindeer, he does have Sleipnir, a flying, eight-legged horse, which Loki gives birth to while in the form of a mare.

(Don’t you just love Norse mythology?)

And hey, speaking of Loki…

Are Lugh and Balor the Same as Loki and Baldr?

I’m not gonna lie: when I first heard about these potentially parallel pairings from Irish and Norse mythology, I was skeptical.

In Irish mythology, Lugh is the god of many talents and the savior, if you will, of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

It is Lugh who leads Ireland’s divine tribe to victory against the monstrous Fomorians during the second Battle of Magh Tuireadh and it is Lugh who is responsible for the slaying of the Fomorian warlord Balor of the Evil Eye, a being so powerful he can incinerate entire countrysides with his fiery, venomous eye.

Lugh is clearly intended to be the hero of this story. And Balor, the villain.

In Norse mythology, it’s the opposite.

When Loki succeeds in getting Baldr killed by his blind brother Höðr (we’ll get into it), the gods mourn.

Loki is an agent of chaos, while Baldr is just and gentle, a paragon of purity.

So at first glance, these Norse characters don’t line up with their supposed Celtic counterparts.

And yes, before you leave a comment, I only used the word Celtic here for the consonance. Because of course I am referring specifically to the Goidelic/Gaelic branch of the Celtic language group, and even more specifically to a Gaelic storytelling tradition that originated on the island that would become known as Ireland.

But I digress.

Then I remembered something about the Irish god Lugh: Balor is his grandfather.

Meaning Lugh of the Tuatha Dé Danann is a descendant of the Fomorians.

Similarly, Loki of the Æsir is a descendant of the Jötnar; his father is a Jötunn.

These controversial ancestries may help explain why both figures have chips on their shoulders.

Why both figures regularly challenge and yes, trick, members of their adoptive tribes.

And if you’re thinking to yourself, “wait, Lugh isn’t a trickster,” consider that when he first presents himself to the Tuatha Dé Danann, after having been raised and trained in secret by the sea-god Manannán mac Lir in the fairy Otheworld Tír na nÓg (“Land of Youth”), Lugh totally buries the lede.

The guard tells him, you’re not gettin’ in unless you’ve got a craft or a talent.

And of course Lugh’s whole thing is he can do everything.

But instead of just telling the guard, look, bro, I’m the Ildana, the master of every craft (that’s one of Lugh’s epithets), he goes down the list and reveals his true nature in dramatic fashion.

I can do carpentry, smithing, fighting, play the harp, bear a cup, poetry, history, wizardry, barbecue. Is there a doctor in the house? I’m a doctor.

But the guard is not impressed. After each resume bullet point, he tells Lugh, “we’ve already got one of those. We’ve already got a carpenter. We’ve already got a smith and a champion and and a harper and so on.

It’s only at the end of this whole exchange that Lugh says, right, now go ask your king, Nuada of the Silver Hand, is there anyone in his fort (or dún) who can do all of those things?

This works.

Once inside, Lugh proceeds to show off his skills to the Tuatha Dé Danann, which includes putting everyone to sleep for an entire day.

No, these aren’t Loki-level shenanigans. But there’s certainly a whiff of mischief in the air.

And when we stop looking at these figures through a binary good guy/bad guy lens, other similarities come to light.

For example, both Balor and Baldr are presented as nearly indestructible—they each have a single weakness.

With Balor, that’s his eye, which is both the source of his power and the bull’s eye that Lugh hits with a projectile, killing him.

In one version that projectile is Lugh’s lightning spear, in another it’s a special sling-stone called the Tathlum that is made from sea sand mixed with viper, bear, and toad blood.

With Baldr, mistletoe is his one and only weakness. This is because his mother the goddess Frigg makes every object on Earth vow not to hurt her special boy. Buuut Loki tricks her into making mistletoe exempt.

And Loki being Loki, he fashions a spear or arrow (depending on the telling) out of the parasitic plant, gives it to the visually impaired Höðr and says “go throw this at your brother.”

So there you have it, the super powerful Balor and Baldr are both rendered powerless (re: dead) by way of a purpose-built projectile.

But now dear viewer, I must confess that I’ve been burying the lede. Because in my mind the most interesting potential connections between Lugh and Loki and Balor and Baldr aren’t mythological but etymological.

See, the consensus used to be that Loki and Lugh and the Gaulish Lugus and the Welsh Lleu could all trace their names back to the Proto-Indo-European root *leuk-  meaning “light” or “shine.”

Another theory posits that the name Loki evolved from the Proto-Indo-European root *lewgʰ- meaning “to announce” or “tell publicly”—this is where the word “liar” comes from, which is fitting.

And wouldn’t you know it, the same etymology has been proposed for Lugh as well, because the Proto-Indo-European root *lewgʰ- can also take on the sense to swear as in swearing oaths

But another proposed etymology ties Loki to the Proto-Indo-European root *lewg- meaning “to bend” or “turn” or “twist.” It’s where the English word “lock” comes from, as in to lock something up, and it’s the origin of a Swedish word for cobweb, lockanät.

The thinking here is that Loki famously invents the fishnet in the story where he turns into a salmon, then he burns the net, but the other gods see the outline in the ashes and make their own. Anyway, the net is like a cobweb? And you lock up your fish in it?

I mean, sure.

As for Balor and Baldr, the former name likely stems from the Proto-Celtic *Boleros (“the flashing one”), while the latter name, which literally means “brave,” hence, calling him Baldr the Brave is redundant—Marvel Comics I’m looking at you—likely stems from Proto-Germanic *Baldraz, meaning “prince” or “hero.”

But ultimately both names can be traced back to the Proto-Indo-European *bʰel-, likely in the sense of to burn, to glow, or to be shiny—self-explanatory in Balor’s case; for Baldr it it would be on account of his radiance.

However, with Baldr specifically, the name could have evolved from *bʰel-’s other sense,
swell, blow, or inflate, which is where we get the English word bold.

Is/Are the Morrígan the Same as the Valkyries?

I’ll probably catch some flack for this one. (A flock of flack?)

Because certainly if the Irish death goddess The Morrígan has a counterpart in anyone in the Norse pantheon, it’s the death goddess Hel (who you might know as Hela).

But to me, that’s a very surface level (six-feet-under-level?) interpretation.

In Norse mythology, Odin sticks Hel with overseeing people who die from old age or sickness, while Odin himself rules Valhalla, which is a glorious hall reserved for warriors who fall in battle.

And who is responsible for guiding those fallen warriors to Vallaha? Ding, ding, ding: The Valkyries.

No, they’re not technically gods but Valkyries are supernatural beings with the power of flight, hence you often see them depicted with wings or feathered cloaks, and they seem to hold sway over (or at least know in advance) the outcomes of battles, specifically in regards to who will be requiring rides to Vallaha.

The Valkyries have names like Gunnr (War), Hildr (Battle), Göndul (Wand-wielder), and Geirskögul (Spear-shaker).ar-shaker.

You’ll often find them soaked in blood, spears in hand, decked out in helmets and armor, hovering above battlefields. And they’re frequently accompanied by ravens.

When Odin and Frigg go to their son Baldr’s funeral, they bring Odin’s ravens and the Valkyries with them.

Which makes sense given that the Valkyries are also known as Odin’s maidens. They’re part of the Norse All-father’s inner circle, famously fighting alongside him during Ragnarök.

Meanwhile, the Morrígan is effectively the maiden of the Irish All-father, The Dagda. (But don’t tell her I told you that.)

Not only does she fight alongside him and the rest of the Tuatha Dé Danann during the second Battle of Magh Tuireadh, but also she single-handedly dispatches the Fomorian king Indech and carries his blood back to the Tuatha Dé Danann in her hands, an action that rouses her compatriots to battle.

Did I mention the Morrígan often takes the form of a crow or raven on the battlefield? Well, she does. Especially during the events of the Ulster Cycle, which sees her perpetually pestering the hero Cú Chulainn.

In addition to foretelling the battle in which Cú Chulainn will die, she ostensibly lands on his shoulder (in the form of a crow or raven) after his death.

But wait a minute, you might be thinking. There are multiple Valkyries in Norse mythology but only one Morrígan in Irish mythology.

Or is there?

As many of you likely already know, the Morrígan is often described as a triune or triple goddess, meaning she has three distinct manifestations or personalities.

These are “Badb and Macha and Anand,” if going by the Lebor Gabála Érenn.

Meanwhile, scholar Charles Squire counts five Morrígan manifestations:

• Fea, the “Hateful,”
• Nemon, the “Venomous,”
• Badb, the “Fury,” (although Badb actually means crow)
• Macha, who is the personification of “battle,”
• and the Morrígú, or “Great Queen,” who rules over the other four.

To quote Squire, “this supreme war-goddess of the Gaels… is represented as going fully armed, and carrying two spears in her hand.”

The depictions and functions of these figures—the Morrígan and the Valkyries—are so similar, the main difference really comes down to status.

The way I see it, The Morrígan is what you’d get if the Valkyries and Odin’s ravens unionized and elected the goddess Frigg (or perhaps Freyja) as their divine representative.

Speaking of Freyja…

Are Manannán and Brigid the Same as Freyr and Freyja?

Let me say right off the mistletoe sprig that I know the Irish sea-god Manannán mac Lir (mac Lir meaning “son of the Sea”) and the Irish fertility/wisdom/poetry/a-bunch-of-other-stuff goddess Brigid are not brother and sister.

She is the daughter of the Irish All-father The Dagda.

He is the son of… well… the sea. Or I guess his dad could be Lir from the story The Children of Lir, which inspired Shakespeare’s King Lear (what?), but as I noted in my video on Irish mythology in pop culture, The Children of Lir likely existed as a folk tale before being recast with divine characters prior to being recorded.

Anyway, in the Norse myths, Freyr and Freyja are clearly established as twins. Hence, those names.

And get this: their father is the Norse sea-god Njörðr.

Apparently up until the 1800s Norwegian fishermen would thank Njor for good catches.

In the myths, Njörðr is from Vanaheimr, which seems to be located between Asgard and Midgard. It’s one of the Nine Worlds at any rate.

So that means Njörðr and Freyr and Freyja belong to the Vanir, that other group of Norse gods that eventually gets absorbed into the Æsir.

I can see a parallel here with Manannán, who, while being a member of the Tuatha Dé Danann, is somewhat removed from them, notoriously ruling over/guarding one of the Otherworlds, which is variously called Tír na nÓg (“Land of Youth”), Tir Tairngiri (“Land of Promise”), Tír na mBeo (“the Land of the Living”), Tir fo Thuinn (“Land under Waves”), or Mag Mell (“Plain of Delights”) depending on the specific myth.

If this proposed parallel between Freyr and Manannán so far feels as flimsy as a paper boat, rest assured that it’s nothing like Freyr’s ship, Skíðblaðnir, which is hailed as the “best of ships” in the myths.

Actually it kinda is like a paper boat because you can fold it up and fit in your pocket.

But more pertinently, once you hoist Skíðblaðnir’s sail, the vessel will automatically (automagically?) find a favorable wind and take you where you want to go.

Is it just me, or does this sound an awful lot like Manannán’s ship Sguaba Tuinne (“Wave-sweeper”), which is famously capable of self-navigation?

As for Freyr’s association with horses (he keeps a sanctuary of sacred horses, including one that can run through fire that he gives to his messenger Skírnir), Manannán is in a similar boat.

Wait, that’s not why…

In Irish mythology, sea storms are said to be caused by “the horses of the son of Lir.” So, yeah, he’s got a lot of them.

But it’s also specified that Manannán mac Lir prefers to ride Aonbharr, a.k.a. Enbarr of the Flowing Mane, a horse that can run across the surface of the sea. Manannán will ultimately give this horse to his foster-son Lugh.

Side note: Freyr has a dedicated riding/battle horse as well, but as far as I can tell, it’s only “super power” is having the most badass name ever: Blóðughófi, meaning “bloody hoof.”

Now, If only Freyr and Manannán both wielded the most powerful swords in their respective mythologies, then all of those aforementioned points would be really hard to dismiss as mere coincidences.

And would ya look at that, the Sword of Freyr is able to fight on its own. It’s so powerful that when Freyr gives it away (to Skírnir, no less, the same guy who gets Freyr’s magic horse) he seals his own fate, as he will be unable to survive Ragnarök without it.

Similarly, leading up to the second battle of Maige Tuired, Manannán gives away his super powerful sword Fragarach (“Answerer”), which has the ability to cut through any armor and kill with every blow.

Manannán’s sword is often conflated with the Claíomh Solais, or Sword of Light, but in the myths it’s clear that Nuada of the Silver Hand wields the Claíomh Solais, whereas Manannán gives Fragarach to his foster-son Lugh.

And yes, for those keeping track at home, Lugh is the same guy who gets Manannán’s magic horse.

See? Do you see? Are you seeing this?

And we haven’t even talked about Freyr’s sister Freyja yet, and her possible connections to the Irish goddess Brigid.

Like all Vanir, Freyja is strongly associated with fertility and wisdom. She rules over Fólkvangr, “field of the host,” which is a great meadow that sort of serves as overflow space for Valhalla.

Half the dead warriors go chill with Odin, the other half hang with Freyja.

Brigid, meanwhile, is a goddess of fertility and wisdom, as well as domesticated animals, poetry, healing, protection, dairy work, and black smithing.

And while she doesn’t rule over a bunch of dead warriors in a big field, she does invent keening (a combination of wailing and singing) while mourning the death of her warrior son on the battlefield.

And she’s the protector of livestock—so in a sense she rules over all of Ireland’s pastures.

I’m really trying here.

Okay, this, listen to this:

Freyja and Brigid both enjoy the company of animals. Like more than the typical deity.

And one of the star beasts in both of their menageries is a boar, or male pig.

Freyja’s boar is called Hildisvíni, meaning Battle Swine, while Brigid’s boar is called Torc Triath, meaning King of the Swine.

Granted, Freyja is perhaps better known for having a pair of cats that pull her chariot.

These cats, while nameless in the myths as originally recorded, were retroactively dubbed Bygul “Bee Gold” and Trjegul “Tree Gold,” which certainly has nothing to do with the fact that bees and oak trees are both symbols of the Irish Brigid, but I still felt compelled to mention it.

Brigid, for her part, is not a cat lady, but she is a fur mama to a pair of royal oxen Fe and Men (namesake of the Plain of Femen in County Tipperary).

Finally, the name Freyja comes from the same etymological root as the German frau, meaning a married woman, while the name Brigid has the same etymological root as the English word bride.

In the myths, Brigid is the bride of the half-Fomorian Bres, a one-time ruler of the Tuatha Dé Danann (albeit a very unpopular one), while Freyja is married to a figure named Óðr.

And if the names Freyja and Óðr look suspiciously similar to Frigg and Odin, that’s probably not a coincidence.

Scholars continue to debate how and when the members of these two divine couples emerged as distinct characters, but for the sake of me drawing another probably tenuous mythological connection, if we combine Freyja and Frigg, we get a figure with both the animal-lover and mother-in-mourning aspects of Brigid.

In Norse mythology, the death of Frigg’s son Baldr is referred to as her “first grief.”

And just as Brigid’s weeping leads to the creation of keening, Frigg’s weeping leads to the creation of mistletoe berries, as the white berries on mistletoe are said to represent Frigg’s tears.

Who Is the Irish God of Thunder? Tuireann vs. Thor

Given the length of this essay, I can only assume some folks quit reading halfway through while thinking to themselves: All of this is garbage.

Because comparing pantheons, especially the Norse and Irish pantheons, is inherently flawed, as “pantheon” is a Greco-Roman concept, and for a lot of Westerners, myself included, we are constantly comparing the deities we learn about from other cultures to the Greco-Roman ones we are likely already familiar with.

Thus, we often feel compelled to squeeze pagan deities into specific boxes. Even if that’s not how indigenous worshipers would have been thinking about them.

For example: Zeus/Jupiter is a god of thunder, amongst other things.

So the Norse gotta have a thunder god, too, right? And look, there’s Thor.

Ah, so what about the Irish?

Ummm. Well, I actually can’t seem to find…

Never mind, we’ll come back to it. Now, look at this Gaulish god, Taranis. He’s a thunder god, too.

Okay…

And now looky here at the Irish myths, we’ve got Tuireann.

Is he a thunder god?

Well, his name is derived from the Proto-Celtic word for thunder, just like Taranis.

So Tuireann is the Irish god of thunder? He‘s the Irish Thor?

Well, he’s certainly Irish.

Wait a minute, isn’t Tuireann the dad from that story the Sons of Tuireann?

Yes! That’s his big story.

And does he make thunder with a magic hammer and/or hurl lightning bolts in that story?

Not at all. He’s just some dude who grieves to death after his sons die.

Oh.

Don’t you just love Irish mythology?

I’m not sure actually.

Is Nuada Airgetlám the Same as Týr?

Moving in the other direction, it can also be tempting to look at an Irish figure like the divine king Nuada Airgetlám (of the silver arm or hand) who famously gets delimbed in battle and ponder, alright, who in the Norse pantheon matches that description?

Oh my ruby Tuesdays, it’s Týr, the Norse god who gets his hand chomped off by the giant wolf Fenrir and hence becomes known as the “the one handed As.”

That’s “As,” as in Æsir.

And it’s been argued that Týr is the Norse equivalent of the Roman war god Mars, which is why in Romantic languages, like French, Tuesday isn’t named for Týr as it is in English, but for Mars. Hence, Mardi (as in Mardi Gras, or “fat Tuesday”).

It’s the same deal with Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday as well.

Anyway, Mars has also been equated with the Brittonic Celtic god Nodens, who in turns has been linked etymologically to Nuada.

It’s like we’re playing some weird version of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.

And actually, it’s a lot of fun.

So let’s close out with one more.

Is Ogma the Same as Bragi?

Ogma, the Irish god of eloquence, is credited with inventing Ogham script, also known as the Celtic tree alphabet.

Surely, Norse mythology doesn’t have a…

Oh, look, here’s Bragi, the Norse god of eloquence.

Does he invent runes, the Norse equivalent of Ogham?

No, his dad Odin does though. And Bragi has runes engraved on his tongue, which immediately makes me think of the Gaulish Ogmios, who, according to Lucian, has bejeweled chains bolted to his tongue, the ends of which are attached to his followers.

Ogmios, Ogma—yeah, they’re Celtic cognates, akin to Nodens and Nuada.

And know how Ogham is named for Ogma, according to the myths? Well, bragr, another term for skaldship, i.e., writing Viking-age Nordic poetry, is said to be named for Bragi. The English word “to brag” may have evolved from this same linguistic root.

Etymology aside, Ogma is a champion, a fierce warrior. And when Lugh, the Irish god of many talents, presents himself to the Tuatha Dé Danann, Ogma challenges him.

They basically do the rock-tossing scene from Braveheart. Only Lugh just wins it outright and gets to see the king, Nuada.

This isn’t so different from when the Norse trickster Loki presents himself to the Æsir and Bragi challenges him.

Like Ogma, Bragi decidedly loses the challenge and Loki gets to see the king, Odin.

No, there’s no rock-tossing in this one, just constant taunting from Loki and a good old fashioned “you wanna take this outside?” from Bragi. To which Loki responds, nah you’re a coward. And you killed your wife’s brother.”

Low blow, Loki. Low blow.

Wait, did I just prove that Ogma and Bragi are the same god?

Of course not.

Did I just prove that they evolved from a shared Proto-Indo-European progenitor, or that ancient Celtic and Germanic tribes were comparing notes on their respective gods of eloquence?

No, not that either.

All I did was cherry pick some interesting details that may or may not hint at a potential connection.

To be clear, this is not intended to be serious scholarship. (That probably goes without saying.)

I am a stay-at-home dad with a Bachelor’s degree…

…who recorded the video adaptation of this essay in a shed.

My only hope is that you found this entertaining, and that it perhaps inspired you to learn more about Irish mythology, or Norse mythology, or comparative mythology.

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Want to learn about the darker side of Irish and Celtic mythology? Check out…

Samhain in Your Pocket

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Irish Monsters in Your Pocket

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Neon Druid: An Anthology of Urban Celtic Fantasy

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