Albert thought the tree looked like it ought to be conquered. It was Yggradrasil, the holy center of the cosmos, an immense ash that towered to the high realms, home of dragons and stags and all-knowing eagles that clenched their talons on the branches. That token of the Prose Edda extended farther than any other, branching off into worlds beyond; worlds like Alfheim, land of the elves of light; or Jotenheim, land of the frost giants. What mysteries he would find if he should climb that mighty tree. Such a madness accelerated him into the shadows of her leaves, which fanned out over the world like a forbidden sky. He was entering from Midgard, yes, the mid-realm alotted to humans by the Norse Gods.
Under the tree grew a series of glossy bushes that may have hidden the fairies of Midsummer, Oberon and Titania among them. Best not to disturb the mischievous sprites, who would surely turn him into an ass if he interrupted their sleep. So, he climbed, out of the Earth and into the world between worlds, a place that invited him, branch by branch, into the sacred root of creation. He couldn't wait to tell his brothers about this. They'd be annoyed by this mythological tangent at first, but eventually they'd catch on and be envious of his scaling of the universe. To be on top of it all, he would tease them, is the greatest feeling in the world. Nothing could bother you up there. You ruled the Gods and the Gods bowed only to you. He'd show them, yes, he'd bring them here and brag about how he'd ascended the tallest tree in the world all on his own. They would laugh at him like they always did, but he would know the truth; that he, Albert the Brave, had earned the sole honor of climbing that impossible tree standing alone on the hill. All these ideas flashed before him in a series of joyful images as he climbed this impenetrable fortress.
He imagined poisonous snakes that were coiled around the branches, squirrels with buck teeth that chewed on the heads of the dead from Valhalla, frost giants that just missed grabbing his legs as he swiftly escaped their reach. Those devourers from Jotenheim swiped at him every chance they got, but he was always too fast for them.
As he neared the top, the winds shifted as the four stags pranced among the leaves, each represented by a cardinal direction. Daylight shown through the gaps above, quickly overtaken by an ominous cloud, possibly sent from Asgard to foil the boy's ascent. The tree was too high, he needed a rest. It smelled of burnt wood up here, a possible result of the war between Vanaheim and Asgard. The Gods of fertility and wisdom vs. the soldiers of Odin. That would be a sight indeed, but not for today. Today he would reach the top.
Just before resuming his climb, the rain started to fall, seeds of rebirth from the eyes of Freya. Her weapons caused him to slip, but he held on tightly to the bark. Nothing could stop him now that he was so close. Up and up, he went, though he had to admit it was getting harder to climb. Looking up, briefly he thought he could see the all-knowing eagle, waiting for him at the top. Just one more minute, he called. A few more kicks of the leg, and up there he'd be, to seal his fate.
Now the sky opened up and he was but a few feet from the top. An aching hand reached out for the summit, yet became interrupted by a great crashing from the sky above. Albert looked up and saw the hammer of Thor, the prince of Asgard so angered by this mortal's intrusion, strike down on the black foot of the clouds, creating a ripple of lightning that headed straight for the boy's outstretched arm. Albert closed his eyes and prayed. The force sent him flying, in dizzying shards of murderous abandon, past the four stags of the winds, the snakes coiled among the branches, even the Bifrost connecting this world from the one he belonged, tumbling through the canopy of a chaotic and restless world, landing on his back among the fairies in a guttural thump that sent any remaining birds in the vicinity flying away faster than he'd fallen.
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