Nifleheim

Ice-cold the bonds            icicle-fetters, That lock the limbs,          leaving alone In blackest night             and nipping winds, A crystal corse               cold and still. In that flesh of frost        flicker stars; The wheeling sparks           stir false life In that frozen thing,         a Thurses' catch On snow shelf bright          bound by winter, Will and heart                worthlessly try To fight against              that which freezes thought, Cures all sorrow,             quells strife, Stills lust,                  calms waves: This nothingness, empty,      no need-fire lights, Yet was Mother to the ilk     of irksome rime-Thurses, Whose souls from frost        first drew life, And untamed forever           task men and Gods. Of these northern sibs        Skadhi is named, Who loves the white world,    wending on snow, Hies to wild woods            hunting fell beasts That haunt the hinterlands,   Hela's spawn. She knows runes               risted by rime-frost, Carved by her rails,          Killer-With-a-Bow; Her breath hangs              hoar in icy air As she whispers               ways to free fetters.

'It was many aeons before the earth was created that Nifiheim was made, and in the midst of it is a well called Hvergelmir, [bubbling cauldron] and thence flow the rivers with these names: Svól, [cool] Gunnthrá, [battle defiant] Fjörm, Fimhulthul, [loud bubbling] Slíð, [fearsome] Hríð, [storming] Sylg, Ylg, Víð, [broad] Leipt [fast as lightning] and Gjöll which is next Hel's gate.' The Prose Edda