Humans fought in hideous ways, and the cosmos reflected that. Winter lasted year-round, springs froze, the roots of trees rotted—even those of Yggdrasil. The firmaments split open, winds roared, and the serpent, Jormungand, writhed on the land. All this preceded the battle Ragnarok.
Despite poetry, stories, songs, bad things kept happening. Too many bad things, too much mischief, too much sorrow, it all weighed down the cosmos.
Disputes popped up among humans. Ping, ping, ping. Robbers and brutes. Ping, ping, ping. They turned into wars. Bang, clash, boom. This town against that town, neighbors against neighbors, finally the ultimate violation: brothers against brothers, fathers against sons. The sands turned iron. The waters ran red. And it went on and on and on, through one year, the next, the next. The first winter bit at eyes till they teared. The second bit at cheeks till they bled. The third devoured everything and everyone. No summer intervened, just winter blowing into winter blowing into winter, one enormous snow called Fimbulvet. Clouds, storms, ice in a gore-splattered cosmos.
Urdarbrunn, the sacred well where one of Yggdrasil’s roots ended, now froze hard, and the burbling, bubbling spring of destiny that welled from it ceased. The very roots of the towering ash rotted, and the dragon Nidhogg finally gnawed through the icy one. The leaves yellowed and fell while the lovely Norns looked on and grieved. The tree shook. It couldn’t stop shaking. Creatures everywhere curled in fear.
Firmaments shuddered. Trees swayed till their roots gave up and let them splat to the ground. Boulders tumbled off mountains. Everything burst.
Including all chains. Hel’s howling hound, Garm, burst free. Fenrir, the wolf who had bitten off the god Tyr’s hand, the wolf who was bound in chains on the island of Lyngvi in the lake Amsvartnir, that vicious son of Loki ran free as well. His trickster father, Loki, trapped in a mountain cavern, tied with the entrails of his own son Nari, festering with hatred toward the Aesir who had devised his torment, that shape-shifter slipped free, squatted like a beast, and then hopped away.
Winds shrieked and waves roared, and still, through all the clamor, three cock crows rang out. Up in Valhalla, the cock Gullinkambi crowed so loud his gold comb nearly shook off. From the bird-wood of the giants, the cock Fjalar crowed a screech as red as his feathers. And down in Hel, the third cock crowed to alert the dead. This was it. This was the call to the final battle, Ragnarok. The great conflagration was at last upon them all.
Ice & Fire
The Norse migrated to Iceland starting in the mid-800s. They met a harsh land where the interior highlands freeze deep in winter. Those highlands are a desert created by volcanoes. Eighteen of Iceland’s 130 volcanoes have been active in the past 1,200 years. When a volcano erupts, ash darkens the sky and coats the land. The lava flow sets trees afire, killing everything in its path. The fires and earth-splitting in the battle of Ragnarok bring to mind a volcanic eruption, don’t you think?
At the start of Ragnarok, three cocks crowed; the serpent Jormungand left the sea and rolled across the earth; and the dead came out of Hel and climbed into a boat to go join the horrible battle.
A branch broke off Yggdrasil and struck the serpent Jormungand, who released his own tail and left the sea behind. He rolled like terror upon the earth, writhing his way to the vast field called Vigrid. Fenrir ran beside him to that battlefield, leaving a trail of hungry slobber to match his monstrous brother’s trail of venom.
The frost giants, meanwhile, left the land behind and crowded their own terror into a ship and headed for Vigrid. Loki looked around and grimaced. No one was going to have a battle without him! Why, he’d be the leader! Under his command the Aesir would be destroyed. He gathered the dead from Hel and dumped them into a second boat called Naglfar, made of the fingernails and toenails of dead men. They sailed for Vigrid.
The fire giants followed mighty Surt with his flaming sword and tramped over the bridge Bifrost, which cracked under their boots.
Heimdall blew on Gjallarhorn and woke the gods, though how they managed to sleep until now, no one could ever explain. They stumbled together and looked around in bleary confusion, at a total loss. So Odin mounted Sleipnir and galloped to the well Mimisbrunn to seek advice from the head of the wise giant Mimir. But what advice was possible? Odin’s own sacrificed eye looked out from its hiding spot in the well at all that was, and he knew: Battle was how they had always done things; battle was how they would end things. And so the gods and goddesses and all the fallen warriors that lived in Valhalla and Folkvang put on their breastplates and mail and advanced on Vigrid, Odin at the front holding his spear, Gungnir.
The gods and goddesses and all the fallen warriors who lived in Valhalla and Folkvang put on their armor and went to battle. Odin led the way with his spear, Gungnir.
Odin and the wolf Fenrir went straight for each other. As if that was a signal, the carnage began. The fire giant Surt swung his bright sword at the god Frey. Now was the moment of regret: Frey had given his best of swords to Skirnir in his quest to marry Gerd. All he could do was jam his deer horn through Surt’s eye. And so, slash, slash, Surt cut Frey down. Hel’s hound, Garm, threw himself at the throat of the god Tyr and both soaked the earth with their blood. Thor killed Jormungand with his hammer, Mjolnir. Then Thor staggered backward, but at the ninth step he, too, fell, vanquished by the venom of the serpent. Loki and Heimdall threw their spears at each other at the same moment; both died. By this time Odin and Fenrir were exhausted, but in a last burst of energy, even with Gungnir stuck deep in his chest, Fenrir stretched his enormous jaws wide and swallowed Odin whole. Odin’s son Vidar immediately ripped Fenrir’s jaws apart. The wolf lay dead, but so did Odin. The fire giant Surt wielded his flaming sword, setting fire to all even as he sank, blinded and dying from the wounds Frey had inflicted.
From the very beginning of time, the wolf Skoll had snapped and growled behind Sun. Now he caught her. His fangs sank deep. And he swallowed her. Daylight was no more.
The wolf Hati Hrodvitnisson, who had run with lolling tongue after Moon for so very long, seized him and chewed him pitilessly. The night sky went black, not a single star glittered.
All nine worlds swirled with flame; the cosmos was a furnace. Wild winds choked those who yet lived. Yggdrasil fell. The dwarfs’ forge tipped and set even that sacred tree afire. One after the other, the nine worlds fell into the sea.
Time ended.
Yet still the earth rose again from the seas—against all odds, yes, but exactly as it had to be. Remember that everything went as fate would have it, all was destined. Light returned, for Sun had given birth to a daughter as dedicated as she had been, who followed the same path each day. Plants grew, fish swarmed the seas, birds fluttered above. From death came life, just as the first god Bor’s three sons carved the cosmos from the corpse of the giant Ymir so long ago, just as spring follows winter.
When the creatures of the cosmos attacked each other in the battle Ragnarok, the very cosmos was destroyed. Fire engulfed Yggdrasil; winds stole the breath of those still living; and the nine worlds fell into the sea.
The god Balder and his brother god Hod, who killed Balder, and their brother god Vali, who killed Hod, all survived and would walk on green grasses without rancor toward anyone. Another of Odin’s sons, Vidar, who had avenged his father’s death, also lived on, as did Thor’s sons Modi and Magni, who kept with them that best of hammers, Mjolnir. And last of the gods to survive was Hoenir, the huge god whose silence cost Mimir his head, but who now looked at all clearly and foretold the future. These seven Aesir would rule in the new cosmos.
Two humans had taken refuge inside Yggdrasil, Lif and Lifthrasir. They would have children and their children would have children, and they would people the new cosmos with goodness.
But the dragon Nidhogg survived, too, and with a purpose. Those who weren’t good would die in a cold place, all doors facing the north wind, all rivers roiling with poisons. Nidhogg would suck the evil dead dry, till nothing remained but rattling bones.
Still, this new way would be fair and peaceful.
Ragnarok was the end.
This was the beginning.
The humans Lif and Lifthrasir survived the battle and repeopled the new cosmos. The dragon Nidhogg also survived, and it plagued anyone who was evil. This way, the new beginning promised a fair and peaceful future.
