Loki

by Vasich, Mike

  He had only two other clear thoughts, occasionally rising to surface from the constant and all-encompassing fever of his woe. The first was of Idun. In these brief moments of lucidity, he knew that his state—the state of all the Aesir—was due to Idun’s absence. She was gone from her orchards, and the link that kept them all eternally young was gone as well.

  His second thought was one filled with venom and anger, one that drove out, if only momentarily, all feelings of self-pity and desolation. It was an empowering thought, one that filled his feeble limbs with renewed vigor as he imagined having the one responsible for this state at his mercy. In these brief moments, he knew with perfect certainty that it was Loki who had caused this to happen, and he swore countless times that he would make the Trickster pay for this indignity, no matter the cost.

  Chapter Eleven

  The little goddess was safely locked away in the bowels of Thrymheim, and Thiazi’s satisfaction grew with each passing day. The Aesir grew older by the minute, weaker, more feeble, and it was only a matter of time till they collapsed into nothing but bags of bones. He imagined Jotunheim’s armies sweeping down onto Asgard like a force of nature, destroying everything in their path, desecrating the gods’ lands, and annihilating any trace that they ever existed. He would see the stain of their existence purged from the Nine Worlds with fire and death, their bones trampled to dust underneath his heel.

  He had used his power to erase the space between Jotunheim and Asgard to spy on one or another of the Aesir and revel in their wretched state. Idun’s link to them had been severed quickly, and he had enjoyed seeing them wither before his eyes without the gift of her life-sustaining presence. He had not been able to see all images clearly and at length, but what he had seen had pleased him greatly.

  Freyja had hobbled out of her keep as a withered old crone, constantly weeping and bemoaning her lost beauty. She had been attended to by her servants, as always, but never before had they been forced to support her weight as she slowly left her hall, step after plodding step. Her head bowed low, she mumbled to herself as she walked, her mind clearly addled. Who would have her now? Not that any of the others would have been capable of engaging with her in their pathetic states.

  Tyr looked even worse, if such a thing was possible. Once broad shouldered and lean, a warrior in his prime who knew no peer, he was reduced to a shrunken and doddering old fool who had to be carried from place to place by his retainers. They had hoisted him onto his chair laden with blankets so his thin blood would not freeze in the cold Asgardian air. His hands on top of his blankets, he held onto the sheathed sword that lay across his lap with knobby hands that trembled with rapid and uncontrolled motion. The flesh of his neck hung loose, and his eyes stared blankly at nothing.

  Thiazi looked at them all in turn, basking in their infirmities. Balder the handsome, Balder the young, lay in his bed in a puddle of his own excrement. Frey could do naught but repeat the same complaints and worries incessantly while his overwrought servants wrung their hands in despair and hopelessness. Hod the Blind, faithful brother to Balder, had also become Hod the Deaf and Hod the Incontinent. Sif, the beautiful, flaxen-haired wife of Thor, merely sat and stared at an empty wall for hours at a time, lost in her own shriveling awareness, understanding less and less as each moment passed.

  He could not see the one-eyed one, but no matter. Odin was nearly as old as creation itself; it was likely that he had already succumbed, and that was the reason Thiazi was unable to view him. Even if he still lived, how much more frail and impotent would he be than the others? Thiazi imagined Odin lying dead in his chambers, worms crawling through the empty socket of his missing eye, while maggots devoured what was left of the other.

  While he derived much pleasure from the suffering of these gods, there was far more satisfaction in knowing that he had destroyed them from within using one of their own. Or at least they had once thought of him as their own. Loki was no more one of them than he himself was, and it would be to their everlasting sorrow that they had sent him into Thiazi's hands.

  How simple it had been to kidnap Idun and bring her to Thrymheim. Buried in the bowels of his keep he enjoyed seeing her, gloating over her in her dank cell, powerless to change the tides that flowed against her kind.

  Thiazi made the long, winding trip downwards to the black caverns underneath Thrymheim. It was there that a rough dungeon had been carved long ago. Although it was never meant for one so small as her, it was an apt dwelling. It lacked light and life, and any who found themselves there drew desolation and despair from the very rock it was carved from. Idun, the giver of eternal life, would wither and die while imprisoned there, and it was fitting that she be forced to spend what little time she had alone and in the dark.

  As he wound his way through the meandering tunnels underneath Thrymheim, he could feel her presence as he drew nearer. The force of her life was intensely strong, especially for one so small, but Thiazi knew better than most that appearances could be deceiving. For all that she looked like a young girl of no more than ten summers, she was likely as old as Odin, far older than Thiazi himself, in fact. Realizing this made him feel powerful, and even more confident that this was the end of Asgard. While he did not believe in their ridiculous prophecies, perhaps he would declare that Ragnarok had come when he trod onto the holy ground of their city just to see their spirits crumple along with their withered flesh. “Ragnarok has come for you, One Eye!” he imagined himself saying before stepping on the god’s chest and crushing the last remnants of life from him.

  He was drawn from his musings by another presence that he recognized, and he could feel his grip on the god as tightly as before. Loki was his to command, even if he did not truly recognize it, and he would have him at his side while he slaughtered the Aesir, a last insult to heap upon them, a final farewell from one of their own who had finally turned against them. It would be sweet indeed to bask in their bitterness and impotence.

  As he stepped into the dungeon, he could see Loki standing near Idun’s cell. He looked tiny standing next to the enormous door, like a small child unable to manipulate the basic objects of his fully grown parents.

  “Keeping Idun company?”

  “Watching her. Trying to understand her link to the Aesir and how she was able to provide them with eternal youth. It seems strange that her captivity here does not affect me. I had wondered if I might age along with them.”

  “But now you see yet again that you are not one of them. Idun holds no sway over you. It is the chaos within you that keeps you vital.”

  “I feel some regret bringing her here. She has never wronged me.”

  “Her very existence is an attack on our kind. Without her, the gods would have withered and died countless ages ago. Instead they remain a threat, and would continue to be so until one or the other of our races is extinguished.”

  “I know, but it is difficult still. She looks like nothing more than an innocent child.”

  “Do not be deceived by her looks. She is old beyond reckoning. And besides, we do nothing to her but prevent her from returning to her orchards. It is far better treatment than you or I would receive at the hands of the Aesir.”

  Loki nodded, recognizing the truth of his words.

  Thiazi said, “Let us take a look at our guest and see how she is faring. That should salve your conscience.”

  He stepped over to the door and pulled it open. It had not been locked; there was no need here in Thrymheim. Even if she could manage to open the massive door, she would not be able to find her way out. The keep was maze-like, and only Thiazi knew the ways in and out.

  Although the room was quite large for Idun, it would not have been so for a giant. Her small frame, however, was completely swallowed by the massive room. As the weak light from the open door struck her, she seemed to be the lone point of whiteness in a pool of black.

  The room had been carved from the solid rock of the mountain, deep in its bowels, and so of course had no windows or an
y source of light other than the flickering torches that were held in sconces on the walls. The door had no window in it, so the only light that would have reached her while she was in her cell would have come from the narrow space between door and rock floor.

  She sat on her knees in the middle of the room, hands in lap, head and eyes downcast, golden hair limp. Her simple white dress was covered in dirt and her pale skin—once radiant and glowing—was now the white of a sickly worm that had never seen daylight.

  Thiazi walked slowly into the room, his bulk taking up most of the doorway. If Idun noticed him she did not indicate it. She simply sat in the middle of the cell as if a statue, eyes staring down at the floor.

  Thiazi could not deny that she projected a sympathetic image, but he would not allow himself to forget who this creature was in reality. Idun was no more a girl than he was, and it was her power to keep the gods eternally young and strong. More than any other of the Aesir, she was the most dangerous enemy of the giants. If not for the god’s longevity, Jotunheim would not be under constant threat of destruction from the arrogance of those who lived on high.

  Remembering that this one stroke against the gods could end forever the danger that he and all other giants faced from the Aesir set his purpose firmly once again. This was no young girl, but in reality a god whose very existence was anathema to him and all his kind. She would rot in this cell until the gods themselves were dust under his heel, and then she would die as well, once he was certain that they were all dead.

  “Can you feel them dying? Can you feel their anguish even here?”

  Idun did not move from her position, but a soft voice rose from her, imploring and weak. “Please let me go. I have done you no wrong.” If she noticed Loki behind him, she did not indicate it.

  “Oh, but you have. You keep the gods strong. Without you, they are doddering old fools who can barely control their own bowels.”

  Again the weak voice, so like a child’s, seemingly so innocent. “My orchards are gone; I have no more power. I can save no one. Please let me go so that I can die with my kind.”

  It was true that her orchards were gone. He had seen Loki infect them and cause them to wither and die. But he did not know for certain if her power remained without her orchards, and he certainly would not take such a foolhardy chance by releasing her, even if it was true that she was now powerless.

  “No. You will be my guest till I have trodden on the fetid corpses of those you love.” He noticed her head lower just the slightest bit, as if this was one further blow, one last hope that he had trampled. “However, I will not leave you alone.” He motioned with his hand, and Loki was now more visible, standing to the side and just behind Thiazi.

  Idun did not move, but instead muttered one word, as if it were the only thing in the Nine Worlds that could crush her spirit more completely than Thiazi had already done.

  “Loki.”

  Thiazi smiled. This was the most satisfying feeling yet. Forcing the most powerful enemy of Jotunheim to share a room with he whose betrayal had caused the destruction of everything she knew and loved. It did not even matter if Loki said nothing; his presence alone was enough to quell any hope she might still have that she would ever be free from his possession.

  “Loki will keep you company till we raze Asgard. I will bring you a souvenir—Mjolnir? Gungnir? Balder’s skull?—so that you can remember the Aesir when they are all gone.”

  Thiazi turned to Loki. “Enjoy your time with her. She is yours to do with as you will. You may be able to discover her link to the Aesir.”

  He turned and left the room, the slamming of the door sending loud reverberations echoing throughout the stone chamber. As he mounted the stairs back to the upper parts of the keep, he felt Loki’s own will coincide with his own. The Sly One was truly one of them.

  Tyr slumped in a chair piled high with blankets, staring out the window of his hall. In his trembling hand he clutched a note with runes scrawled by someone he knew, although he could not remember who that person was. His eyesight was failing, but if he squinted just right and held the note close to his face he could read its message. He felt it was important, and had an overwhelming need to do as the note said, but was unable to comprehend the full import of the message. He read it again, for perhaps the ninth time, his lips mumbling the words as his eyes passed over them, his finger touching each word in turn.

  He called one of his servants into the chamber. His wizened hand clutched his sword—he had been using it as a cane—and he struck it against the wooden floor sharply. Moments later, a young man who he had seen before scrambled into the room and stood near his chair.

  “What do you want?” Tyr did not understand why he was being disturbed. He noticed that he was clutching something in his hand, but he could not remember what it was.

  “You called for me, my lord.” The boy looked troubled about something.

  “I called for you?” He did not remember doing that.

  “Yes, my lord. With your sword.”

  Tyr looked down and was surprised to see his sword leaning against his leg, one hand resting on the hilt.

  “The note, my lord? Was there something in the note?”

  Tyr did not like the look on the boy’s face, as if he were mocking him. If the weariness in his bones was not weighing him down, he would strike him for his insolence. What was it that he had said? The boy had said something and it sounded familiar.

  “The note in your hand, my lord. I delivered it to you not an hour ago. Could that be the reason you called for me?”

  “The note? What note?” Tyr looked down at his hand and was surprised to see that he clutched something in his withered claw. He held it up to his face, squinted, and read it slowly, his lips mouthing the words as his eyes passed over them.

  “Who is this from?”

  “The Allfather, my lord.”

  “It says to gather wood and pile it up against Asgard’s wall?” He looked at the boy questioningly. He did not know what to do with this information.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Tyr stared at him. There was something he should do, but it was unclear. His thoughts were like fish—slippery and difficult to grasp, there one moment, only to quickly dive beneath the surface the next.

  “Perhaps your servants and retainers should be sent out to gather wood as the High One has instructed, my lord?”

  “Gather wood?”

  “Yes, my lord. As it says in the note.”

  Tyr was tired of this. The only comforting thought he had was to rest in his chair and stare out the window, as he had been doing before this whelp disturbed him. He would strike him if he were within reach.

  “Do as you like,” he muttered before turning back to the window. Without realizing it his hand released the note and it fell slowly to the floor, fluttering in the hot gusts from the fireplace nearest the window. He replaced his hand in his lap and stared out at the vast and sprawling towers outside his window, wondering only for a moment why there was such movement and activity on the roads that weaved in and around Asgard.

  Thiazi would be coming soon.

  Odin had sent instructions to prepare for his arrival to all the Aesir, as he had foreseen doing while he hung on Yggdrasil all those years ago. As ever, the past and future merged within his mind, constantly streaming images before him, feelings and impressions that he could not always differentiate from the present. It had seemed clear to him what he would do, however, and that his commands to the others would be followed, although hesitantly due to their enfeebled conditions.

  “Is this the end?” he asked the only other occupant of the room. The bodiless head stared at him, mouth agape as always.

  “. . . it is not the end . . .”

  Odin could be certain that Mimir’s head was always correct. He could not say, however, that it was a blessing to know such things, for this wisdom perversely made him powerless.

  “But Thiazi is coming?”

  “. . . he comes . .
.”

  “Will the Aesir be restored? Will Idun be returned to her orchards? I see her there, but I cannot tell if it is past or yet to come.”

  Mimir was silent. He did not always respond to needs for reassurance, and Odin already knew the answers to the questions posed. Mimir was there to tell him only what he did not already know, or to help him sort the past and present from the future.

  He stared up at the starlit sky above him. It was brightest day outside, but here in his chamber he could always see the stars lighting up the night sky, see the branches of Yggdrasil brushing up against the highest reaches of the heavens.

  He attempted to push himself up out of his chair, but he was not immune to the weakness of old age that had recently stricken all of the Aesir. He let his hands fall back down onto his lap. If need be, he could summon servants to help him, but there was no pressing need. He was content for the moment to slump in his chair, infirm and frail.

  Odin was nearly as old as creation itself, and it had been eons since he had looked young. All of the Aesir knew his visage as that of an old man, but his current state was far more wasted. While he had looked old before, this appearance had never extended to his strength. Without Idun, however, he felt the effects just as any of the others.

  It was gratifying, at least, to have retained his wits while the old age had wasted his body. Tyr slouched in a chair in his hall, uncertain of what was said or done only moments before. Heimdall lay in a stupor in his bed, attended by servants who could only shake their heads while he mumbled incoherently over and over again. Bragi sat weeping on the floor in a puddle of his own waste, unwilling or unable to move, even with the help of his servants. Freyja was nothing but a hollow shell of her former self, so devastated by the loss of her beauty that she was incapable of thinking of aught else. It was far better, he realized, to retain his wits, even while they were cruelly trapped in a doddering frame.