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Come close, my friends, and listen well.
My tale begins, not with the mares that hoisted and lowered the sun and moon, nor even with the Allfather's oath of an eye for the sake of knowledge, but with a tree.
The tree.
Let me explain.
Beyond the confines of recorded time, before the era of mighty gods, proud heroes and horrible monsters, there was nothingness. And in that nothingness, there stood Yggdrasil, the World Tree, its size incalculable and its true age ineffable, except to the oldest and wisest of beings. I don't know where the seed was derived from, when it was planted or the name of the gardener that tended to the tree until it had reached heights far exceeding any vegetation before or after the formation of the Nine Realms. Could it be the Nornir, the three mistresses of fate, whose skeins entangled and tied together the combined destinies of gods and men alike? Perhaps Odin, the one-eyed king of the Aesir, that nurtured the ash's growth, with or without the assistance of his brothers? Did Loki, the roguish trickster and infamous heart-breaker, have a hand in Yggdrasil's formation?
That information is beyond my knowledge, none of keen intellect or deep wisdom have yet to divulge that information to me. No one can say with absolute certainty how many branches Yggdrasil truly has or how many realms it played host to, but what is known is that it held entire worlds within the comforting embrace of its mammoth branches. Yes, yes, I remember the tales. In the days of yore, well before the Age of Darkness and Fire, there were nine recorded worlds that called the Great Ash home: Múspellsheimr, Niflheimr, Álfheimr, Vanaheimr, Jǫtunheimr, Miðgarðr, Svartálfaheimr, Niðavellir and Ásgarðr. The Nine Worlds, or Nine Realms, though vastly different in terms of residents and terrain, nonetheless had one thing in common: they were all children of Yggdrasil and, at least, for many eons, managed to co-exist in a cycle of order and chaos.
That is, until the arrival of the End of Ages.
Ragnarǫk.
Would you like to know more?
Come, come closer, don't be shy.
For you see, Yggdrasil was more than just a tree. In fact, that descriptor is a tad inadequate, as this ash did not simply stand in one "location" as you might understand it. It, in fact, stretched across many different areas in space-time and any sort of damage that Yggdrasil received affected the Realms as a whole. This, I believe, is what ultimately led to the events that merged two worlds together, delivering unto you the very society that you know and love. The princesses? Yes, even they were altered by the Great Ash's groaning and swaying as a result of Ragnarǫk, the Twilight of the Gods.
Ah, so you know the name.
Yes, you might say Yggdrasil's reverberations affected Equus far more than your teachers and scientists realize. How so? If you will humor me, I will now weave a verbal tapestry, an epic tale of magic and mystery, love and loss, revenge and redemption, each and every thread painstakingly entwined by yours truly. Who I am is of little consequence. Do you ask the food shopkeepers where they purchase their fish, or the hardware store workers the origin of their lumber? The storyteller's identity matters little when compared to the tale that they relate to their audience.
Trust me, all will be revealed in due time.
The first tale of our saga is about an extraordinary individual, a wolf whose birth and fate long heretofore prophesied to begin and end with death, hatred, and misery. And yet, despite it all, he ultimately forged his own destiny, reclaiming his life and finding much more than he ever bargained for in a strange land that would soon become the treasure of his heart. Yes, you've no doubt seen his statue at the Shrine of the Unfettered One, or perhaps glimpsed his likeness adorning the walls of the Temple of Harmony in Old Canterlot. I am, of course, referring to Fenrir the Defiant, Remover of Obstacles, the Wolf of Expectations and the Breaker of Bindings.
Would you like to know more, hmm?
Allow me to set the stage...
~*~
In the land known as Ásgarðr, specifically in the region southwest of the bay of Nóatún, there was what would appear to mortal eyes a vast ocean but was in fact a great lake, one of the largest in the Nine Worlds. Known to the locals as Ámsvartnir, or "Pitch-Black", it was so-called because of its midnight blue coloration, the water oftentimes appearing as a fathomless black, especially in the hours of pre-sunset and late evening. The lake's tide lazily ebbed and flowed, the surface appearing to barely fluctuate, almost giving Ámsvartnir the appearance of being a layer of smoky quartz. Once seen as an ideal fishing spot, it had been left vacant over the past several millennia; no one, but save for one man, a witch and two foolish birds, dared to go anywhere near it. Not even I would've deigned to dip even a single toe in its murky depths.
At Ámsvartnir's center, beyond a near-perpetual layer of thin, wispy fog, the tepid waves emitted a series of wet echoing pops as they gingerly lapped at the shores of Lyngvi, a sprawling landmass considered by the natives to merely be a small island. It was composed of sprawling grasslands and fields of wild heather, a few lichen-covered birch trees and raspberry bushes dotting the otherwise spacious if empty hills. Silence unequivocally reigned the desolate grounds of Lyngvi, penetrating deep to its heart and none of its fauna, not the weevils, crickets, frogs or partridges dared to make so much as a peep. "But why?", you may ask. "What could possibly elicit such dread?"
In the middle of Lyngvi, past a salt-water river, in a scorched field of once-lush heather and green grass, there lived a wolf lashed to a giant boulder the size of a mountain. Imagine, if you will, a beast so massive that if he were to yawn, his top jaw would touch the sky and the bottom jaw the earth. A mass of flesh and hatred wrapped in fur the color of the deepest black and whose balefully-glowing scarlet eyes, each one dwarfing the largest whales, steamed and spat clouds of flames hot enough to melt steel. His exhales were like hurricanes, his breathing louder than ten thousand thunderstorms, and his baying howls so piercing they could give the Gjallarhorn a run for its money for they could be heard in other realms. The wolf's name was Fenrir and every soul living or dead that dwelt in the Nine Worlds, excepting his former foster-father, trembled in fear of the dread-wolf, this mighty king of the ever-prowling by night.*
The eternally ravenous son of Loki, Fenrir stewed in seething rage and boiling animosity, dreaming, nay, expecting his eventual liberation from the enchanted fetters that bound him and his confrontation with Odin, the conniving architect of his misery. Oh, how he would inflict his rancorous malignity upon the Nine Realms, Miðgarðr especially, considering how much Odin Allfather cared so deeply for his favored pets. The troll-warg knew he had his role to play at Ragnarǫk, to what extent, he did not know. As long as he could kill Odin and burn the world of humans, he didn't care. The Beast of Slaughter would have his day of righteous vengeance.
Would you like to know more?
Why not ask the wolf himself?
Don't worry, he's no longer such a dog of detestation.
Ask him...
Author's Note
Pronunciation Guide:
Æsir (eye-seer): Norse gods associated with war and sovereignty
Álfheimr (alf-haym-mer): Home of the Álfar (Elves)
Ámsvartnir (ahm-svart-neer): The name of a lake mentioned in Gylfaginning, a book in Snorri Sturluson's Prose Edda; literally "Pitch Black"
Ásgarðr (Ahz-garth-ther): Home of the Norse pantheon; "Gods' enclosure"
Helheim (hell-hay-mer): Located in Niflheim, this realm is ruled over by Hel and serves as the afterlife for those that die of disease or old age.
Jǫtunheimr (yo-tun-haym-mer): Home of the Jǫtnar (Giants)
Lyngvi (leeng-vee): Island
Miðgarðr (Mith-garth-ther): Home of Humanity
Múspellsheimr (moo-spell-haym-mer): Realm of Fire, home to the Fire Giants
Myrkviðr (merk-vee-thrr): Forest whose name means, "Dark-wood"
Niflheimr (nif-fill-haym-mer): Realm of Ice and location of Helheimr, the realm of the dead.
Niðavellir (nith-tha-vehl-leer): Home of the Dvergi (Dwarfs)
Ragnarǫk (rag-nahr-roke): The Norse end of the world; literally means, "Fate of the Gods" or "Judgment of the Gods", though is most commonly translated as "Twilight of the Gods"
Svartálfaheimr (svart-alf-haym-mer): Home of the Dark Elves
Vanaheimr (Van-nuh-haym-mer): Home of the Vanir gods
Warg (wahrg): "Evil-doer", "outlaw" or "(wicked) wolf"
*Ever-prowling by night: Kenning (poetic metaphor) for "wolf"
