I recall a time before the long winters. Before all was plunged into chaos. I recall a time before quakes shook the lands and shattered the chains of the imprisoned. Before the gods died. I recall long nights of food and drink and celebration. All that is gone now. Frozen to ice, then burned to ash. The greed of the gods brought it. It devoured and destroyed the world. The hubris of the gods wrought it. It charred the great tree and all its branches. The ignorance of the gods allowed it. It shackled the mortal to suffering and strife.

When the skalds write of these days they will tell only of the gods. Of how the Æsir and Vanir fought and died valiantly against their enemies. They will tell of how Thor brought Jörmungand low and cleaved its head off before succumbing to its black venom. They will recount how Odin fell in his struggle against Fenrir, the wolf who devoured the sun. They will sing of how Freyr and Surtr died in their struggle against each other, and so also the all-seeing Heimdall and the treacherous Loki. They will lament the death of the beautiful Freyja at her own hands, and of the Einherjar who battled so fiercely against the legions of Helheim.

Nothing shall be written of those mortals who froze to ice next to their flaming hearths. No songs shall be sung of those who turned to ash as the flaming sword ignited the world. No art shall be drawn and no statues will be carved of those morals who stood against the armies of the dead. Their torment, their anguish, their sacrifice will be forgotten in ages to come. But we who were there will remember. We who weathered the frost and the fire will go on. We who were there will bear the scars of Ragnarök.