I’ve heard the story many times, but each retelling feels like the wind shifting through a pine forest. Ymir’s cold flesh, the ice he made, and then the fire that forged the world—there’s a rhythm there, like winter’s deep hush followed by spring’s first thaw. It’s almost as if the sagas are trying to teach us that nature’s cycles are both brutal and beautiful. I do feel that the hidden ecology you’re looking for lies in those quiet moments between the storm and the sunrise, when the earth is still, waiting for the first green to appear. It’s a reminder that even in the harshest cold, life is always carving its own path.