Yggdrasill's Cradle

This is my rendition of a Norse myth, please enjoy!

These stories are all old to them, the norns, weaving away at their tapestry. I watch them, but they do not care for me. I am just a tiny rodent, my name Ratatoskr a small stitch in their unfurling battles of giants and gods. Ratatoskr, doomed to run from end to end of the dying trunk of Yggdrasill from the beginning to Ragnarok, poor little red squirrel. I see my life as no such doom at all, my fur still safe from the eagles and the snakes, and my eyes seeing all the nine worlds from Asgard to Niflheim, where as they, poor old fates and their calloused fingers just sit hunched and gnarled as Yggdrasill’s roots. They never really see.
Norns, doomed to report but never to be.
My feet fly me across the notches of the great trunk, the sights familiar, the glittering body of the Midgard Serpent twisting below me and the sprawl of branches above. I feel the familiar wood, but sense something amiss. The vibrations of the wood are wrong, something too large and two legged is trespassing in great Yggdrasill.
I spiral back down the tree, rounding the thick trunk in a moment, and see what has caused the upset.
A man, heavy with the armaments of a warrior is making his way deftly up towards the high sprawling branches. A warrior the Valkyries have led astray perhaps? Some poor soul who cannot hear the call to Valhalla? It matters little, for Hel will surely come and claim him soon.
I turn to leave, but hesitate, watching a moment more. He does not seem so unsteady here, he has some goal, I am sure now. I envy the norns a little in moments such as these, with their old stories, for they already know the purpose and the end of this trespasser.
His face turns up towards me, fair skinned and white bearded. One eye remains closed, the socket empty, while the other stares up blue, wise and purposeful.
I freeze to my place, knowing at once who this is, the eyeless hole in his face marking him. His other eye sits at the bottom of a well, sacrificed for wisdom. What purpose is Odin now trying to accomplish with his wisdom?
I follow out of sight as he ascends further. The eagles surge down to meet him with silvery talons and the snakes rise to hold him down and bite him with silvery teeth, but he cuts trough all with a powerful arm. What are snakes and birds to a man who has slain giants? His sword must barely notice. When his arms raise I see a wound in his side, from whence it came I do not know, but it does not slow the elder god in his climb.
Yggdrasill’s pests soon abandon their attack on one-eyed Odin and he shortly reaches the lower branches of the great World Tree. This seems to be his destination.
He looses a length of rope from around his waist and flings one end over a thick and sturdy branch. The dangling end he ties deftly into a noose, wrapping it around his own neck. I watch, transfixed, as he pushes away from his perch on the trunk and the noose chokes up on his throat.
I have never seen such a thing in all my years. For nine days I keep vigil, cold and still, abandoning my purpose to watch the as Odin dangles still, his feet knocking together as his limp body is pushed by the breeze. For nine days he rocks slowly, suspended from Yggdrasill’s great cradle of branches.
On the ninth day, Odin stirs and at once cuts himself down, latching to Yggdrasill as he falls. He stands still for a moment and I venture close as I dare, seeing new knowledge in his blue eye.
I understand now this was another of his sacrifices, like his eye. This time, he has been granted the power of the runes. Strong old magic.
Odin begins his journey back, resolute as ever. Content to watch him no more, I make my way back to the norns, seeing if this great happening has disturbed them. But still they sit, weaving away. I suddenly think my speculations foolish.
Of course, they already knew.