Chapter 1: How All Things Began
Like all stories, there is a beginning, a middle, and an end. Or in the rare occasion, the ending is revealed with some plot smashed toward the end of the introduction without proper commentary of how it came to be. Or perhaps events that transpired in the middle aimlessly happen in random occurrences during the introduction with the ending as the beginning.
Already this beginning has the mind reeling. Thoughts are provoked and it wanders about the different creative pulses bridging to and fro the neurons. Electrical synapses snap and crackle to life: making new paths every millisecond.
Amongst this confusion, one must wonder, why start this way? What is there to gain with nothing but petty words and nothing to fill? What kind of literary device is this?
Then again, no one can perfect the craft oral storytellers have been forging for thousands of years. In all honesty, there are four words that can summon the setting, the mood, the inflection of what any author hesitates to submit.
Let us start from where none could race with questions and ideas. As all epic poets have sung:
Once upon a time...
... there was nothing but a gulf. Some recall it as a yawning gulf that went beyond forever. In a seemingly endless abyss of darkness and space, there was no earth, no air, no sea, and no life. Only the echoless, daunting doom of the gulf.
Northward of this impending gulf laid the Home of Mist. Like the spaces in between spaces, it was as dark and dreary. The only distinguishing feature was the winding river that never ran dry. It curled like a snake in the tall grass, weaving in and out until it met the bitter cold air of the gulf.
The impact of air and water bound together. Thin layers of fresh ice appeared. At first the shivering river trickled down in cold frost down the gulf. Then the air caressed the water enough to submerge the pile of water into full blown ice. Over the course, for there was no such thing as time, the water filled and froze at the same rate. The gulf was submerged into mountains of ice. The widening gap was maximized and met ground level to the rest of the space. And still the mountain of shimmering ice grew.
South of this mountainous frozen land was the Home of Fire. Housed in the burning flames was a giant guardian wielding a magnificent fiery sword. As he bantered it day in and day out to keep the magma flowing from the Home, showers of embers flew from the sword.
They escaped the heat of the Home of Fire until they landed upon chunks of solid ice. The dying flames partially melted away some of the ice, releasing bounties of steam clear into the space. Clouds of air mixed into the universe and created an atmosphere. As the partial melted ice froze over, it grew back stronger like hoar-frost: burning with a cold sting. It continued to spray sparks of fire, decaying and regrowing the mountains of ice. The continuing flow of ice and fire filled in the cracks and spaces of the gulf until it's presence displaced all over.
And from this cycle of cold and warmth birthed the Giant Ymir. The fire warmed the frame of a body but shielded a cold, cruel heart. Ymir looked upon the space of wasteland as his and his alone. So for the longest time, the malicious will in his heart froze even more. That was until a fateful thing occurred.
Some of the Home of Fire's embers landed upon forgotten and old ice, left separate from the now mountainous terrain. As spark after spark melted away, there revealed an icy covering of a shape. It wasn't until the last numb ice watered that the frame of a mighty man was revealed.
This was caught by the gaze of Ymir. He stared at the strange man and hardened his heart. The man came from warmth, embedded in frozen snow while he, greatest of all Giants, was created from ice and a bit of warmth. Deep in the cruel, watery veins of his being Ymir knew the sons of his to come and the sons of man shall be forever more, eternal enemies.
And so Ymir left man alone while he contemplated creating a great plan. Using the elements of which he was born of, Ymir created the ill at heart Frost Giants, modeling them with his cold hand. Each with vengeance coded into them. As the universe turned with tide, the time came, for when time was written down, when the great battle of the Frost Giants and the Sons of the Iceman came.
An epic battle of proportion landed in between the bridge of the gulf, waves of cold water commanded from the Home of the Mist and fiery cannons from the Home of Fire collided. One Son of Man set himself apart from the others. It turned the greedy eye of Ymir.
Odin, Father of All Things, with his brothers called war with the Frost Giants. Leadership and power exuded from the Man, something that sent a threat to Ymir. It was a final battle between Odin and Ymir that ended all things. All-father slew Ymir after a hard battle and from then, the Frost Giants were defeated.
The water in his veins flooded out in great amounts. His wounds poured out his life blood, drowning all the rest of his kin in cold blood. All but save one Frost Giant salvaged a mast and boat with his wife and sailed north to the edge of the world. To a plain where it was completely frozen over with no warmth and no kindness that was associated with the race of men. With revenge and chaos still left in this lone Frost Giant, Laufey, it would be he who would carry on the legacy of his brethren and create a new race of Frost Giants- ones that surpassed Ymir's experimentation. From henceforth malcontent and cruelty harbored inside him against the mighty Icemen and especially to Odin-Father who had slain his father.
While Laufey bore harsh winters and terrain cold to the core, Odin and his brothers emerged from the battle, victorious, Weapons once forged as destroyers in the hearth of the Home of Fire, were made tools to build forth a worthy Home for the Aesir. Climbing to top of all worlds, they discovered deep within the caverns of a volcanic mountain, a treasured land with edges of water spilt over like the never ending Mist River.
Odin proclaimed this new land, Asgard- home of the gods. A mighty fortress she was; gleaming gold and silver coins. The rich earth provided sanctum and life. Just below the heavens and magnificence.
It was in the Hall of Odin, where the All-Father made himself King, king of the Aesir and all the spaces the gulf contained. However there was a matter of all other branches the gulf connected. Misty it's paths were, nothing remained solid. Pondering, it was said Odin dropped a single green seed into the one lone space left in the gulf of which his predecessors crawled from.
Drunken from the ice's waters, the seed grew. It rooted deep in the fathomless pits, latched on, and rose far beyond the limitations of the universe. It grew marvelously like a trees, with branches extending towards the pockets of the universe.
Thusly Odin, son of Bur's son Borr, reclaimed this as Yggdrasil or "Tree of Life". It's highest bough hung over the Hall of Odin with a perched eagle guardian watching Yggdrasil's movements below. To it's trunk sat three Norns- caring seers of all fates. They watered and bloomed the tree at it's pool, watching over closely the monster gnawing and trapped within.
In it's center, laid an empty hole encased by the walls of the tree's theoretical bark. Odin's gaze shifted towards the emptiness, puzzled. Deciding to further the tree's growth, he made use of Giant Ymir's carcass. Out of his flesh he made Midgard, earth. For fear of the giant's wrath, the Asas plucked the gritty brow as the outer crust as a barrier between worlds. Grounded bones made the rolling hills, caverns, and mountains. His teeth, sharp and ominous, were the cliffs; grass and undergrowth made from his hair follicles, as well as the trees and bushes. Pale blue frost turned to lush, green foliage with the warmth of Odin's powers.
The Aesir piled bucket after bucket of his blood, that which drowned his brethren, and filled the blue, salty oceans. What was left of his skull arched as the sky's atmosphere. His last bit of life aura made the grey clouds, always churning. always moving like a spirit.
And from this giant-made world sprouted new like. Light, reflected from the pulsing veins of Yggdrasil, shone upon the earth. Content with this world, Odin and company slept in peace. However, of all the pockets this tree branched out to, only Asgard and the frothy land of Jotunheim remained full of life.
This was untrue. At the time of Midgard's inception, sprang dark, gangly creatures. They were full of malice and deceit; they hoarded their corrupt gold in caverns and filthy places where they lie. Of these trolls, goblins, and dwarves- they were cast away from rotting the fertile earth of Midgard by the mighty gods. Bottled up in the great iron nets of their captors, they fell on the darkest bough of the Tree. Where the blackest lights and woeful shades gather around in despair.
While the gods of the Tree believed the realm lethargic, the dark elves grinned at their surroundings. In one congregation all of the shadow creatures pillaged and mined the pitch black soil for jewels and precious gems. It was to their squeamish delight to find much rarer substances; ones that could not be found in their plundering of Midgard.
So they named this new realm Svartalfheim, of the swart elves and its half breed ilk.
When springtime came nigh near the shores of the giant rivers, fair and wise fairies and the good dwarves and brother elves transformed the blackened Midgard into its former glory before the Dark Elves Dwelling. The flying beings were said to be born from the falling petals of dying pastures and blossomed into its shape as the wind carried them off. They nourished the earth rich again. Spring came again. For their good deeds- gardening, replenishing, dethorning- they had the ability to move onto the next world. Their pedestal lied farther below their darker selves, just below the branch separating the world to Asgard.
Alfheim was given to the elves to perfect their magic and creations in a world so surreal and peaceful, it was second to Valhalla- the Heaven of Heavens. In the land of Eternal Spring, fairies rings were celebrated and happiness was as long as the days.
However the time of Midgard's bounty ended when Frost Giants slipped past Ymir's bony fences and blew chilling winds across the lands-almost a permanent tundra. As the Frost Giants settled in, the good fairies and elves saw their destruction. In many battles, the fairies fought against the Giants until they reigned supreme. At least for the few seasons until the Frosts Giants' ice became too unbearable to the fairies' rosy, delicate skin.
There is always raging war between the two. It is said if a man on Midgard waited in between the time of seasons, one could hear the cold, bated breath of the Frost Giants and smell the aspen scent of the elves just before ice met lithe vitae wands. Waging war was always to be expected. Although not as bad of blood between the Dark Ones and the Light Ones. But that is another tale not dedicated to the Beginning of All Things.
Odin strolled along the briny beaches of Midgard. Once more, he saw Midgard in all its glory and radiance (for it was just in the prime of the elves tinkering of spring). But it was empty aside from the plants and animals that flittered here and there.
He noticed two trees from a distance: an elm and ash tree. Odin passed breath on both. The spread branches lessened in stiffness and moved with the same nimble limbs and skin of his ancestors but much weaker. In the trees' place stood a man and his partner, a woman. All-Father gave the gift of speech and of the senses. King Odin named the man Ask, the woman Embla. Named after the trees they once were.
He taught them the ways of Midgard- how to grow food, to shelter against enemies and foe-like disasters, and most importantly the few stories of all the universe in hopes to pass the legacy of Yggdrasil's rich history son to son.
He bade farewell to Ask and Embla and Midgard for the time being for yet another Giant War was pressing on the Aesir's mind. It came to be over time, Ask and Embla's descendants grew with each generation. And soon Midgard wasn't empty anymore. It happened by chance that some sons or daughters were born of rare gifts. Ones that surpassed the abilities of the Light Ones.
Upon a better light, some of the Tree's life form dropped in dew amounts upon the brow of a child. Within the drop gave the power to see things to come, things that are, and have yet to be. Nine children of the time were given this grand Sight. Three were masters of chaos, three represented the organics of Yggdrasil, and three represented the visions pulsating through the Tree.
The Asas collected the chosen nine and took them back to Asgard. There, they were taught the ways of an immortal being, learned the ways of their powers, and shaped into what was to be Vanirs. Fearing their newfound strength would overpower the Aesir, Asgard housed the Nine until one petitioned for their freedom and their own dominion. All-Father saw the one who revolted, Iwaldi, to be pure of heart unlike others who stood against the Aesir. Iwaldi was the favored pupil of Odin and showed remarkable leadership qualities that rivaled the King.
By the staff of Gungnir, Odin allowed this to pass with the condition of Iwaldi to watch over the last realm of Yggrasil and an eternal forged alliance to surpass the Aesirs' worries. Iwaldi accepted with his remaining siblings as guardians and council of Vanaheim.
In the Hall of Odin, Iwaldi was changed to Vanaheimr, the King of all the Vanirs. Vanaheim, home of the Vanirs, served magic and the universal elements as it's compliances. Although the practices were not as friendly in Asgard, Asgard regarded the Vanirs' alliance beneficial and a progression of life everywhere.
In fact, it was the Vanirs who gifted their ever lasting gratitude to Asgard to help forge a magnificent bridge linking to all worlds. Tapping the veins of Yggdrasil itself, the Rainbow Bridge, the Bifröst, was created as a guide between the worlds. The power to wield the Rainbow Bridge was entrusted to Odin, who entrusted the guard Heimdall to watch over Asgard and peer his All-Seeing Eye over the entirety of the worlds for the sake and goodwill of Valhalla.
The last to be mentioned in the Beginning were the wanderings of the Homes of Mist and Fire. With the Tree of Life split in between the two, both homes curled down towards the roots. The Home of Fire, a bright, flaming, hot world in the southern region held the Fire Giants. Sons of the original Giant, Muspell, who took part of the gulf's creation. They harbored a different fiery passion than that of their counterparts- the Frost Giants. They lived in fear of the Asas and their rule. Surtr, ruler of the fire jötunns, was kept prisoner inside his own realm deep beneath the hot core of Muspellheim. With their ruler incapacitated, the Fire Giants worked along the coals as forgers of Asgard's weapons and to all others.
As the Fire Giants remained alive, the Home of Mist could not be said the same. The last of her kind, a goddess named Hel ruled over the deadened world of Niflheim- the entrance to all those who sought judgement after death and the beginnings of the cage of the black adder whose hunger never sated for fresh corpses. The Land of the Dead was the lowest level of Yggdrasil. Hel's dominion was too cold even for the Frost Giants of Jotunheim. All that died in the worlds were either honored in Valhalla in sweet paradise or damned to be frozen armies of Hel.
And so it had passed. The shaping of the universe from the first prose of the yawning gulf to the connection of life, became one of many stories Men had retold in grandiose measures. Of the culture passed by their tongues came the enrichment of their children and their children's children and so on and so forth.
However with every Beginning comes the End of All Things. As beautiful and poetic the Beginning regaled of its transformation from nothing to the systematic whirling of the cosmos and beyond, there must be in comparison a beautiful firestorm that destroyed its fabrication. Perhaps it would be destiny to intervene it or to aid its chaotic path. When there is life, there is always a an extremist force pushing against it. Whether its force be for good or bad, there is always a purpose to Yggdrasil's roots.
This epic story isn't informative, it is a narrative. One written by the Fates and their scrying waters at the base of the tree. There is nothing in the natural laws that can intervene in a Fate's prophecy. Its prophecy will steer the course of one demigoddess as time begins to fade- begin to end. Will it be her to stop the darkness decay everything in its path or become the the initiator to all destruction?
This is the End of the Beginning of All Things.