Midgard

It started. One could feel it. Yggdrasil twitched and twisted. Not much, just enough that a mighty person could sense it. A person, just like the old, grey man. He was tall and strong for his age, his skin just like the bark of the old tree he was walking on. His broad shoulders were those of a warrior, and his giant hands had a firm grip around the rusty iron spear he was using as a walking stick. He was wearing a long, dirty beard and hair, grey, partly with white in it. An old, filthy leather hat was resting on his head. Under two bushy brows, a big blue eye was glaring into the world. His other eye was hidden under an old, black eyepatch. It was pretty big, but failed to conceal that a deep, ugly scar ran through his face. At the first glance, he was just an ordinary old man, but under his old, worn-out rags, he was wearing rusty steel and hardened scratched leather.

His way was pathed by the world tree, he was guiding him, protecting him from his dangers, but still, he had to walk for a long time. And with each step, the old man felt the aging of the tree, his trembling. With every step, the trembling got stronger. Not much, but slowly, steady. Danger. Death. It grew nearer and nearer, with every step. The worlds, connected by the long, old branches of Yggdrasil's, grew closer as the tree fell apart. Its once golden leaves now got brown, at least on the corners. And with every step, the brown grows stronger.

The wanderer stopped for a moment, looking for the dying leaves. As he touched some of them with his spears, they turned to ash, fading in the wind. His old faces filled with sorrow, and he continued his way. He didn't need to follow the path for long. His destination was right after some more branches, down, at the bottom of the tree, right at the ground, on top of gigantic roots. It was a little clearing, surrounded by trees and gnarled roots, around a small water basin. In the bay, an ancient face was swimming, eyes closed. Its heavy brows lay deep in the wrinkles of his skin, not a single hair was left on its head, and a long, utterly white beard was growing from his chin. It looked peaceful, wasn't there the tiny trail of blood constantly streaming from his open neck, dissolving in the water.

Around the basin, three women were standing, each holding a scroll of paper in hand. One, old, wrinkled, and arched, was reading her scroll, which seemed as ancient as its owner. Undefined symbols seemed to arise from it, floating through the air, changing to random objects: Rusty spoons, broken swords, damaged tools, dead plants. As soon as they touched the ground, they faded to ashes. The second one was young and beautiful as the sunlight shone through the golden leaves. Her reddish hair flowed like a waterfall down on her thin shoulders. Her scroll lay half-opened in her hand, but she didn't even acknowledge its existence, but it seemed as good as new. The third one was covered by a black, thick veil and a dark mantle. Not the tiniest part of her skin was shining through, and the light seemed to go right through her body. Her scroll was closed, and it seemed like the light couldn't touch it.

All three of them looked up as the old man arrived. Their eyes were big and widely opened, and in them, there was no iris, no pupil. It was just a dark mass, filled with starlike lights. It looked like they were glaring right through the wanderer. As they spoke, they didn't move their mouths, and their voices seemed to come from all directions at once. They mixed to the sound of an old rasping, a young, intense talking, and a deep and mysterious whisper.

"Allfather Odin… We have awaited your arrival. Trying to hide under the skin of the wanderer… hiding your face… your intentions… your existence… But there is no secret before us; there is no hideout for our glare, the glare of the Nornes… Cause it's the glare of destiny itself, and destiny is all-knowing…." And each one of them raised their hand, fingers pointing on the wanderer. And a storm was brewing, right where he was standing, whirling the foliage around his body, lifting him into the air. When he landed, he was another one. The rags were gone. Instead of the rusty chainmail, he was now wearing polished steel, the shaft of his spear shimmering as it now was fresh wood instead of the broken timber. His hat was now a helmet, shimmering in the fading sunlight. His face was still old, still full of wrinkles, but instead of the hungry, sunken cheeks, it was now the face of a strong, well-fed man. Still, one of his eyes was missing, but the scares weren't as deep, as horrible as before. He was glowing in might, small, radiant runes building themselves around him, fading the very moment they started to exist. But even his might wasn't able to hide it; one could see his sorrow, maybe a tiny portion of fear.

"Now, this is better to talk, isn't it… king of Asgard, leader of the Asen?" asked the youngest one while she stepped to him. She laid her hand on his arm, but he turned her away. She turned around with an unsatisfied sigh, floating back to the deep pool. A long, strong rope was hanging on one of the trees, slowly oscillating in the distant wind. As he saw it, the long neck of the wanderer seemed to hurt. His hand wandered to his neck, massaging it.

"You've called me, you, knowing the destiny of the worlds, knotting everything together. And I, Allfather Odin, followed your call."

"Allfather… You know, what happens in the world, right? You can feel it when you walk on the world tree? Winter is here, in all the worlds." The oldest of the Norns didn't even look at Odin; her mind was focused on her scroll.

"Yeah… of course I know what's happening. I know the prophecy. You remember me all the time, that I have to prepare, through silent voices, right in my head, through brutal pictures, right before my blind eye. And I have prepared. The armies of Valhalla are ready. We can face what's beginning. The Fimbulwinter, the last battle… Our destiny… Ragnarök." As he spoke the words, a storm raged through the opening.