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In Norse mythology, Fenrir was the wolf child of the Norse God of Mischief, Loki. The real Fenrir was so vicious that the gods bound him to a tree on a remote uninhabited island—but someday Fenrir is supposed to be the downfall of Odin, the head of the Norse gods himself.
Despite the coffee she’s been drinking all day, she’s tired. She’s getting to that stage of sleepiness when reminding her brain that if she falls asleep, she’ll die, is no longer working. Her brain is rebelling, reminding her if she dies she’ll be asleep. Blessed, wonderful sleep.
The risk of being killed by a serial killer is less than the risk of being hit by lightning, and that risk is less than 1 in 750,000. Most people are good.
Loki awakes with his cheek pressed to a cold stone slab, not sure where he is. This is not precisely unprecedented. What is strange is that he doesn’t reek of alcohol and his mouth does not taste like vomit.
What is worrisome is what he doesn’t see, feel, hear or taste. There is no magic in the room, no soft glow of light and shifting color, no slight tingle on his tongue and fingertips or murmur in his ear. He might as well be a dumb beast. No, it’s worse than that. Beasts have some sense of magic in their whiskers, feathers, and flicks of their tongues. He might as well be a mortal human, blind to magic, and with no magic tricks save one.
“Watch your mouth, Silvertongue,” says Thor. Silvertongue is one of Loki’s favorite nicknames. It’s better than Trickster, Fool, or simply Liar. Thor isn’t terribly mad at him.
Thor actually looks a little afraid. Pain and death are not things Thor fears. Loss of honor, on the other hand... Odin has convinced him to do something very bad indeed.
Smiling with brightness he doesn’t feel, Loki says, “My dear, have you forgotten that among some humans I am regarded as the patron god of lost causes?”
A few minutes later he feels something. Something that makes every hair on the back of his neck stand on end. It’s something he has not felt in centuries, the one, small, intriguing human magical trick: A prayer. Someone, anyone, help me.
All magical beings have a color to their magic, but one can never see one’s own color. Loki’s been told, though, that his own magic is white, blue, orange and red—like a flame Mimir says. Or, as Odin says, because Loki is too fickle to pick a shade.
Humans have fallen so far since the early days when they’d just throw you a party when you killed a monster. But it can’t be helped.
Popping a chocolate chip into his mouth, he smirks slightly. It’s a smirk that says, I know you know I’m lying, and it doesn’t bother me at all.
Unless you are especially pure, never, never, think a unicorn is harmless. If you value your life.”
Loki has taken his designation as “God of Mischief” rather seriously. Mimir and Odin have stressed the Aesir aren’t really gods—more gardeners of the World Tree, but Loki likes his moniker. It’s great fun to make an illusion of a snake in a laundry basket and then explain it to Odin as his “sacred duty.” Such things never fail to make Odin chortle.
“I like being the God of Mischief,” Loki says. He does. There is a freedom in being a mischief maker; he can skirt rules and expectations. Sometimes he does it for fun, but sometimes he does it because it feels right.
“No king or queen of the elves would reveal their true name. It would mean sacrificing too much of their power.”
There’s nothing like a bit of comedy to take one’s mind off a daunting quest.
The universe seems to be grinding along with such beautiful perfection, and Amy’s part may be insignificant, but it is still wonderful.
Loki rolls his eyes at Thor’s naivete. When will Thor realize Odin is as capable at lying as Loki, perhaps more so? Anything to “protect” the realms, or rather, his own power.
