by Vasich, Mike
Those on the hills turned first, almost as one, and slowly walked back towards the sanctuary of Asgard to resume their lives. A pall hung over them, and not one failed to consider how this tragic death might signal the beginning of the end. The Aesir lingered for some time before finally approaching Odin, each placing a hand on his shoulder in turn, and walking away with eyes cast down, a slow and staggered procession leading back to their great halls.
Finally he stood alone, still gazing at the empty sea where Balder’s boat had gone down. The High One smiled a rueful, bitter smile. “You may approach,” he said. His voice, despite the low, whispered pitch, projected clearly to the solitary figure on the low, rocky outcropping. “I am alone here, as you sought.”
The bird perched on the rocks that hung over the sea grew larger and changed form till it was no longer a bird, but a man. Loki hesitated only briefly before jumping down to the sandy shore and making his way over to the Allfather.
“You knew I was here.” Loki paused, waiting for a response before realizing that none was necessary. “Why did you let Balder die?” he asked.
“Who are you to question my motives? You are less than a flea to one such as I, one who has crafted worlds with his bare hands.” Odin stared at him with menace in his eye. “You put your life at risk in coming here.”
“If you wanted me dead, you would have acted on it by now,” Loki replied, failing to be intimidated. “Why not point out my presence to Thor? Or Tyr? You did not reveal me to the gathered throng just as you did not reveal me in Gladsheim when I served Balder his final cup of mead. But why?”
Odin turned away and stared out at the empty sea. “You cannot hope to understand.” The menace was absent. In its place was cold apathy.
“As ever, you misjudge me, Allfather. I know far more than you give me credit for. Perhaps the other Aesir would be interested to know how we locked eyes in Gladsheim, how I gained your approval for my dark deed.”
“They would not believe you. You are the Father of Lies.”
Loki was nonplussed. “So it is said. Still, there could be insinuated the tiniest doubt, which would be fed till it bore sour fruit. What would they think of the High One then, when it is finally revealed that you as much as murdered your own son, and in conjunction with he who is most hated in Asgard?”
Odin turned to look at him, the expression on his face impossible to read. “You will not tell. I have foreseen it, just as I have foreseen all that has led to this moment, and all that follows. Do not fool yourself that you rule your destiny.”
Loki felt cold annoyance rising in him. He should have expected that Odin would attempt to diminish what he had done. He stabbed back at him with his words. “And what is my destiny? To sow discord and misery throughout Asgard? I have done at least some of that.”
“You bring forth what must be brought forth. You begin what must be begun.”
“You speak in riddles. You still have not answered my question.”
“There will come a time—sooner than you dream—when you will lament what you have set in motion. Your suffering will be great, greater than any who have ever existed. And it will turn your heart even blacker than it already is.” He paused, narrowing his eye at Loki, gauging the effect his words had on him. “None can comprehend my purpose, and you are only an ignorant pawn being moved by my unseen hand. You flatter yourself to think that you are of higher import than that.”
Loki refused to be taunted. “You do not lessen my revenge for your petty manipulations. I have taken one from you, and you do not fool me that the wound does not go deep into Asgard’s heart.”
“It was a necessary death.”
“If only the other Aesir realized your scheming. Who will you sacrifice next for your grand purpose?”
Odin glared at him silently, and Loki was chilled by his cold stare. “I will see the Nine Worlds burned. And you and I will meet one last time. Then you will learn the truth of my manipulations, to your sorrow.”
With difficulty, Loki forced down his awe of the High One. “I have no need to continue on this path. I have taken from you, and need do no more than let the wound fester. From here on, our paths diverge.”
Turning his head to stare at the empty sea where Balder’s boat went down into eternity, he felt again a satisfaction at what he had done. Odin could never take back Balder's murder. And he would never be free of the terrible knowledge that he had let it happen.
He closed his eyes and felt his form grow smaller, lighter. With a flap of his newly-formed wings, he soared off towards Midgard.
Loki stared out at the stream, his eyes following it as it wound down to the sharp cliff, where the water fell over the side in a continuous rush to the sea below. It was not wide or deep enough to be called a river, but neither was stream the most fitting designation. It moved quickly and submerged him up to his waist in parts. Its span was wider than a strong horse could leap, and as it made its way down the gradual slope it was hindered by rocks that had fallen from higher up on the mountain side.
It would be hard to catch a fish in this stream, he thought, which was why he had chosen this very location.
He knew that the impending confrontation with the Aesir was inevitable. All would learn that it was he who had killed Balder, and this was as he had wanted it. The anguish would be greater if they knew it was he. He wanted them to realize that it was their own actions that had brought this upon them. How much more would they feel the pain of Balder's loss once they learned that their own misdeeds had come back to haunt them?
He wondered what they might do to him if they caught him. Surely there would be no instant death; they would want him to suffer. He was not fool enough to think he could withstand them should they come together. But he did not need to withstand them if he could elude them.
He had built the shack quickly, shifting himself into a giant so that his strength and size were greatly increased. In this form he could easily carry much more and work much faster, and he availed himself of the trees and large rocks nearby to construct a shelter that could almost be called a house, although it was somewhat smaller. Still, it was sturdily constructed, and would serve its purpose till they came.
But was it inevitable that they find him? He had taken precautions—a remote location far from any who might see him, his own power used to dispel traces of his presence so that he appeared to be nowhere, other measures that might serve to blind those who sought him. It was said that Odin could see all when he looked out over the Nine Worlds, but many things were said on Asgard, and many of them were not true or even possible. Odin’s vision was far and wide, but perhaps it was not all-seeing. Perhaps he had taken enough precautions to prevent himself from being discovered.
It was useless to ponder things he could not control, and so he instead thought on those he could. The stream, at least, provided an easy escape route should they find him. And if this proved necessary, then he would go somewhere else. In time he would find what he sought, and then running would be unnecessary.
He sat down on the ground and closed his eyes. The power flowed seamlessly out of him now, coming instantly when bidden. It felt more like an intimate piece of his person than an outside thing, and he had learned to manipulate it for purposes other than shifting.
He felt it flow out in dozens of slim, questing tendrils, each taking a different path. In moments they had scanned hundreds of leagues, each seeking signs of the two he sought. He did not know how long it would take, and the Nine Worlds were vast, but he felt sure that he would find them. He had time enough for now. He would find his sons, and when he did, the need for retreat would be over. Then would be the time for facing the Aesir on their own terms. Together they would raise armies that would make the gods tremble.
Chapter Twenty-One
Loki stood on the edge of a deep pit, so deep that the blackness swallowed the bottom. He knew, however, that it was not bottomless, that there was something down there. He had been brought here, but he did not
know how or by whom.
There was a sense of pain and anguish, and he heard low groans of agony rising up out of the pit. At first they came from one source, but as he listened closer, he realized there were hundreds of low voices there, perhaps thousands, just beyond his sight in the blackness below. He could not make out what was being said, but he thought they spoke to him. He got down on his knees and leaned further over the edge to hear the voices more clearly.
Fear crawled across him like a wave of spiders. Something was down there that he did not want to see, and yet he knew that it must be revealed. As he leaned over further, there was the sensation of falling, the desperate wheeling of hands to grab onto something before he spilled forward and fell headlong into the pit.
He stood on some sort of shifting ground, ensconced in the darkness at the bottom of the pit. He did not remember striking ground after he fell, but as he craned his head back, he could see a small circle of light far above him.
He walked slowly forward, the ground shifting and pulsing underneath his feet like a living thing, the moaning of voices louder and yet more indistinct; more like an amorphous group who all spoke at once, but none of whom could do more than moan in despair. As he put one foot precariously in front of the other, he realized that he was being slowly funneled forward, the voices leading him toward something. He was not sure that he wanted to continue, but he knew that he must, that he was being led towards a revelation.
In his periphery he could see movement. It was slow and shambling, and there were snatches of pale white that appeared and then melted back into the surrounding darkness. He could also hear raspy, labored breathing, and the sound of wet flesh rubbing against wet flesh. The smell was fetid and rotten, but there was a strange and pleasant undercurrent, something that redeemed it in some way that was unclear.
The blackness faded, and a solitary figure stood across from him, a large hall just behind. It loomed over the figure and looked as if it might fall. It was patterned after a face, with two rows of windows creating the image of makeshift eyes, and a massive door with jagged top and bottom that looked like a toothed maw ready to devour any who entered.
The figure who stood in front was female and slight of build. As he approached her, he could not tell if she was the destination or if it was the imposing structure that rose up behind her. She wore a black, hooded cloak, but her face was visible underneath the hood; a beautiful, young face, with tufts of raven-black hair that spilled out from the corners. She held out a hand, her pale white skin contrasting with the dark of the cloak, and beckoned him forward.
The familiarity was palpable; this was someone he knew. He was doubly certain that he had never met her, which made the sense of familiarity even stranger. He stepped forward, unable to refuse her summons.
She spoke from within the hood. “Have you found what you sought?” She asked the question with the air of someone who already knew the answer.
“I have found some things, but others are hidden.” He paused, trying to peer deeper into the darkness of the hood. “Do you know where my sons are?”
“I am not your son,” she replied. She reached up with her hands and pulled the hood back. For an instant, her face was bare of flesh and muscle, a powder-white skull that stared back with eyeless sockets, but the image was gone quickly.
She was young, with pale beauty that rivaled Freyja’s. Her skin was white and flawless, and her black hair fell in gentle curves just past her shoulders, which he could see now that the hood was down.
“You do not know what you seek,” she said.
He eyed her curiously. For all her youthful appearance, she seemed far older. She reminded him of Idun, an ancient timelessness that exuded the wisdom of the distant past. But with this one, there was a difference. Where Idun radiated life, she absorbed it. He could feel her presence pulling him in, intent on devouring him. It was not evil or monstrous; like Idun, she was a primordial creature, one who existed outside of the normal realms of the Nine Worlds.
“I will find them soon.” He felt a sliver of defiance rising up in him, but he knew that it was misplaced. This girl was not his enemy.
“Your army is incomplete. You will fail.” Out of the folds of her cloak she produced an infant swaddled in black. She held it out for him, and he stepped forward, taking the small bundle. He let the swaddling cloth fall, and he could see the gaping, bloody hole in its throat, so wide that it nearly encompassed the whole neck. As he held the child at arm's length, shocked by the wound, its head lolled backwards and fell to the ground. In disgust, he dropped the headless infant at his feet.
He looked up to meet the eyes of the girl, and saw her cloak fall to the ground. From her waist up she was flawless perfection. Below that, her body was shriveled and black, with bones visible where the flesh had been eaten away by the maggots still crawling on her, giving rise to the clouds of flies that buzzed around her.
Beneath his revulsion was the hint of a discovery that he could not fully grasp. As he stared at her, her smile wide with satisfaction, the hall began to fall toward them. With no way to avoid its immensity, he reflexively put his arm up to shield himself. The hall crushed them both. He felt his bones snap like dry timber, and his body was reduced to pulp. The pain was a white torrent blinding him to anything else.
And then he was back in his cabin. It was night, and he lay on the floor, the pain fading as quickly as his memories of what had just happened. He felt himself for injuries, but there were none; he was intact and unharmed. He rose slowly, shuddering once more with the remembered pain of being crushed by Hel's massive hall. He shook his head and rose to his feet.
A figure was there with him, cloaked in black.
As before, she was slim and her face was lost deep in the recesses of her hood. She was less substantial, however; he could see through her, and she wavered like the mist forms of the Norns.
“You will come to me,” she said. “I will give you the means to take your revenge.”
He stepped forward, but she held up a hand. The flesh was rotted, and skeletal fingers poked out from blackened skin.
“Seek me out when you find my brothers. Farewell, father.”
The form disappeared, leaving Loki alone.
He did not understand how this could be. Hel had existed for eons. How could she be his daughter when she had been ancient long before he ever took in his first breath? How could an infant who had been murdered only a dozen seasons ago somehow become ruler of the realm of the dead?
And she had brought him to her realm, he was certain of that.
She had said that his army was incomplete, and so it was. But now he could raise the army he needed to storm Asgard. He would lead a horde of giants, and his three children would be at his side. They would be backed by an army of the dead, of all those who had died and failed to achieve Valhalla. And how they must thirst for revenge on the Aesir they had worshiped, and who had sent them to Niflheim to rot in darkness.
He dismissed the confusion he felt at the realization that his daughter was the mistress of Niflheim. It did not matter how—or even if—it was true. What mattered was that he would lead an unending army against Asgard, and even the might of the Aesir would fall before him.
The faint smile that began to spread across his features was cut short as a thunderclap shook the cabin. He looked out the window. The night was clear, but he saw a rolling line of thunderheads in the distance, a dark bank of clouds that portended something more ominous than any storm. Lightning flashed, a massive strike that arced across the sky.
“No,” he muttered, the impending peril quickly setting his nerves on edge. “Not now. Not now.”
He turned to the door, ready to dash out before they could reach him. He stopped in mid-stride as another flash of lightning silhouetted the figure at the door. He was lean and muscular with sword drawn. He was also missing a hand.
“You cannot run from us,” Tyr said.
Loki quickly considered his choices. Even in the peak
of health, he would not be able to best Tyr. And Thor was with him somewhere nearby, making any attack futile. He felt for the chaos inside him, barely there after sending it out to find his sons. There was enough for a shift into a small, weak form, a form that he had planned on using when he first found the stream.
He took a step back towards the window. Tyr matched him and took a step into the house, sword held at the ready. Loki glanced at his other hand, noting the metallic sheath that covered it.
“You will never lay hands on me, Tyr.” If he could not harm him physically, at least he would do so with words.
Tyr sneered at him. “Your insults do you a disservice. They only give us further reason to cause you pain.” He took another step forward.
Before Loki could reply, there was a great rending sound from above as part of the roof was ripped up. Eyes flashing with lightning, red hair and beard ablaze, Thor threw the roof from him with no more effort than a child discarding a blanket. He clutched Mjolnir with one hand, and he stared at Loki, rain dripping from his face.
There was one more here, he was certain of it, probably the most dangerous of the three. While these two could most certainly kill him, he might be able to evade them by quick and decisive action. Frey and his magic, however, would be more difficult to escape. But time had run out; if he did not attempt to escape now, he would never get away.
He turned quickly and called up the chaos within him, the shifting of form effortless despite his weariness. He had done it so many times that it was as simple to change his shape as it was to breathe, an unconscious willing of the chaos to mold the body into a different form.
As his shape changed, he leapt out of the window and landed directly into the stream, his newly emerged tail shooting him amongst the rapidly churning water while his fins and water-sense guided him around obstacles. He let the flow of the water ease his effort, trusting to the rushing water and many obstacles to mask his progress. He did not go as quickly as he could, fearing that it would attract their attention, but kept his speed consistent with other fish.