The Void and the Blood
In the beginning there was nothing, and it was exactly as dull as it sounds. No light, no darkness, no earth, no sky. Just Ginnungagap, the yawning void, which had been sitting there for an eternity without anyone caring about it. To the north lay Niflheim, the land of eternal ice and fog, where twelve poisonous rivers called Élivágar rushed out from the spring Hvergelmir and poured into the emptiness. To the south burned Muspelheim, guarded by Surtr with his flaming sword, and no one in their right mind had any reason to visit. And in between, in the gap, nothing happened at all. For a very long time.
But the waters of Élivágar rushed southward, and the poison in them froze to rime-frost, layer upon layer, like ice in a grave. Sparks from Muspelheim drifted north and melted the frost, drop by drop, and from the meltwater something took shape. It was not planned. It was not beautiful. It just happened. That is usually how it goes with things nobody asked for.
The creature was called Ymir. The first giant. He was enormous, ugly, and the first thing he did was fall asleep. While he slept he sweated, and from the sweat under his left armpit a man and a woman grew forth. His feet fucked each other and produced a son. It is in the sources. You can think what you like about that, but that is how it happened, and there is no other version. From Ymir descend all the frost-giants, and they were as unpleasant as their forefather, which says quite a lot.
There was also a cow. Her name was Auðhumla, and she was the size of a mountain and she licked the salty ice-stones because she liked the taste. From the ice she licked out a being, bit by bit. The first day the hair appeared. The second day the whole head. The third day the entire body stood free. His name was Búri, and he was the first thing that resembled what you might call a god. Beautiful, strong, made from salt and a cow's tongue. Less dignified origins have been heard.
Búri had a son called Borr, and Borr married Bestla, daughter of the giant Bölthorn, because in the beginning you could not be picky, and they had three sons: Odin, Vili, and Vé. Three brothers with giant-blood on their mother's side and divinity on their father's, and none of them were the sort to be content with inheriting.
The three brothers looked at Ymir, looked at each other, and decided to kill him. Why? Perhaps because he was in the way. Perhaps because he was unpleasant. Perhaps because you cannot build a world without first killing someone. The gods have never given an explanation, and no one has dared to ask.
They killed him. All three, like butchers around an ox. The blood poured from Ymir like a river, and there was so much blood that it drowned the entire race of giants. Every frost-giant drowned in their forefather's muck, all except Bergelmir and his wife, who climbed onto a tree trunk and floated away. From them descend all the giants who have caused the gods trouble ever since. That Odin did not drown the last ones too is the sort of mistake you regret for eternity.
The brothers took Ymir's body and built the world from it. The flesh became earth, the blood became seas and lakes, the bones became mountains, the teeth and jawbones became stones and gravel. The skull was turned upside down and became the sky. His hair became trees, and his brains they flung into the air and those became clouds. Which explains a few things about the weather. They used everything. Nothing went to waste, because the gods were the sort of craftsmen who do not throw away materials.
Four dwarves were set to hold up the vault of the sky, one in each corner: Norðri, Suðri, Austri, and Vestri. The dwarves had been created from Ymir's flesh like maggots from a rotting corpse, but the gods gave them wit and form and put them to work. More dwarves came: Durinn and Mótsognir were the foremost, and they forged their workshops deep under the mountains, and from there would come things that changed the world, for better and worse.
They took the sparks from Muspelheim and threw them onto the sky and called them stars, and they gave every star its place and its course. The sun and moon were given their chariots: Sól, a woman, drove the sun's chariot pulled by the horses Árvakr and Alsviðr, and she drove fast, because behind her the wolf Sköll chased with open jaws. Her brother Máni steered the moon's course, and after him chased the wolf Hati. Day after day, night after night, the wolves chased, and as long as they did not catch up the world had light. But they caught up in the end. Wolves always do.
Odin and his brothers were walking along the shore one day and found two logs. Ask and Embla, an ash and an elm, thrown ashore like driftwood after a storm. Odin gave them spirit and life. Vili gave them understanding and the power of movement. Vé gave them appearance, speech, hearing, and sight. That was the beginning of humanity, and if it says something about human nature that we are made from driftwood washed up on a beach, everyone can decide that for themselves.
They built Midgard from Ymir's eyebrows as a fence against the giants, and in the centre rose Yggdrasil, the world-tree. That ash was so vast its branches reached every heaven and its three roots stretched to three worlds: one to Asgard and Urðr's well, one to the land of the giants and Mímir's well, and one to Niflheim and Hvergelmir, where the dragon Níðhöggr gnawed at the root day and night.
In Yggdrasil's crown sat an eagle with a hawk between its eyes, and he saw everything. At the roots lay Níðhöggr, chewing, and between them the squirrel Ratatoskr ran up and down carrying insults from one to the other. The eagle called the dragon a bloody corpse-eater. The dragon called the eagle a puffed-up feather-ball. Ratatoskr ran and delivered the messages with the sort of joy only someone who thrives on other people's quarrels can have. Four stags grazed on the tree's branches, and the world was held together by an ash being eaten from below and above at the same time.
At Urðr's well, beneath the root that reached Asgard, sat three women. The Norns. Urðr, Verðandi, and Skuld. That which was, that which is, and that which shall be. They carved runes and spun threads, and every thread was a life, and every cut was a death, and no one, not even Odin, could change what they decided. You can be the Allfather with your own eye sitting in a well and still be powerless before three women with a pair of shears.
Asgard the gods built for themselves, high above everything else. Gladsheim was the greatest hall, with the throne Hliðskjálf from which Odin could see all nine worlds. Valhöll rose with its five hundred and forty doors, and through each door eight hundred warriors could walk side by side, because that hall was built for what was to come. Fólkvangr was Freyja's hall, where half the slain went, because Freyja chose before Odin, and that was a detail Odin did not enjoy discussing. Bifröst, the rainbow bridge, burned with fire and connected Asgard to Midgard, and at its foot stood Heimdallr on watch, he who had nine mothers and could hear the grass grow.
Nine worlds hung in Yggdrasil's branches. Asgard for the gods. Vanaheim for the Vanir. Álfheim for the light-elves. Midgard for humans. Jötunheim for the giants. Svartálfaheim for the dwarves. Niflheim for the dead. Muspelheim for fire. And Helheim, the darkest of all, where those went who did not die with sword in hand. Nine worlds, held together by a tree that was slowly being eaten away, and none of them knew how long it would hold.
But the world was young and the gods were strong, and it did not take long before they got company. The Vanir, a different sort of gods, with power over fertility and sea and wind, had their own realm in Vanaheim. What started the war no one knows for certain. Some say it was Gullveig, a Vanir woman who came to Asgard preaching about gold until the gods could not stand it any longer. They stabbed her with spears, burned her body, three times, and three times she rose from the fire. The Vanir took it personally.
The war was long and even and neither side could win. The Aesir had strength and the art of battle. The Vanir had seiðr and cunning and magic that cracked Asgard's walls. In the end both sides grew tired, as you do in wars you cannot win, and they made peace. As a token of the settlement they exchanged hostages: the Vanir Njörðr, Freyr, and Freyja came to Asgard, and the Aesir sent Hœnir and Mímir to Vanaheim. The Vanir soon noticed that Hœnir was empty as a sack without Mímir beside him, and they cut off Mímir's head and sent it back. Odin took the head, preserved it with herbs, and from then on Mímir's severed head whispered secrets to him. You can have opinions about that as a decorating choice, but it worked.
All the gods walked up to a vat and spat in it, and from the mingled saliva they created Kvasir, the wisest being ever to live. That was the peace-pact, the seal, the shared creation of something better than war. Kvasir travelled the world answering questions, and it was beautiful and good, and it lasted precisely until he met the wrong dwarves.
Asgard had gods and allies and wisdom and power. But it had no walls. And the giants, those who had survived Ymir's blood, they did not forget where that blood came from.