Loki: Why I Began the End Page 5

  Upon reviewing the fiasco, when Freya’s name crossed my mind, the answer became inescapably clear. But I knew I would have to wait two nights in order for it to work, and I couldn’t in all conscience…I’m sorry. I’ve never been able to use that word with a straight face, regardless of context. Anyway, I couldn’t—in good judgment—just leave you unguarded with the Rhine Father for two nights. So I formed into a night owl and found where he kept you hidden near the source of the river. I suspect he knew it was me, but since all I was doing was watching, he didn’t mind. I had contemplated swooping down to peck at his eyes a few times, but I thought I would have an easier time saving you if I were alive and unmaimed.

  The third night after, I went into Freya’s home unannounced. She ranted and raved. I told her to shut up and listen. She threatened to dismember me. I took a step back and tried to explain my plan to her: “I need that ring the dwarfs made for you.”

  “Draupnir?” she asked, clutching the thing to her like it was her baby.

  “I need it to clear Odin’s debt with the Rhine Father and save my wife.”

  “I’m not giving you anything, you—”

  “That damned ring is just further proof of your whoring around!”

  Her face turned three shades of purple, and her eyes exploded into flame, but she had no better argument than to shriek and throw the ring at my head. That’s that scar above my left eyebrow, the one I usually hide with my bangs. Anyway, I didn’t care about the damage; I got what I came for. And traveling as fast I could in the form of a stag, I ran down Bifrost and to the source of the Rhine. I only just set hoof in the water when it rose in a wave and took the form of the Rhine Father, so I formed into myself.

  “Are you here to return my daughters’ gold?” he asked.

  “I’m here to replenish their gold,” I replied. “Odin’s builders have already melted down what was stolen. But I have here repayment better than what your daughters had before.” I presented the gold ring.

  “One gold ring is not just payment for an entire keep.”

  “Watch.” It took a minute longer than anticipated, but the gold ring quivered, then became two. It quaked, then became three. It didn’t stop until there were nine rings total, all pure gold. “This happens on every ninth night,” I explained. “Not only will your daughters have gold that they can use for wear, but in time, they will have an even larger store of gold than they had before.”

  The Rhine Father picked up the ring in his weathered hand and examined it closely. “This has the artisan stamp of the dwarf masters Sindri and Brock. It is genuine.” Taking the copies from me, he held one up and said, “Give this to your wife, and take her home.”

  “Thank you.”

  He then released you to me, and that’s when you finally received your wedding ring.

  CHAPTER SIX: THE DRUNKEN TRUTH

  It was nothing short of a miracle that I found as much happiness as I did. Honestly, true happiness was never an ambition of mine—I was fine coasting through with contented amusement, and being fully aware of myself and my effect on others, I never expected more than that. I had an odd enough time adjusting to being in love and having a wife, that I really didn’t know what to do with myself once our sons Vali and Narfi were born. The fact alone that they were handsome and virile enough to contend with the Aesir was astounding, but also, Odin welcomed them to Asgard with no ulterior motive. Furthermore, all the other Aesir welcomed them—willingly. I never really believed it. The Aesir’s previous actions toward my family had imbued me with complete distrust and paranoia. That’s why whenever I left Asgard, either you three all came with me, or I made you stay behind with our sons. I always expected to return one day to find my sons in chains, or flung into some far corner of the world, or traded to the dwarfs as slaves in exchange for some new trinket.

  Vali was more like me—cunning and charismatic. Narfi was more like you—amiable and charming. Every evening, they were invited by Odin—along with the other Aesir—to feast in Valhalla. The spread of food and drink served was always phenomenal, but it had to be—the warriors who lived out their afterlife there battled all day, then Odin resurrected them for the feast. Yes, Odin considers that a blissful way for his followers to spend the rest of eternity: in perpetual blood, sweat, and death. As you may imagine, I had little interest in the place, only attending now and then to feast alongside my sons.

  Once, Vali convinced me to watch a battle with him. It was becoming a sport of his to bet on the outcome. He didn’t care for material objects, but he found great humor in winning them from the Aesir who held such things dear. That day, there was one new arrival, plucked from death and moved to the golden walls of Valhalla. He was older than most of them, grey-bearded, but still rather hardily built for his age; there was also a fierceness in his eyes.

  “I bet he wins,” Vali said.

  Heimdall scoffed. “No newcomer ever wins his first time. Especially a geezer like that.”

  Vali smirked. “I bet your trumpet horn that he’s left standing at the end of the day.”

  “Okay. And if he’s not, then you have to join the battle tomorrow.”

  They shook hands. “It’s a bet.”

  My shoulders were shaking as I tried futilely to suppress my laughter.

  “What?” Heimdall asked.

  “I can’t believe you don’t recognize him,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  I gestured to the newcomer and told Ram Boy with a laugh, “That’s Beowulf!”

  He looked to the man and shook his head. “No, no that’s not him.”

  I couldn’t believe the denial. “That’s him! If you don’t believe me, then give him your arm.”

  “I’m not giving him my arm.”

  “Because you know he’ll tear it off.”

  “That’s not him!”

  It was. Vali and I knew it, and at the day’s end, when he was the only one left standing, Heimdall knew it. With a roll of his eyes, he handed over his trumpet horn to Vali.

  At the feast, Vali corked the narrow end of the trumpet horn so he could use it for a drinking horn, which greatly aggravated Ram Boy. But being the good sport he was, Vali promised he would return the horn the following day, and chummed up to Heimdall as they matched drink for drink. Meanwhile, Narfi and I sat carousing with Beowulf.

  “Father, father!” Narfi nudged me. “Tell him about that time you and Thor met with Grendel.”

  I widened my eyes suggestively and said, “I don’t think he wants to hear that one.” And really, Beowulf would not have liked it. But you would; really, ask me when I’m done. “You know, I’ve been to that meadhouse. Grendel’s arm really makes a good ornament.”

  “It reeks,” Beowulf said after a swig of mead. “Could barely stand that place during the summer. But most of the people who go in there are too drunk to care.”

  “What do you think of all this?” Narfi asked, dropping his voice low. “Knowing you’ll spend the rest of eternity in battle after battle?”

  “You know, it feels pretty good, actually. I haven’t been in a battle like that in years. Boy, when you live a warrior’s life, any other afterlife is just dull.”

  Narfi stared in disbelief. “You like it?”

  “Oh, yeah. I mean, at first, it’s just a duty to your country sort of thing. But once you’ve started, you don’t want to stop. The excitement, the fear, the danger—it all pumps your blood and keeps you alive. When it all stops, well…you feel dead. You may be safe at home with your wife and children, but you feel dead. Useless. And bored like nothing.”

  Narfi’s eyes wandered to me, and I could tell he was wondering if I was the same way.

  I just shook my head and put my arm over his shoulder. “How about we go see Fenrir, bring him some of this mead?”

  Narfi smiled and said, “Yeah, he’d like that.”

  Of course he did. Valhalla mead was the best draught of alcohol in Yggdrasil. It wasn’t even allowed outside of the hall, but
I managed to keep a valkyrie distracted while Narfi smuggled a pint out. No, really, the distraction was just talking, nothing more. I was asking about how she found Beowulf when she collected him from Midgard. Pretty interesting, really…some idiot stole a golden cup from a dragon’s keep, so the dragon went raging all over the place, and Beowulf had to kill it—which he did, but the wounds he inflicted killed him. And get this: He’s a king, right? So you would think he would have the dragon’s riches distributed among the people who just lost their king. But no, he wanted to be buried with it. I couldn’t believe a man like him could be so…

  I swear, that’s all I did to distract her! You want to balance the bowl on my head and go up and ask her yourself? Her name’s Elisabeth. Come on, you know I’ve tamed since we were married. Well, I’ve tamed with other women, anyway…

  After my short drinking binge with Narfi and Fenrir, I left them so I could retrieve Vali from Valhalla before he got another black eye from a valkyrie. When I reached him, he had passed out under the table. He always was a lightweight. Anyway, I figured he was safe there, so I didn’t bother him. The only other conscious person in the hall was Heimdall, who was trying to blow his trumpet horn. I could tell he was stone-drunk, because the cork was still wedged into the end he was trying to blow.

  “Let me help you out there, Ram Boy,” I said as I popped out the cork.

  He blew a clear tone through the horn and laughed. “Sounds great!” he slurred. “Much better’n that drinking horn I was playin’ before.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “You know this horn was given to me by my, by my fa’er?”

  “That’s nice,” I muttered as I headed toward one of the massive doors.

  “He gave it to me that one time that I, that I visitited him in Jotunheim.”

  Every bone in my body froze rigid, and I felt a rush of blood to my head. “Your father was in Jotunheim?”

  “A course, that’s where he lives.”

  I sank into the seat next to him. “Your father is Jotun?”

  “Well, yeah!” Then he suddenly coughed and put his finger to his lips, whispering loudly, “Hey, don’t say that aloud, it’s a secret!”

  “No, no, of course not.” I leaned in, not wanting to miss a single slur. “Your father is Jotun…is your mother Jotun?”

  “Well, yeah! No!” he shouted. He then remembered discretion and lowered his voice again, which was difficult through his sudden laughter. “She’s human.”

  “So how did you convince everyone that you’re an Aesir? How did you fool Odin?”

  “I didn’ do it!” he protested, pounding his empty mug on the table. “When I was a egg…”

  “You mean a baby.”

  “Right. When I was a baby egg, my fa’er was walking ‘round Miggard and found a Aesir sitting under Yggdrizzle with a baby…egg. No, with a baby, she had in a basket. And the egg-baby was crying, so she was singin’ to it. Then the baby went to sleep, and then the mo’er went to sleep.” Then Heimdall began drifting off to sleep, so I jammed my elbow into his ribs. “Lokiii! You long-haired bassard! Let’s hava drink.”

  I grabbed him by his shirt collar and yanked him to face me. “Your father was walking around Midgard. He found an Aesir mother and a baby asleep. Then what?”

  “Shh! It’s a secret!” He leaned in, and I endured his toxic breath to hear more. “He put me in the basket, took the Aesir baby, and left. Pfft.” He thrust his hand out like a bird flying away and tried to drink from his empty mug.

  My mouth fell open, heavy with astonishment. “You’re a changeling. A Jotun changeling.”

  “Yeah, and so when I visited fa’er in Jotunheim, I made sure to call him Farbauti instead of fa’er.”

  This time, the blood rushed to my head so fast, that it made me dizzy. “Farbauti was my father.”

  “Only ‘cuz you was switched. He was my fa’er first!” he shouted angrily, pounding his fist on the table. Instantly, he started laughing again, and again tried to drink out of the empty mug.

  “Who is my real mother, then? My Aesir mother?”

  “Her name’s Au-ge-la,” he carefully said.

  The name was only faintly familiar to me. “She’s an Aesir?”

  “Well, yeah! But she’s in the sea, a goddess of the waves.” His hands moved like waves, hypnotizing himself for a moment. “She can’t come to Asgard, ‘cuz Frigg’ll get mad if she finds out.”

  “Why would Frigg…?” Now my breath stopped in my chest. “Odin.”

  “Well, yeah!”

  I coughed, a reminder to breathe. “I was born out of an affair between Odin and a sea goddess…Odin’s my…”

  “But it’s a secret,” he said, echoing into his empty mug. “So don’ tell.” Then his eyes slid closed and he passed out, his head on the tabletop.

  I desperately sought out an unfinished mug of mead down the table and chugged its contents so fast, that it burned my throat—as though everything would somehow make more sense if I were drunk. I had been Aesir all along. Heimdall, protector of the Bifrost Bridge of Asgard is Jotun, and I, scourge of Yggdrasil, have always been Aesir—and Odin’s son, no less! I never told you this? No, I never got around to it. And, honestly, I didn’t feel like parading it around. Really, what would happen if I told everyone that I’m Odin’s son? Imagining that they would even believe me, they would probably try to draw me into their shallow social circle. As a Jotun, they didn’t care whether I was coming or going.

  As I was staring into space, inhaling every remaining drop of mead in the room, Odin entered.

  “It’s not my policy to revive warriors after this battle,” he quipped as he looked around the banquet hall of empty mugs and passed-out drunks. “Looks like you finished the last of it.”

  I looked over to him—this man who was apparently more than a blood-brother, but actual blood father—debating over whether or not to ask him anything…or even to talk at all. Did he know? Was that why he made me his blood-brother? I tried to find my voice, and decided that to feign drunkenness would add the appropriate levity. “Why’d you make you my brood-blother?”

  He smirked and sat next to me. “Could you rephrase the question?”

  “Why’d you make me my blood-brother?”

  He pat me on the back, and I forced a belch to help my ruse. “Because I could tell that you’re a good man.”

  I spit out laughter, flailing the mug. Then I switched to severity and slammed the mug down. “I want the truth!” I then cocked a grin and said, “I’m really the bastard son of some Aesir, aren’ I? ‘Cuz you would never really trust a Jotun.”

  “You’re the only Jotun I trust. In fact, I would sooner trust you with important matters than most Aesir.”

  I squinted at him. “Are you sure I’m not an Aesir? ‘Cuz I’m awfully smart and amazing.” I pointed at his nose and slurred, “I’m pretty much as awesome as you.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sure things would have been easier if you were an Aesir.” He chuckled and pat my shoulder. “Don’t worry. I don’t regret it—yet.” With that, he rose and helped Heimdall to his feet.

  Odin really had no idea of the truth. Yes, he’s always been a very guarded person, but I could tell that he really didn’t know that I’m his son. Well…I guess he could have feigned ignorance to cover his indiscretion. But all things considered…I really don’t think he knew. I don’t think he knows. No…looking at me now, I’m convinced he has no idea.

  CHAPTER SEVEN: THE HUNTING PARTY

  Tantamount to how surprised I was by Odin’s approval of my sons—and learning I am his son—was his being eager for me to get to know his known son, Balder. I honestly had little interest in any of Odin’s other children. Balder in particular was always talked of as good, wholesome, and wise—altogether, a boring combination. He was called the Golden Boy, among other things, because he seemed always surrounded by a golden aura of light.

  For years, I knew almost nothing about him. When he became ten years of age,
Odin sent him out to travel the world and learn everything possible; to build his library of wisdom, I suppose. He returned just shortly after our wedding, twenty-four years of age. And his arrival sparked a bizarre scheme in Odin: He, Balder, and myself would all go on an overnight hunting trip together. I was never very interested in hunting to begin with, and despite our being blood-brothers, I wasn’t sure Odin was on the level. But he was—we were all packed and gone that next morning.

  While we were traversing across the wilds of Midgard, Balder decided to indulge his curiosity about me: “Father’s told me much about you.”

  “I’m sure he did,” I answered blandly.

  “You are half-Jotun?”

  Suppressing a knowing smirk, I replied, “That’s right.”

  “What was it like for you to make the transference from Jotunheim to Asgard?”

  I looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language. No one had ever cared to ask that question. “I wasn’t really accepted at first. I’m still not, in a lot of ways, though I think I’m respected more than I was. Of course, that has a lot to do with your father—anyone he deems worthy has to be tolerated.” For a moment, I looked to where Odin walked ahead of us; as always, I could not determine any reaction. So I continued, “There were many adjustments that I regret, but in the end, I think I’ve felt more at home in Asgard with the Aesir than I ever did at my birthplace.”

  Balder paid genuine attention all along. “How is it that you feel more at home in Asgard?”

  “Jotun just don’t have the scope of imagination and intellect that I have. They tend toward more primitive goals, their lives are set by a survival instinct. The Aesir are more than that; they live beyond survival…” I dared a critical remark: “Though they also display some primitive tastes at times.”

  Balder tilted his head slightly. “Like what?”

  “They’re still outrageously entertained by physical displays, and almost all of them are obsessed with material objects.”