In the first days, before men walked Midgard, before even the gods had names, there was only the great empty gulf called Ginnungagap. To the north lay Niflheim, heavy with frost, rime, and drifting knives of cold. To the south burned Muspelheim, blazing with fires that never slept. Where frost met flame, the void began to stir, as if dreaming itself awake.

From the hissing melt sprang Ymir, the first of the giants — vast, heavy-limbed, breathing mist with every step. He was alone, but from his sweat came more of his kind, shadows shaped by the clash of heat and ice. They roamed blindly through the half-formed dark, their voices echoing like storms waiting to be born. Yet even giants must feed, and Ymir hungered for something beyond emptiness.

Then came Audhumla, the primeval cow, gentle and enormous, her hide glimmering faintly with the frost that formed her. From her four great teats flowed rivers of milk, enough to nourish Ymir and all who followed him. But Audhumla herself needed sustenance, and she found it in the salty blocks of ancient ice that lay to the north. She bent her head and licked — slow, patient, purposeful — as if sensing something trapped beneath.

On the first day, as her tongue swept the rime, a single hair appeared. On the second day, more of the ice gave way and revealed a head, stern and noble. On the third day, the ice split open entirely, and Búri stepped forth — tall, bright-eyed, strong as the shaping of fate. From ice and time he came, the first of the gods, born not of chaos but of revelation.

Búri soon had a son, Borr, and Borr wedded Bestla, daughter of a frost giant. Their sons were Odin, Vili, and Vé — the first gods of purpose, will, and creation. The three looked upon the giants, especially Ymir, and saw danger swelling like a stormcloud. So they rose together, and with spear and strength and sorcery, they struck Ymir down.

From Ymir’s fell body came the shaping of all things: His blood surged forth to form the seas. His flesh became the earth beneath human feet. His bones rose as mountains, and his skull became the sky, set high and held by four dwarfs at the corners of the world.

From sparks of Muspelheim the young gods made the stars, scattering them like bright embers across night’s cloak. And upon the new shores they found two pieces of driftwood — one ash, one elm — lifeless yet waiting. Odin breathed life into them, Vili granted them thought, and Vé shaped their speech and form. Thus were born Ask and Embla, the first humans, in whose footsteps the Nine Worlds would echo.

And so, from melting ice and licking tongue, from giant’s fall and gods’ rising hands, the worlds were forged — not from peace, but from struggle, boldness, and becoming. To this day, the skalds say that if you listen closely to the groan of glacier or the crack of sea-ice, you may still hear the old cow Audhumla, patiently licking truth out of the dark.