The World Tree Yggdrasil
At the heart of everything—of the heavens and the earth, of fire and ice, of life and death—stands Yggdrasil, the World Tree. Its roots burrow deep into the hidden places of the cosmos, and its branches stretch far beyond what the eye can see. It is not just a tree but the axis of existence, holding together the Nine Realms like a great, unyielding spine.
No one knows who planted Yggdrasil, or if it was ever planted at all. It seems eternal, as if it had always been there, a silent witness to the birth of gods and the rise of worlds. Its bark is ancient, its leaves whisper with the voices of those who have lived and died, and its roots drink from the deepest wells of knowledge and power.
The roots of Yggdrasil reach into three realms. The first dives into Niflheim, the frozen world of mists, where it drinks from the well of Hvergelmir, the source of all rivers. The second anchors itself in Jotunheim, the land of giants, where the well of Mimir lies—a place of wisdom, guarded by the severed head of Mimir himself. The third stretches into Asgard, the home of the gods, where it taps into the well of Urd, the sacred pool of fate tended by the Norns.
The Norns—Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld—dwell beneath Yggdrasil, weaving the threads of destiny for gods and men alike. They carve runes into the tree’s bark, their work ceaseless, their influence inescapable. The roots of Yggdrasil feed on their knowledge, growing stronger with every secret they uncover.
But the tree is not invincible. Beneath its roots, the dragon Nidhogg gnaws endlessly, trying to bring it down. Squirrels and stags roam its trunk, their actions trivial yet persistent, wearing away at its strength. Even the gods, mighty as they are, cannot stop the slow decay of Yggdrasil. The tree endures, but it also suffers, its resilience a reflection of the fragile balance it holds.
The branches of Yggdrasil cradle the Nine Realms, connecting them in ways both visible and unseen. Asgard, home of the gods, sits high in its canopy. Midgard, the realm of humans, lies nestled in its middle branches. Below, Helheim stretches dark and cold, where Hel herself rules over the dead.
Yggdrasil is not just a tree—it is the pulse of the cosmos, its lifeblood flowing through every realm, every river, every star. The gods hold their councils beneath its boughs, and its leaves tremble with every secret whispered in the wind. When Ragnarök comes, the tree will shudder, its branches heavy with the weight of what has been and what will be.
Even now, when the air grows still and the world feels impossibly vast, you might hear it: the creak of ancient wood, the murmur of leaves that remember too much, the silent hum of something that has always been and always will be. Yggdrasil, the World Tree, stands as both sentinel and thread, holding the universe together, even as it bears the weight of its slow unraveling.