by Maia Jacomus
“Gracious, what a task! Everything?”
She nodded. “Everything.”
“The thunderbolt and the thistle? And plague and disease, too?”
“Of course.” She shrugged slightly. “Well, I did not make the mistletoe vow. It is too young to understand what I was asking of it. But we have no reason to fear the mistletoe.”
Well, that killed any plans I had. No way I could get anything to vow not to harm my hated and feared children, especially by my appeal. I mean, even if I asked anything to not harm Balder, they would say “no”, just to spite me. So I just let that drop, and conceded that if anyone deserved such protection, it was Balder.
I was so wrong…he didn’t deserve the treatment that protection gave him. Not at all.
From then on, it became the favorite sport of the Aesir to throw various objects at Balder, just to watch them bounce off him. For the first couple days, I’ll admit it was somewhat amusing, and he gave them the satisfaction. But it quickly sank into banality. No matter where he went to find respite, there was always a gang of Aesir following along, battering him with whatever they could get their hands on and laughing raucously. You would think such advanced beings would tire of something so savage, but no—the fifth, tenth, and thirtieth day was just as funny as the first.
Where Balder had been my favorite companion, he became someone I rarely saw from one day to the next. Not only was I in danger any time I stood near him—as nothing in all of Yggdrasil would vow not to harm me—but I was too disgusted by the Aesir to stand their continuous heathen display. I felt like my brain would melt the longer I endured around them.
But even while I was away, I couldn’t get my mind off it. Somehow, I felt guilty about it—a repeat of how I felt when Fenrir was chained. I could have waited until we were alone to introduce him to my son, then the Aesir wouldn’t have discovered his invulnerability. What could I have done, or not done, to help Balder avoid it? Then I realized I was being ridiculous. After all, Balder wasn’t my son; he was Odin’s son. And in that vein, why wasn’t Odin doing something about it?
That day of the week came around when Odin and I had our weekly day of fishing. We cast our lines, all fell silent, and I was determined to speak first.
“So what are you going to do about Balder?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” Odin returned.
He was kidding, right? I wish. “Your son is constantly barraged by the people you ‘control’. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Balder can’t get hurt. Why should it worry me?”
I felt like I was speaking to a baby who didn’t know how to talk yet. I spoke slowly: “Because it’s an-noy-ing. Because ev-er-y wak-ing min-ute of the day, he is harassed.”
“He doesn’t seem to mind.”
“That’s only because he too damn nice to say anything. You’re his father—you’ve got to speak up for him. Make those Aesir stop.”
“They’ll stop when they’re bored of it.”
I just couldn’t believe the casual words coming out of the man’s mouth. “What is this—another one of your battles? Valhalla’s getting too boring for you, so you’d rather watch the gods pelt things at your son? For once, look beyond the war and the warriors—can’t you see that your son is miserable?!”
He shook his head. “You don’t understand, Loki. Every life experience is a lesson. He’ll take my place as ruler of the gods someday. Things like this will teach him patience and endurance—and hopefully, it will teach him how to take a firm hand. If I fight this battle for him, he may never win one of his own.”
I just rolled my eyes and sighed in exasperation. There was no convincing the man. Maybe five or ten days could be a life lesson. Over thirty days of such constant attacks could be permanent trauma. And what’s wrong with a ruler who’s humble enough to ask for help when he needs it? Even I’ll ask for help when I know I really need it. Then again, he had something of a point. Had Balder even tried to get them to stop? Had he said a single word against it?
By then, Balder had stopped trying to escape the attacks. He went every day to the same alehouse in Midgard—which weeded out the few Aesir who resolved never to set foot outside of Asgard—and sat with his back to the room, not even feeling the objects slamming against him as he sipped his ale. I entered the fray, dodging everything I could, and sat across the table from Balder, where I could know when to duck. While he was sullenly staring into his mug, he lit up at the sight of me.
“Loki!” he cried. “Let me buy you a pint.”
“Sure, sure,” I said. “Look, haven’t you done anything to stop this? Have you said anything?”
He smiled bitterly. “Yes, I have. Let me show you.” He turned around and stood up to address them all. “Everyone, listen!”
No one silenced or stopped their play.
“Please stop this!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Listen to what I have to say!”
Nothing. No one even blinked. Their antics made them completely blind and deaf to him. Then, something happened that shocked and horrified me. In a fit of rage, Balder picked up his half-empty mug and hurled it. It crashed on the helmeted head of Hoenir, who just laughed at the liquor dripping down his face. With that, Balder turned around and sat back down, his jaw stern as he stared at the tabletop.
I couldn’t believe it. Balder had gotten violent—if even for a split second. And though he hid it well, I could see through his eyes that he was in intense pain—it was the same look that Fenrir had greeted me with after his chaining. My son was never the same after that; he became crueler and more like the beast they had all accused him of being. Now they were turning Balder—the purest, wisest soul I’d ever known—into nothing more than a target with mounting anger. I couldn’t let that happen, even if Odin could. Of all the children in my life that suffered, I was going to save at least one of them. I was going to save Balder.
My plan actually came just from whimsy. Since that day, I visited Balder at the alehouse every day, for whatever conversation we could manage. I quickly learned that the one event that was the highlight of this daily idiocy was when Thor would come in with his hammer—excuse me, Mjollnir—and hurl it at Balder, and it would strike the boy without a flinch. Balder told me he could tell when Thor threw his hammer at him, not because he really felt it, but because that’s when the laughter in the room would erupt to its fullest. At first, my scheme was just a musing that came to mind while watching the senseless act; I thought, How hilarious would it be for Thor to reach for his hammer to chuck at Balder, only to find that it was gone! I bet the whole room would fall dead silent, and Thor’s cow-face would turn purple. It made me laugh to think of it—the first time in a long time my laughter rang in that room. But then I realized that it could just be the perfect solution. Thor may accuse anyone or everyone in the room of being the thief; no one would show their face in that alehouse until the Thunder God was satiated again. Balder could finally have some peace, and I could have a fine joke.
The execution was difficult. I only had between the time that Thor entered until the time he sat down to steal the hammer, and not just to prevent his throwing the thing, but also because he would usually have the hammer shrink to fit in his tunic pocket; no way I’d be able to lift the Crusher in its full size. I began as a mouse. To save time, I climbed up and sat myself on the inside door handle, so that when Thor swung open the door and shut it closed behind him, I jumped from the handle and grabbed hold of his belt. Hanging off his belt, I sidled over and swung into his tunic pocket, hitting my nose on the hammer. I opened my little vermin mouth as wide as I could and clamped onto the hammer’s pommel, pulling it out of the pocket. I fell to the floor, the then-small hammer falling with me and striking my skull. Then it started to grow. I formed into a cat to carry the hammer in my teeth, moving silently to the door, weaving between legs and under tables. The hammer became too large and heavy, so I formed into a dog. I lasted until I reached the closed door—a dead end. My only choice w
as forming back into myself, still on all fours, to reach up and open the door, lugging the hammer out after me.
I’d made it outside just in time, because I couldn’t even drag the hammer behind me anymore. But my task still wasn’t over—any minute, Thor would sit down and find out his “Mjollnir” was gone, and I’d be stuck in his warpath.
That giant oaf Thrym came lumbering down toward the alehouse just then. He was famous in Jotunheim for getting his tongue stuck to an icicle and shaking the mountain so hard to pull it off, that the mountain became a valley. He liked to roam Midgard in search of women—which he never found, because they all ran and hid when they saw him coming.
My initial instinct was to stick out my foot and trip him as I usually did, but I thought the better of it and instead formed into a likeness of Freya with her long blonde hair and blue eyes, the likes of which I knew Thrym never could resist. I stuck my foot as far under the hammer’s handle as I could and groaned in agony. I felt the ground shake beneath me as the dolt ran over to where I was lying. He didn’t say anything—I doubt his brain was working fast enough to find some words. He just smiled his half-toothed grin at me as he lifted up the hammer to “rescue” me.
The door to the alehouse burst open as a swarm of people streaked out, shouting and scrambling. Thor’s roar from within drowned them all out. I formed into my own shape and joined the masses, able to escape the easily-confounded Thrym, unwilling to stay and watch things unfold.
My scheme worked—every day after, as soon as Thor stormed into the alehouse, all others would clear out. I would freely sit and talk with Balder, enjoying some intelligent conversation without risk. Balder would slide me a pint of ale, smile, and say, “Loki, thank you on behalf of my sanity.” All Thor would do was stare at the walls and down pints of ale. Some days, I swear I heard the walls shudder at the pressure. One day, he even growled in reply. I laughed to myself and asked him, “No luck yet?”
He just shook his boarish head and downed an entire pint in one gulp, never breaking his glare from the walls.
Everything was good. So of course, it couldn’t last. Odin called me to a council of the Aesir. They put me at the end of the table so that everyone could stare me down at once while he said, “You, Loki, will retrieve Mjollnir.”
I just shrugged and rested my feet up on the table. “Why me? Why not get He-of-the-Thunderous-Wrath to get his own hammer back?”
Thor was still seething too much to form his own words. Odin answered for him: “Because while Thrym has Mjollnir, he can easily overtake Thor.”
I scoffed. “Without his hammer, Thor’s got nothing below the belt?”
Thor threw a small tantrum by striking his hand on the table, echoing a thunderclap. “I could snap you in half!”
“With your girly hands?”
Thor was about to spring for me—I could see him start—but he just clenched his fist and grit his teeth, and that was it.
Odin said, “As Thrym cannot be taken by force, he must be taken by wit. You are the clever one, Loki.”
I nodded and rose to my feet. “Great. We all agree that I’m clever. Glad we got that settled.” I started to leave, but Freya pushed me back into my chair.
“We aren’t finished with you,” she said.
I smirked and leaned in to say, “I’ll slip under the table if you want to finish me yourself.”
She struck me across the face so hard, that I involuntarily formed into a beetle, stuck lying on my back with my legs scurrying in the air, unable to turn myself over. When I formed back into myself, everyone at the table was practically breathless with laughter. I rolled my eyes and composed myself on my chair. “What?” I asked.
Odin brought everyone back on topic: “Loki, you will do whatever you can to bring Mjollnir back to Thor.”
“No,” I said. “Let the oaf keep it; he needs it for teething.”
Many at the table began talking at once, scolding me. Odin held up his hand, and they quieted. “You will do whatever you can to bring Mjollnir back to Thor. If not, then Thor will be using you for pounding.”
I nodded; knowing Thor, the threat was very real. As I left the room, I added, “You should be glad, Odin, that Mjollnir vowed not to harm your son. Its owner should have vowed the same.”
CHAPTER NINE: A PLAN OF ACTION
Thrym was at his mountaintop home—rather, the jagged assembly of rock and snow that he called a home. For the first few days, I just monitored him, formed either as a hawk or a fly. He never, for a second, let the hammer fall from his fist, even after accidentally hitting himself in the head when he reached to scratch his bald scalp. As such, there was no chance of stealing it from him. So I decided to present myself to him, in my natural form, to talk to the dimwit.
“Impressive,” was my first word, which caught his attention. “How did you ever manage to steal Thor’s hammer?”
He chuckled deep from his throat. “Loki the Smart One wants to hear how I did it?”
“Yes; Loki the Smart One is very interested.”
He cleared his throat and said, “I picked it up off the ground.”
“That is impressive. And I’m sure Freya would be impressed, too. You should tell her about it. Wait, an even better thought: You should give her the hammer. I’m sure she would be greatly impressed.”
“Yes! I’ll do it! I’ll give her the hammer!”
“Great idea!”
“…after she marries me!”
I coughed on my premature triumphant laughter. “What was that?”
“You bring her here to marry me, and I will give her the hammer as a wedding gift!”
And once he got that idea, there was no other way of even tricking the hammer from him; he wouldn’t let it go for anyone but Freya. So I weighed my options: get pounded by the Thunder God, or get slapped around by Freya. I decided to see the goddess first.
“What?!” That first shriek wasn’t very inspiring of success.
I tried to remain calm. “The only way he’ll give up the hammer is if you marry him.”
“I am no trollop or bawd!” she cried furiously. “I will not be given over to some monster in exchange for a toy! If my husband were here, he would strike you through to Hel for suggesting it!”
“So…tell me again how you got that necklace you’re wearing?” I quipped.
Her lips curled into a snarl as her fingers curled into claws. I didn’t stay for further development—I formed into a stag and ran from her house with the greatest leaps I could manage, and didn’t stop until my stag form tired and reverted back to myself.
I sat with Fenrir awhile, talking over the situation, wondering if he had any thoughts on the topic. He cared little about Thor losing his hunk of metal, but any mental challenge was welcome.
“Give him Freya,” he said.
“Only if I could use your fetters,” I retorted.
“No, father: You can change into Freya. He gives you the hammer, you run with it.”
I smirked. “That’s not a half bad idea, except that I can’t carry that thing.” Then, I was inspired by my son’s brilliance, and burst out laughing. “No, I have it! I have it!”
“What?” he asked eagerly. He knew a good joke was coming.
“Thor will disguise as Freya—in a wedding gown, and everything.”
It took only a moment to picture the bearded behemoth in a dress for Fenrir to laugh as well. “Perfect, father, absolutely perfect!”
Our father-son laughter was interrupted by Heimdall. “Loki, the council is meeting to discuss the retrieval of Mjollnir.”
“Yeah, that’s fine. I’m right behind you.” I stayed back only a second to pat my son on the head, then went along to the council room and seated myself at the long table again.
Odin opened the discussion: “It is obvious that we cannot give Freya in marriage to this Jotun, regardless of the hammer’s importance to our safety.”
“I have an idea,” Heimdall spoke up. “We dress Thor in a wedding gown and
present him as Freya. As soon as he gets the hammer, he can kill Thrym and escape.”
I was ready to leap across the table and take that smug jerk by the neck. Odin nodded and said, “Yes, that will work. Loki, you will go with Thor for this.”
Knowing that Odin knew the idea was mine was enough for me. “Naturally, brother.”
“I was going to volunteer,” Heimdall said.
Odin looked at him sternly and said, “I think Loki would play this out better. Don’t you agree?”
Heimdall just muttered under his breath and shot me a glare.
Thor wasn’t too keen on the plan. “I’m not dressing up like a woman for anything!”
“Come on, Thor,” I said. “Thrym already emasculated you—a dress isn’t going to make any difference.”
Before Thor could react, Odin held out his hand. “Thor, sit down. Loki, shut up. This plan will work. You will do it.” With that, he dismissed the council. Thor slammed his fists on the table and left.
I shrugged. “He’ll come around.”
“So long as you don’t berate him,” Odin cautioned.
“Yeah, yeah; sure. No more jokes about his mallet.”
“And hurry. If that Jotun figures out what he has, we could all be in great danger.”
“It takes Thrym eight weeks to count his fingers—and he only has nine. Don’t worry.”
He pat my back as he led me from the room. “With you, Loki, I always worry.” He then paused and stood in front of me, face to face. “Will you make the vow, brother?”
“For what?”
“Vow never to harm my son Balder. Do this for me, and I will leave immediately to find the answer to Fenrir’s freedom.”
I didn’t think twice. For me, it was a win-win. I knelt down and put my palms to the ground to recite the vow: “As I am Loki, son of Farbauti and Laufey, born of Jotunheim, I vow by Yggdrasil that I will never harm Balder, son of Odin and Frigg, born of Asgard.” Given my true heritage, I wondered how iron-clad that vow really was, using my foster parents’ names.