Writing Competition Submission (Chapter 3)
In the cold, endless void of Ginnungagap, there exists a single anomaly: Yggdrasil, the World Tree. It stretches infinitely, its immense trunk a gnarled, ancient mass of wood glowing faintly in the darkness. Its roots burrow into realms unseen, each root line an artery connecting the cosmos. Its branches, sprawling like veins, cradle the heavens and all that dwells within them. And amid this vast arboreal monolith lives Ratatoskr, a creature born of the tree itself. He darted tirelessly along the length of Yggdrasil’s trunk, an eternal electric streak of motion in the otherwise still void.
Before he was a messenger, Ratatoskr was a wanderer, aimless and curious. He thrived on chaos for its own sake, scattering seeds from the tree to distant corners of the realms, igniting feuds between creatures that crossed his path, and sowing whispers that bloomed into rivalries. He was unimportant, an agent of disorder, until he took notice. One day, on a high branch of Yggdrasil where the cold winds bit sharply, Ratatoskr was summoned. He scurried upward, his claws clicking softly against the bark, and froze when he saw the Allfather.
Odin stood on a massive outcropping of the World Tree; his form cloaked in shadowy robes. Though his single eye burned brightly like a star, his face remained a weathered enigma. Perched on either of his shoulders were two crows: Huginn and Muninn, whose monochromatic feathers seemed to drink in the faint glow of the tree. They stared unblinking at Ratatoskr as he approached.
“Ratatoskr,” Odin spoke at last. “Your swiftness and cunning are wasted on trivialities. You scatter strife among mortals like a child scattering stones.” Ratatoskr bared his sharp teeth in a sly grin, scratching behind one ear as he feigned indifference.
“What can I say? Chaos is fun.”
“CHAOS WITHOUT PURPOSE IS MERE NOISE, YOU RAT!!” Muninn croaked. Huginn’s wings fluttered as he continued.
“THIS TREE IS VAST! THERE IS WORK THAT ONLY A GOD OF YOUR... DISPOSSITION CAN DO!!!” Ratatoskr tilted his head, curious despite himself.
“What kind of work?”
“MESSAGES MUST TRAVEL BETWEEN THE REALMS,” The crows explained. “THE GODS CANNOT BE EVERYWHERE, BUT YOU CAN!!” The task intrigued him. A job from the Allfather was no small thing, and it was clear this was more than a mere request.
“And if I refuse? I don't exactly like the idea of taking orders from poultry!” Ratatoskr said in a mocking tone. Odin’s crows spoke out in unison, each hurling a slew of curses at the squirrel-like God. After a moment of the crows venting their frustration, Odin raised his hand as to tell them ‘That’s enough.’
“Then you will remain nothing but a footnote, a distraction amid greater tales. Accept, and you become vital.” The Allfather spoke. Ratatoskr paused. Deep within him, the truth of their words resonated. His chaos was small and meaningless. But if he carried the words of Gods, he could scatter a far greater kind of discord, order.
“I’ll do it,” he said, his grin returning, but this time with a gleam of ambition in his eye. Odin nodded, as he dissapeared from even the lightning-fast perception of Ratatoskr.
From that day, Ratatoskr became the lifeblood of communication between realms, racing up and down The World Tree with purpose. He carried declarations from the heavens, secrets from the Helheim, and provocations that would spark wars or broker peace. He moved faster than any could comprehend, weaving through the void like a streak of lightning. But over time, his work began to wear on him. While the gods schemed and mortals battled, Ratatoskr merely carried the words that made it all possible. He became restless, feeling like a cog in a machine too vast for him to change.
Ratatoskr’s restlessness grew like a knot in his chest, tightening with every delivery. The messages he carried were weighty: some were dire warnings, others mundane updates, yet none of them were his own. Though he moved faster than any being alive, his existence felt stagnant. On one particularly frigid day atop the high branches of Yggdrasil, Ratatoskr paused, a rare moment of stillness in his endless sprint. He glanced down at the glowing scroll clenched in his claws, its runes softly pulsating. This message was for the gods of Asgard, a decree from Hades himself. While not ill in its intent, it was bound to stir unease, given Hades’ reputation. And that was when the idea struck him.
“What if…” he mused aloud, his sharp claws tapping against the bark, “...the gods didn’t hear exactly what Hades intended to say?” His sly grin returned, teeth glinting like blades in the faint light of the tree. The thought was thrilling. The messenger had always been bound by duty, a vessel for the thoughts of others. But what if he tilted the scales, just a little? He would be more than a cog; he could add his own touch to the grand machine.
Ratatoskr’s first act of mischief in eons was subtle. He swapped a single word in Hades’ decree, shifting the tone from formal request to something slightly condescending. When he delivered the scroll to Zeus’ court, he waited in the rafters eagerly, as the Godfather of the Cosmos furrowed his brow at the text. From that moment, the squirrel’s mischief escalated. He inserted riddles into diplomatic notes, rewrote random letters with flowery prose, and added confusing extra steps to instructions, leaving the gods bewildered and occasionally inconvenienced. The results were small but delightful: gods scratching their heads, muttering in frustration, or arguing over perceived slights. It wasn’t war he sowed, but it was just enough to keep things interesting.
Ratatoskr darted across Yggdrasil with renewed energy, his pranks growing bolder. He replaced Zeus’ thunderbolt delivery order with a request for a decorative fountain. He adjusted Poseidon’s decree to make it seem as though the sea god wanted to ban tridents, leading to a minor uproar with all who preferred that weapon. And he redirected a supply run meant for the dwarves of Nidavellir to the elves of Alfheim, prompting some very pointed complaints and sparking a rivalry between the two. The chaos he caused wasn’t malicious, it was harmless, if not exasperating, but it thrilled him, nonetheless. For the first time in centuries, he felt alive. No longer was he just a courier; he was an artist, weaving threads of confusion and laughter into the fabric of existence.
It wasn’t long before the gods began to suspect something was amiss. While no real harm had been done, the steady stream of bizarre messages couldn’t be ignored. The gods whispered of a saboteur among them, and eventually, Ratatoskr was summoned to Asgard. He arrived to find not Odin, but Loki waiting for him, lounging casually against the golden columns of the great hall, hovering just above the ground. The trickster god’s sharp grin mirrored Ratatoskr’s own as he tossed a golden apple from hand to hand.
“Ratatoskr,” Loki drawled, his voice dripping with amusement. “I’ve been watching your handiwork. Very creative. Almost... too creative for mere accidents, don’t you think?” Ratatoskr perched on a nearby ledge.
“Oh, come now, Loki. You of all gods should appreciate a little fun. You’re not here to lecture me, are you?” Loki chuckled; his eyes gleaming.
“Lecture? Hardly. If anything, I’m impressed. But you’ve been ruffling feathers—literally, in some cases—and the others are starting to notice. You’re playing a dangerous game.” Ratatoskr tilted his head, feigning innocence.
“What game? I’m just a humble messenger, doing my duty.”
“Spare me,” Loki said with a laugh. “I recognize a fellow troublemaker when I see one. But let me give you a bit of advice: subtlety is key. Push too hard, and the Gods’ wrath will come down on you like Thor’s hammer. Trust me, I’ve been there.” Ratatoskr’s grin faltered slightly. He knew Loki was right. For all his speed and cunning, he wasn’t invincible. But the thrill of mischief was too intoxicating to give up.
“And what if I like to live dangerously?” he replied, his voice edged with defiance. “The gods could use a little shaking up.” Loki’s smile widened, but his gaze grew sharper.
“Just remember, little squirrel, even chaos has consequences. Don’t let your pranks outgrow your wit.”
Ratatoskr left the meeting with Loki with a mixture of irritation and admiration. The trickster god had seen through him effortlessly, but he hadn’t reported him. Perhaps Loki saw a kindred spirit, or perhaps he was just waiting to see how far Ratatoskr would go before he tripped over his own tail, metaphorically of course. Undeterred, Ratatoskr continued his antics, though with a touch more care. He kept his changes small and subtle, enough to annoy but not to incite. His laughter echoed through the branches of Yggdrasil as he wove his web of pranks, always one step ahead of the gods. To mortals and gods alike, he remained an enigma—a figure both amusing and exasperating, whose swift claws left trails of mischief wherever he went. And as he raced through the endless expanse of the World Tree, Ratatoskr’s grin never faded. The world was his playground, and laughter was his reward.