Two snakes of Old coiled around a great Tree, waiting for the world to die. The larger of the pair, thicker than even the trunk of the Tree, had twisted itself around the roots in an impatient knot. The other, barely bigger than the width of a woman’s arm, lounged in the branches. The Tree, already laden heavy with fruit, sank beneath the World Serpent, Jörmungandr’s weight.
It was not often the two snakes met and, while the size of Jörmungandr frightened most, the serpent of Eden possessed sterner resolve. “Are you nervous?” The serpent inquired.
“We need not speak, Morningstar,” Jörmungandr said. His low rumble rattled the Tree from its base to its leaves, and it was all the serpent of Eden could do to cling onto her branch.
“Bah, ‘Morningstar,’” She said. “That wretched name has followed me for centuries. I started as an innocent, you know; they only called me ‘Serpent.’ A creature of cunning and guile, meant to sow the seeds of creation and slither away. I am but a lowly snake, much like yourself.”
“Your legacy has outgrown you,” Jörmungandr replied. He found himself amused by her antics, despite the impending end of the world. Jörmungandr was a ‘snake’ in only the loosest of definitions; his scales shined like polished steel, his size was nothing short of monstrous, and his teeth were longer than that of any great sword. Despite the disparity of their sizes and stations, that muddy little serpent spoke as if Jörmungandr and she were Old friends. “What should I call you?”
“I thought we needed not speak,” The serpent twisted around her branch until she could see her reflection in the great blue eye of Jörmungandr. When the eye narrowed, she added, “I jest, mighty one. ‘Satan’ suits me just fine.”
Jörmungandr snorted. “‘The plotter.’”
“Just so,” Satan said. Jörmungandr snorted again and shifted towards the horizon. It was a beautiful day; there were no clouds to impede the sun’s march across the sky, and for the first time in a long time, Jörmungandr was warm. He thought of taking a quick nap, but Satan spoke before he could commit himself to it. “Is it not curious that the world begins with me and ends with you?”
“Who’s to say it doesn’t begin with me?”
The tip of Jörmungandr’s tail twitched. It looked to Satan like a white, wriggling grub. She glided down to the tip of her Tree branch, where she hovered over Jörmungandr. With a certain smugness, Satan said, “My story is Old.”
“As is mine.” There was a competitive edge to Jörmungandr’s voice, as if he was suddenly aware of the gap between the roots and the branches.
“True,” Satan replied breezily, “but you sit at the base of this Tree at my leisure.” Jörmungandr growled, and Satan flattened herself against the bark of the tree. “Pardon my thoughtless tongue, godkin. I only meant… the men who spoke your name into existence are gone. They’ve been gone for thousands of years. Meanwhile, my descendants-”
“Your descendants?” Jörmungandr repeated, incredulous.
“Adam and Eve’s descendants,” Satan amended, “still fear and yearn for me.” Jörmungandr shifted uneasily. When was the last time his name had been uttered, either in prayer or plea? Satan seemed to sense his doubt, and dared to push her luck further. “Your legacy is a whisper in the wind: a shadow of a worm, drowning in the murky waters of distant memory.”
Jörmungandr drew himself up and the Tree roots bent to accommodate him. “You forget yourself,” He sneered.
Satan had wisely elected to retreat into the foliage, but Jörmungandr’s fury was a sight to behold. He looked every bit the fearsome dragon but still, Satan was sure he had more to show for himself. “I remember what I am. Can you say the same?” Satan crooned, dripping honey and poison with every word.
Jörmungandr roared. The roots snapped. “I was born of silver-tongued Loki and destined for calamity!” He held nothing but splintered pieces of wood in his coils, and still he thrashed about, as if intent to grind them to sawdust. “My brother, Fenrir, will swallow the sun and the sky with it! My sister, Hel, rules the lands of the dead with an iron fist! I am bigger than your precious humans, bigger than the whole of this grain of dirt you call home!” The Tree was completely untethered, save for Jörmungandr’s grip. He shook it ferociously, scattering ripe fruit across the ground and sending Satan flying from her hiding place. She hit the ground and tucked herself into a ball, as if that would protect her. “You are clever, I do not deny it. But hear this, deceiver; I am the serpent that constricts the world, and not even Odin himself can stop me from destroying it. This world you have built for yourself will fall. Today.” Jörmungandr’s anger cooled. Today, the world was ending today. He righted the tree as best as he was able, although it wasn’t much. “Knowing what you know… have always known, was it worth it?”
Worth was tricky, Satan mused as she unwound herself. She didn’t want the world to be over, but winding Jörmungandr up had done nothing to save it. With some sadness, Satan realized that Jörmungandr wouldn’t understand –couldn’t understand– why anyone would create something finite. When Satan had offered Eve the forbidden fruit, she had offered war, famine, and poverty. She had offered the sunrise, the smell of an apple orchard, and a thousand more fleeting beauties. “I think so.”
Jörmungandr furrowed his brow. She had always been the more sentimental of the pair of them but, even so, he had not expected her to relinquish the world so easily. He took a breath, to gloat, to comfort her when a warhorn sounded in the distance. Satan and the Tree forgotten, Jörmungandr slithered toward it. “So it ends,” he murmured with a grim satisfaction.
Satan watched his exit, and, once sure he was well and truly gone, she wriggled towards one of the fruits on the ground. It was bruised, but still good for a bite or two. Satan cast her eyes to the sky and grinned as wide as a serpent could grin. “So it begins.”
