In the quiet summer afternoon, as much a part of the quiet scene as the cows and the grass, came a man. He was dressed in a manner inappropriate to the summer heat, with a large black hat pulled down over his face. A black cloak, moth-eaten, was wrapped around his shoulders and swept the ground. Beneath it, grey cloth was infrequently visible through the tattered holes. He walked with a thick, gnarled stick that rose higher than his head, although he moved at a sure pace, showing no sign of injury.
The man walked down the road, slowly but without hesitation, as like to a quiet storm cloud in both manner and appearance, and did not stop until his path was blocked by a cow.
The man regarded the cow in a silence that was only broken by the sound of the wind and the masticating of the cow for several minutes before poking the beast in the side with his stick. Slowly, the cow turned its head to regard the man. It appeared unimpressed with what it saw, and continued the lazy chewing of a mouthful of grass. A prod to the cow’s nose got the man no response greater than the rolling of one massive brown eye and several pieces of wet, broken grass in the face.
The man lowered his stick and turned to regard the cattle who were not on the road. They were just as unimpressed by the man’s presence as their road-bound compatriot.
Something gleamed beneath the brim of the man’s hat as he turned his head, searching for something in the field of cows. Eventually, he lowered his head and looked nearer the ground, finding the object of his search within an instant.
Lying in the grass, head next to one bull’s massive hoof, was a boy. The cattle were ignorant of him, and they stepped over him and around him as was necessary on the occasions they felt the overwhelming urge to move.
The boy appeared to be asleep, his legs lifted in the air and his feet resting against the soft, warm side of one cow. He was dirty and barefoot, his clothing was meant for a figure far closer to manhood than he and it was full of holes. His red hair was shaggy, long, and twisted into disarray with grass and leaves.
The man leaned on his stick and watched the boy in silence until one eye opened somewhere beneath the thatch of bright hair. It gleamed, and in the brightness of the sun it was difficult to discern its colour. “Hello,” he said easily, pushing himself away from the cow with his feet and rolling backwards, only to land once more on his feet, standing in the damp grass, perfectly erect.
The old man inclined his head. “Hello, boy. Does your master know that you tend his cattle with such attention and diligence?”
The boy blinked at the man, his eyes now visible as being green, large in pointed, freckled face. “Don’t know what you’re talking about there, sir.”
“These cattle, boy,” the man said, waving his stick to indicate the beasts milling around them. “You are here to keep thieves and wolves from taking them, thereby reducing the wealth of your master. Perhaps it is your father who acts as your master, and who will no doubt be distraught and furious to know that you were resting your lazy head while I stood here for such a period of time as would have been sufficient to allow me to steal half of the herd.”
“I wish you good luck if you think to try, sir, but you’re dead wrong, about me and the cows. I labour for no one, neither master nor father. I just happened to need a rest awful bad, I was so terribly exhausted, and had no impression of where the nearest village could be found. And so I chose to take a rest here in this nice field, as anyone would who was as tired as I was, and I fell right to sleep. When I woke up, I found all these cows here, and have never laid my eyes on them before, as well as your looming presence, sir.”
“Then perhaps you yourself are a cattle thief, and these are the beasts you have stolen from the herd of a rich man.”
“Not me, sir. Wouldn’t know what to do with them,” he said, smiling cheerfully and going behind one of the calves, resting his chin on its back and dangling his arms over its side.
“Then what, if I may ask such a vision of apparent innocence without offending him, caused you to become so tired during the daylight?”
“I,” he announced, “am a giant slayer.”
“Really.”
“Definitely, sir. I am, if I do say so myself, the greatest giant slayer that ever lived. Even greater than Thor the Thunderer, son of Odin, may he strike me down if I speak lies.” The boy tilted his head to one side, apparently waiting for judgement to be cast down upon him. After lightning failed to appear from the empty sky, he spread his hands, grinning. “See, sir? No lies are spoken here.”
“And how old are you, little giant slayer?”
The boy considered this question with an expression of intense concentration passing over his small face. For a moment, his lips moved noiselessly as he counter. “I think,” he said at last, “that I’m quite probably four years of age.”
“Quite probably?”
“It’s as good a number as any, sir.”
“I see. And you who have seen no more than four winters claim to be a slayer of giants with such an ability that you surpass even the Thunderer.”
“Oh, yes.” The boy smiled. “I am the slayer of Farbauti, he who is called Cruel-Striker, the great giant who kidnapped Laufey, handmaiden of Freyja, and the gentle young goddess who was blessed with great knowledge, she who blessed infants newborn with the gift of intelligence and quickness of thought, should she be invoked by discerning parents. The Cruel-Striker, slayer of hundreds of great warriors, both mortal and divine in nature. He who made his way past sturdy Heimdall, the white guard of Bifrost Bridge and a son of Odin, and went to Sessrumnir, the handsome hall of Freyja. Therein he found the sweetly slumbering Laufey and took her, away from her bed, Sessrumnir, and Asgard for all time, leaving the Aesir to mourn her loss and Heimdall, that watchful and solemn guardian of all gods, to be consumed with guilt and grief at being unable to prevent such tragedy. Wicked Farbauti, who copulated with gentle Laufey twice, in the manner of a raging fire, to produce the stormy Byleist and the powerful Helblindi, he who ties all he encounters to death. And on a third time he raped her, with his body and his fire, and so she died in agony, giving birth to her youngest son, the product of fire and pain. It was not until after this that the might Thor found the dwelling of Farbauti, and, although there were none left for him to save, brave Thor nevertheless fought Farbauti valiantly. Thor is yet a young god, however, and in his battle with the giant of fire and anger, the Thunderer did not seize victory.”
“And so you, small giant slayer, slew this monster that even Thor, the champion of the simple and humble people, failed to kill?”
“I did. With knowledge of the giant’s domain, I went to him in the night and took company with him, encouraging him to tell all the tales he had knowledge of, plying him with drink and words of admiration and love. And when he took to a heavy sleep, so induced by the vast quantity of wine and mead he consumed, I went outside, searching in the darkness until I found a rock. It was large and heavy, with a sharp end, like the head of a spear, and I brought it with me when I went inside once more. With the rock in hand, I went to Farbauti’s chamber, where he lay in deep slumber. I climbed onto the bed of the giant and lifted the rock high, bringing it down into his skull with great force. With these hands,” the boy said, smiling widely as he flexed the appendages in question, “did I slay Farbauti, Cruel-Striker, Anger-Bringer, fire giant, he who killed Laufey, slender and weak, beautiful and gentle, lady of the Aesir.”
“An impressive tale, giant slayer.”
The boy laughed, swinging his feet slowly as he dangled from the calf. “I thought it so.”
“But that is a single giant. One giant is hardly enough to allow one to claim greatness over Thor the Thunderer, no matter how fearsome the giant was.”
“I suppose not.” The boy chewed on a blade of grass, staring at the sky. “But I suppose, for just such a comparison, any giants whose deaths I cause in the future also count toward my tally. And even if I do not go about taking rocks to their heads, even if I never raise a weapon against another giant in my life, there are things that can kill besides weapons. I think I can probably kill a lot of giants with words. But I suppose you would know better of such things than I. For did not Odin sacrifice one of his very own eyes to gain such knowledge?”
The old man raised his hat to look clearly at the boy with his single eye, a sharp, glittering thing beneath heavy brows, glittering the pale blue of ice. The boy grinned back at him, pulling himself onto the calf’s back to sit, and the old man inclined his head to the boy. “Very good, Laufeyiarson.”
“So, the way I see it, I could be very useful to you,” the boy said, walking down the road slightly ahead of Odin, All Father, Gallows God.
“Perhaps, little killer of giants and fathers,” Odin agreed calmly, inwardly marvelling at the calm young half-god, half-giant bounding along in front of him, enthusiastically kicking stones while trying to convince the chief of the Aesir that he could be of use. “Is there another name by which I might call the slayer of Farbauti, or do you desire to dwell in the shadow of your mother for all time?”
“Loki,” the boy answered unhesitatingly.
“Loki Laufeyiarson,” Odin rolled the name on his tongue. “Not, perhaps – ”
“No,” he said, quite calmly, without looking at the All Father.
“It’s a foolish man who interrupts Odin, Loki Laufeyiarson.”
“But I’m not a man, All Father, and I’m only a fool when it suits me to be so.”
“You did not know what I was going to say, little god.”
The boy halted and turned slowly to face Odin. “Sir, there are as many ways to see the future as there are stars in the sky, and I can see that you were going to ask why I would not acknowledge my father by use of Loki Farbautason. I can see that with both eyes intact, as clearly as I could with one, and I can see that without a noose around my neck, or the point of a spear shoved into my chest.”
“And Loki?”
“Your question, All Father?”
“Loki is a giant’s name. The lord of Utgard, a master of cunning and illusion, a powerful sorcerer, is a giant who goes by the name of Loki, among others.”
“Really, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I cannot say I’ve met him, sir. Or even heard of him. My father gave me the name, and it’s all I have to remember him by,” Loki laughed at this, linking his hands behind his head. “I think I should like to meet this other me, someday.”
Odin shook his head. “I doubt avoiding it will be possible for you, giant’s son.”
Even the gods, while travelling in the world of men, are bound by certain unavoidable laws and facts. When the sun began to set, Odin and Loki halted their trek and found a sheltered area between two uprisings of stones and a sharply sloping hill, and named it the rest spot for the evening.
Odin lay his staff on the ground and took his pack off, laying it against one rock and resting his back against it. Loki looked around once, frowned, and vanished around the side of a rock. Odin watched him go, taking his had off, shutting his eye, and resting one hand lightly on his staff.
As the sun sank beyond view, turning the sky and a few streams of clouds into a blaze of orange and purple glory, Loki reappeared. His arms were full of twigs and branches, which he dumped in the centre of the little shelter, a huge smile on his face.
“A fire in the midst of summer, son of Laufey?”
Loki pulled pieces of long grass from his hair, adding the blades to the pile and fussing over it like a mother over her children. “It’s not for warmth, All Father.”
“Do you think that an old man and a small child, such as we two are, need such things as protection from roaming beasts, then?”
Loki looked over his shoulder and laughed at the Gallows God. “Of course not. I pity the hungry creature who comes to us looking for an easy meal.” He adjusted the position of a branch before sitting back on his heels. One finger wriggled encouragingly at the pile, which promptly began to spark and smoke. “It’s so we can cook the food.”
“Will you cause fresh meat to rain down from the sky, Byleist’s brother? Or perhaps the son of Laufey had the foresight to lure a small but fatted calf after us as we walked? Do you intend to pull a rabbit out of my hat, fire god?”
“Of course not, All Father. I don’t think I’d be able to trust an animal that came out of your hat.”
“How wise of you. Or perhaps you display simple arrogance.”
Loki nodded his head in absent agreement as he searched the grass.
“Then you are going hunting. Perhaps using a weapon you have secreted somewhere on your person, thoroughly concealed by those revolting rags. Or will you kill your prey with your unending supply of words?”
Loki stood, grinning at Odin, and tossed a handful of rocks in the air, catching them easily as they tumbled back down. “I’m quite good at improvising this sort of thing,” he said, and wandered away from the crackling fire and the quietly amused Odin.
The sky was dark when Loki returned, rocks in one hand a pair of rabbits in the other. He settled on the other side of the fire, across from Odin, and spread his rocks out on the ground, inspecting each one in turn, giving it no more nor less than it’s due. Eventually, he selected a small rock with a sharp edge, pressed a finger against it, and grinned as he admired the white dent it left in his finger. He rubbed the rock no a less-dirty spot of his clothing, when compared to all the other spots, in an attempt to clean it, before losing interest and using the small rock to skin the rabbits.
“Very impressive,” Odin said, as Loki waved a hand at the fire, causing it to snap out of existence, and tucked the rabbits in amongst the glowing embers.
“Thank you,” Loki said, licking blood off his fingers. “Does this prove my utility to the great Odin or no?”
“Perhaps. Maybe you should get a proper weapon in the next village we come to.”
“No, I don’t think so. Anyone can have a boring, normal man-made spear or knife. I’ll stick with rocks when I have need of them, for the moment.”
“For the moment?”
“Who knows what I’ll need in the future, besides you, Bringer of Madness.”
“Indeed.”
Loki poked at the rabbits with a stick. “What brings Odin to Midgard?”
“The eternal quest for knowledge, son of fire.”
“Some might say that there is nothing more for Odin to learn from any soul, living or dead, particularly not the human souls such as dwell here.”
“Some might say that. What does Loki say?”
“Loki says part of Odin’s knowledge is surely vested in the fact that he knows his knowledge can never be truly complete. Indeed, that the key to his knowledge is his acceptance of his ignorance.”
“Some might say that Loki’s words are rude, daring, and blasphemous, and that he puts his young life into the unpredictable hands of Odin by uttering them, giving him more reasons than can be counted to punish the son of Laufey however he sees fit.”
“Obviously,” said Loki as he turned a rabbit over on the ashes, sniffing it hungrily, “some who might say that are fools, to think that Almighty Odin, greatest of the gods, could see any threat in the words of a mere child.” The boy speared a rabbit on the end of his stick and waved it in the direction of Odin. “Rabbit?”
Odin shook his head. “I do not eat.”
“Ah?” Loki raised an eyebrow, pulling both rabbits off the ashes and on to the grass in front of him. “Your loss, then. All the more for me.”
Odin watched as Loki broke bones, tore limbs, and contentedly sucked back charred rabbit flesh at an astounding speed. As the boy licked his fingers clean, he asked: “And what service are you seeking of Odin, small god?”
Loki threw the bones one by one into the fire that had begun to burn again with the removal of the rabbits. “No service required, Thor’s father. A mere favour humbly begged of you by a simple, orphaned boy, lost in the wide and terrifying world, unable to find a home.”
“A humble, simple, orphaned boy who kills giants and rabbits with rocks.”
“Yes!” he beamed, apparently seeing no incongruity in these words.
“What is this favour so humbly begged of Odin by Loki?”
“Merely a desire to travel with you as your companion, Lord of the Aesir, as you seek knowledge in Midgard.”
“After travelling with me all of a day, you feel the need to make a request at this time?”
“Well,” Loki said, tossing the last bone into the rekindled flames, “I haven’t been travelling with you so much as I have been going in the same direction as you, by complete coincidence. In fact, as it has been myself in the lead all day, while you have been lagging behind in your guise of an old man, it is really as though you have been following me. Without even thinking to ask my permission to do so!”
Odin stared at the boy. Every other word out of the boy’s mouth seemed to have been sharpened into a pointed insult, intended to wound or infuriate. He shot off sentences that could easily condemn him to a slow, painful death, as though he had no care in the world as to his fate. At the moment, he was actually glaring balefully at Odin, the All Father, most feared of the gods, who only warriors, bards, and princes dared worship. Small Loki thrust his chin out and stuck out his lower lip in a defiant pout.
Ridiculous.
Odin put a hand to his forehead, marvelling at the boy, and began to laugh, his shoulders shaking and his long beard quivering as he emitted the low, rough barking noises that were his laughter.
Loki leaned over the fire, bits of his clothing bursting into flame as the fire lapped at him, and regarded Odin critically. “Truly the one who said Odin, the Berserker and God of Wishes, was as unpredictable as the path of lightning in a summer sky knew what he spake of,” the boy said, sounding rather awed.
Through the flames, one gloved hand shot out and caught Loki’s pointed chin in an iron grip. “He spoke true indeed, Loki Laufeyiarson, of divine madness that you would do well to keep in mind, lest you wish to be demanded as the next sacrifice in the greatest of Odin’s temples.”
Loki tried to pull himself away, eyes round and reflecting the flames as well as Odin’s single eye, glowing a deadly and fearsome blue.
“Grk.”
“That does not sound particularly impressive, I must say,” Odin sounded disappointed. “I do not think that I desire any of my weekly sacrifices to be you, little fire god. You do not look like there’s much blood in you. A full grown man is far more fitting, to die in effigy of me. Perhaps,” he smiled, “when you are older, a man strong and grown, your blood will be a more suiting drink for me. Ah, but what mortal man would be fool enough to try and sacrifice a god grown, at his full power, even if it was at the command of Odin.” He released Loki’s face.
The boy tumbled away from the fire, gasping and stretching his jaw out. He looked at Odin and, after having decided that he was well out of the All Father’s reach, said: “I would think any of them would, at your command. Is that not the point? Worshippers of Odin, seized by an uncontrollable madness?”
“They call it wod and lust for it as they would for a beautiful woman,” Odin said absently. “But of course, you are right. They would sacrifice Thor himself if I so possessed them to and, though he is still little more than a child, many would die. They would triumph eventually, of course. None may defy Odin.” He smiled and licked his lips, as though tasting something wonderful on the air.
“Your words speak with a bravery that is kin to madness, son of Farbauti, but your actions show cowardice and a desire to live. It is an interesting combination. I do not think that Odin shall drink the blood of giants and gods tonight.”
Loki rubbed at his sore jaw, Odin’s finger prints standing out whitely against his freckled face. “I’m glad to hear it, All Father.” There was a brief silence as the boy continued rubbing and massaging his chaw into working order before he said: “So, does this mean it’s okay if I follow you on your quest for knowledge?”
The face that stared at Loki over the fire was full of annoyance, exasperation, anger, disbelief, amusement, and admiration. “Yes, Loki, son of Laufey and Farbauti, you may journey with me for as long as I see fit to tolerate your irritating presence. It will certainly keep things from becoming dull, if nothing else.”
“Great!” The moment in which Loki’s life had been clinging to an unsteady bridge over a gulf of madness had already been forgotten in the child’s mind. He beamed at Odin, lowered the fire to little more than a crackling, spitting dance of colour just about the ashes and kindling, flopped down onto the ground, curled up like a kitten, and fell asleep.
No one would ever think to comment on the strangeness presented by a wandering old man, apparently crippled and poor, who only requested shelter from the most powerful and noble men in the village, and a sharp eyed boy dressed in rags with hair the colour of fire who followed him.
The man would give his name as Gagnrathor or Fiolnir, Omi or Skilfing, Hropta-Tyr or any other of the hundreds he had at his disposal.
Sometimes the boy was his son, sometimes his grandson or ward. An orphan of parents killed in a horrible battle in one village, while in others he was presented as a direct descendent of Rig, given into the care of Thror (or Sigfather) until he was of age. The descendent of Rig would usually wear a rather odd expression on his face as this was revealed to their hosts.
Grimnir would request food and shelter from the local lords and those who gave proper hospitality without question found good luck following them for many years after. Those who gave hospitality grudgingly, or of an inferior quality, were plagued with bad luck ever after.
Those who refused to admit the wandering old man and the boy were not known of at all.
Farmatyr would drink in these homes, but never eat. He devoured simple stories belonging to the locals in place of meat and always seemed to be listening for something new. Sometimes the boy, who was called Lopt or Locke, would sit by him as he listened to the stories, but more often he would wander in the villages, finding meeting places and taverns, delighting the people therein with conjuring tricks and pleasing illusions.
In larger villages, where the lord was more wealthy, and if he had a youthful wife, young Locke would find himself doted and fussed upon by pretty maidens. He would delight them with simple, sparkling illusions and witty poems, or beautiful tales, never explaining their origin to a soul. The lady of the house would then frequently have her attendants clean the dust of the road from the boy’s skin and hair, dabbing him with scents that made him sneeze, and giving him fine, clean clothing to wear.
If the people were kind and the food was good, Locke was the sweetest, most even-tempered young boy ever met.
In villages where people were less than welcoming and provided a repast that did not meet Locke’s tastes, houses caught fire mysterious and livestock vanished shortly after the man and the boy had left.
“What I don’t understand,” said Loki, “is how you can be wandering around down here, searching for knowledge and lighting people’s houses on fire, and up in Asgard doing all the things that Odin needs to do to keep the world from being destroyed at the same time.”
Odin looked at his companion, who had decided that they needed to take a rest on that day’s walk, and was now lying on his stomach, dangling his fingers in the water and poking curiously at passing fish. He sighed. The boy occasionally brought up difficult questions like this. “It’s complicated.”
“I’m listening,” Loki said as he tried to catch a fish by it’s tail.
“Time doesn’t run in a straight line, it’s all tangled up and running back on itself, so that everything that needs to exist, does. Which is how we can have Hati and Skoll chasing the sun and the moon, even though their own father has yet to be conceived.”
“Why not?” Loki asked, sitting up in triumph and holding a flopping fish in one hand.
“Because their grandfather isn’t capable of having children yet,” Odin said, his tone tinged with exasperation.
“Oh.” Loki sniffed at the fish and nibbled it curiously. “Does that mean we’ll never travel to Asgard, then?” He made a face, spat, and lit the fish on fire.
“When the time is right, I shall journey back to Asgard.”
“With me, right?” Loki looked up from the smouldering fish, his young face full of hope.
“Yes, yes, with you,” Odin sighed as Loki returned his attention to the fish. Loki would bring changes to Asgard. He asked questions, he probed into things that were none of his concern, he had no respect or restraint. And in nine years of travelling, he had learned control, of a sort.
Loki could steer a conversation in whatever direction he desired. He could charm anyone; man, woman, child, or beast. Even the elves in the hall they had left shortly after dawn had not been immune to Loki’s powers. They too had been enchanted by the young god, fussing over him and pampering him. Proud, beautiful elves who rarely spared a glance for anyone else had been doting on the little god who radiated dishevelment and disorder even after the elves had dressed him and cleaned him until he shone, smoothing his hair down and even cleaning under his nails.
It was all very strange.
Good, of course, because they were simply showing one of the Aesir the respect he deserved and Loki was one of the Aesir. After a fashion. Although he was, in a far more real fashion, nothing more than a scruffy young giant.
Odin watched the boy eat his burnt fish. Loki spat out a bone. “I liked those elves.”
“That’s good,” Odin murmured. They’d certainly liked Loki. Especially the young women, which was normal, because the boy no doubt stirred some deep, maternal instinct in them . . . Ah, no. Not anymore. He looked closely at Loki. The boy was growing. He was still quite short, to be sure, and finely built, and in looking at him, Odin knew the boy would never grow much taller, never possess the physique of his giant father or brothers. But Loki Laufeyiarson was no longer a child. Not a man, yet, but something in between that the young maidens they encountered found quite appealing.
Odin frowned. He was the Hanged God. He knew all. He knew how to get any woman to desire him and sexually pleasure him, no matter what the obstacles. The inexplicable charm of a small child-god was not something to be concerned about. Nevertheless, a return to Asgard in the near future would be a beneficial thing, Odin decided. It would be interesting to see if the boy could charm the lesser Aesir as he thoroughly charmed the mortals and elves. It was they who would be vulnerable to the son of Laufey’s brilliant smiles and bright jests, they who were not as discerning as Odin, All Father and Gallows God.
All the worlds did Odin and Loki travel together, excluding Niflheim, that foggy land which was the lowest and darkest of worlds, realm of the abandoned dead, and Asgard, that shining realm Aesir. Therefore, it was only a matter of time before they came to Jotunheim, the fiery world of the giants, and it was with great reluctant on Loki’s part that they went forth into this land, filled as it was with those who were the eternal enemies of the Aesir.
“Do you, Berserker, truly believe that there is knowledge to be found here?” Loki asked sulkily, following behind the All Father and shuffling his small feet on the hot ground.
“There is knowledge to be found even at the bottom of the whale road, Laufeyiarson.”
“Do you, All Knowing Odin, truly believe that a single soul who dwells within this land will bestow their knowledge upon you with gladness in their heart?”
“Never, Loki, never,” Odin said, walking steadily forward, and Loki thought he could hear the rough laughter of the Gallows God. The laughter spoke of violence, of death, and of blossoming chaos. It warmed something deep within the boy and he swallowed, fear and eagerness warring inside him as he quickened his pace until he stood at Odin’s side. The Wish Granter looked down at the boy and smiled sharply beneath the shadow of his head. “Can it be that Loki is filled with fear at the prospect of this journey? Does this child of the Jotun fear the world of his very birth?”
“Not at all!” Loki snapped, his words as hot as flames, and he glared up at Odin with ferocity in his dark, burning eyes.
The All Father laughed again, putting one large hand on the slight shoulder of the Cruel Striker’s son. Loki staggered under the abrupt weight. “As is to be expected from my giant slayer.”
Grimacing, Loki nodded and went further into Jotunheim, travelling at Odin’s side.
It was well known that Jotunheim was a diverse world, a world filled with smaller worlds. Worlds of fire, of ice, of storm and sea, of bleak emptiness, and of deceptively beautiful hills and mountains, parodying the realm of Midgard. Where Odin and Loki went, Jotunheim was a landscape scorched by undying fire. Mountains spurting liquid flame and white hot ash rose steeply from the blackened ground, and black trees, naked mockeries of life, grew tall and strong from the dead soil.
As they walked, Odin reached far above his head with his walking stick and snapped a branch from one of the corpse trees, catching it as it fell and turning it over in his hand. The branch left streaks of soot on the All Father’s large hand, but sap the colour of blood trickled sluggishly from where the branch had broken from its tree. “Already we learn,” said Odin, and he passed the burnt branch to the fire god.
Loki took the branch, turning it over in his hands, and frowned. “It’s just a branch,” he said, tossing it into the air and catching it again.
“I have given it to you. Will you now throw it away, if it is truly a mere branch?”
The branch flew up, spinning end over end, and fell back to Loki’s small palm with a gentle thud. “No. A branch of this size is very like a spear,” said he, and as he walked he occasionally lagged behind the Gallows God, to stoop down and fill the singeing pouches hanging around his waist with rocks and pebbles of varying sizes and shapes. The All Father watched this and said nothing of it.
“Do you learn more of anything besides trees, All Father?” Loki asked as the two entered a thick grove of the corpse trees. Still Odin remained silent. The boy made a face and threw himself down to sit among the warm roots of a corpse tree, laying the branch on his knees and resting his head back against the trunk, the contact causing bits of blackened bark to flake off and settle in his fiery hair. “I grow weary, Odin. Walking through this land of fire is more tiring to me than our strolls through Midgard.”
“It is still light out, Loki.”
“It’s always light out in this part of Jotunheim. Look,” he pointed upward, “it’s all clouds. You can’t see the sun, or the moon and stars. No night, no day, just eternal heat and haze.”
“Indeed. Such defiance of the proper order of things . . .” The All Father looked at the boy, who truly did appear worn and exhausted, and sighed. “Very well, son of Laufey. We will remain here until you are rested.”
Loki opened one eye and grinned at Odin impishly. “Thank you, son of Bestla.”
Odin snorted softly and settled down against a tree across from Loki, closing his eye and going to sleep. Eventually, the dead grove was filled with the soft snoring of the Gallows God. After the noise had gone on for an insurmountable amount of time, Loki opened his eyes and watched the sleeping All Father. Carefully, he rose to his feet and walked forward until he stood before Odin, and gently touched the gods shoulder with one small hand. Odin continued to snore, ignorant of the touch of Loki, who smiled, tucked his branch under one arm, and began to scale to the top of one of the corpse trees.
The blackened branches barely bent under the boy’s slight weight, and he carefully settled himself into a comfortable position on one of the highest branches. From his position he could see many things. He could see the top of Odin’s head, occasionally moving as he slept. He could see the steep fire mountains in the direction they were heading, and the emptiness from which they had come, dotted with the black skeletons of corpse trees. He could not see the way back into Midgard. He could just make out the blue haze in the distance that was the home of the water giants and in the opposite direction he could see a massive fortress, home to one deadly giant or another. He also saw, approaching rapidly, the distance between them swiftly diminishing, two figures of such proportions that ‘giant’ was a word greatly insufficient to describe both their height and mass.
The larger of the two had a tangle of grey hair and a long, shaggy beard. His head was bare, as were his feet, and he wore dark, tattered garments, dripping moisture even in the heat. He was not unlike the All Father in appearance. When he was near enough for his face to be visible, it was seen as youthful despite the greyed hair and heavy beard. The eyes were large, with heavy lashes frequently clouding them, and the same blue as a stormy sea. In one giant hand he carried a stave that seemed to have been made of an uprooted tree; it swung widely as he moved, leaving craterous holes in the loose soil.
The second was smaller, closer to Odin in height, as a tree was closer to a man in height than a mountain was. His clothing was black and without tatters. His hair and beard were red and wild, growing fairer as the hair grew out until the ends were so pale they were nearly white. His eyes were black and shrewd, his face narrow, his lips thin and twisted into a wicked smile. In one hand he carried a naked sword, the blade singed into blackness by the fires of Jotunheim.
They were Byleist and Helblindi, the storm and the hell bound.
Loki swore and drew himself closer to the trunk of the tree as the two giants entered the corpse grove. What had seemed overwhelmingly large moments before was suddenly nothing; the trees, while higher than the heads of both giants, seemed dwarfed when the top of Byleist’s head was close enough that, had Loki bent down, he could have touched the giant’s hair with his branch.
The giants looked down upon Odin, still sleeping, and shared a look of pure, malicious wickedness. This involved the turning of their heads, so Loki was looking at the back of Byleist’s shaggy head and Helblindi was capable of seeing the boy perched near the top of one tree. The fire giant’s smile grew wide and with one finger he pointed upward. “Will you look, brother? A little bird watches us.”
Byleist turned his head slowly and looked up. His mind moved slowly than that of his hell bound brother, but it was not long before he too smiled beneath his beard. Something, however, nagged at him. “My brother, is that not small Loki?”
Helblindi shook his head. “Surely not. I, being younger, clearly remember our Loki, and he was far smaller than this little bird, as well as shabbily dressed and covered in soot. This one is not quite as small and mostly clean, with fine clothing of elven make. A one such as this bares little resemblance to our small brother.”
“It is nine years since he has gone,” Byleist said, with a slow rumble in his voice, but he went no further than this as he waited for the next thought to cross his mind, as slow as an iceberg on the still sea. In this, Loki saw his chance.
The smallest son of Farbauti cupped his hands around his mouth and called down: “Brothers! Long has it been since I saw you last, and many years journeying has it taken me to find Jotunheim once more.”
The giant brothers shared a look before Helblindi once more his voice raised. “Speak the truth lest we pluck you from that tree like a fruit and devour you whole. Are you truly Loki Farbautason, third born of Farbauti and Laufey?”
“Indeed I am, brother Helblindi, although it wounds me deeply that you who watched me grow, who taught me of our parents as I sat upon your knee, who guarded me well and kept me safe in my vulnerable infancy, mother and protector both when I would have otherwise had none, do not recognize me.”
“If you are our brother,” rumbled Byleist, and both Helblindi and Loki fell silent as the thoughts of the storm giant slowly became words, “then why have you been absent from our homeland since the death of our father?”
“Truly, on the sad event of our father’s death, both my brothers were travelling, as is fitting for sons grown and no longer requiring the protection of parents, and so, rather than be left at the mercy of that brutal killer of our people, that cursed idiot, Thor the Thunderer, I ran. It was in my terror that I chanced to run so very far that I found myself outside of Jotunheim for the first time, and lost in the cold, fireless world of Midgard, with neither guardian nor friend to aid me. Thus it was that it took me these many long years to return.”
At this both giants smiled, and fiery Helblindi reached up and took Loki from his position on the tree with a glad smile on his face. “Small brother, it warms my heart to have you returned to us once more,” he said, setting the small boy on his shoulder. “Reunited once more, we three shall now be capable of taking revenge on Thor, Odin’s son, for taking the life of our only father with such brutality. That he has gone unpunished for so long is a blight upon the honour of our family, but with you, we shall extract full price for our father’s death from his foolish killer.”
Loki wound one hand in Helblindi’s hair, keeping the other clutched tightly around his branch. “Indeed, my brother. Although I am small, and am not blessed to take after our beloved father as both you, my brothers, do, my heart is filled with a fire of such greatness that only by spilling the blood of Thor with my own hands will it be quenched, and my soul once more at peace.”
Helblindi laughed, causing Loki to shake on his shoulder. “You are young and weak yet, brother Loki, but your spirit is truly that of a giant grown.”
There was a growl from Byleist as another thought slowly came. He pointed with his stave to the sleeping form of Odin. “Brothers, who is this?”
“It is a storm giant, perhaps?” Helblindi said, leaning forward.
Loki clutched frantically at his brother’s hair to keep from falling the long distance to the ground below. “No, brothers, no!” he squeaked before composing himself. “It is no giant, but a simple man of Midgard, his body and mind old and enfeebled with age, who I have had acting as my guide and packhorse in recent months. He is ignorant of all, save that I have great powers of fire and magic at my disposal, and foolish besides. I have told him that I am a descendent of Jarl, the son of Rig, a Prince Locke, of great lands and wealth in Midgard, on a quest to uncover knowledge that will allow me to seek revenge for the brutal murder of my father despite my youth. When he finds that I am gone, he shall no doubt return to Midgard, or perish in the attempt. There is no need of two such great individuals as my brothers to worry over him.”
“He is a mortal, trespassing in Jotunheim, and to allow him continued life, perhaps even to return to his people and speak of things he has seen here, would be a shame upon all of our race,” Helblindi said, raising his sword.
“Better should he die,” agreed Byleist.
“An easy thing, to simply cut his head off and grind his body to dust. His blood would nourish the trees, Loki, they would grow and prosper under such drink. Before the death of our father, you were so fond of the trees . . .” Helblindi trailed off, smiling gently, lost in thoughts of better times.
“Indeed, my brothers, indeed. But, he is also, I forgot to mention, given strength by the staff that even now rests in his lap. It is a great staff, made from Odin’s sacred tree by my own hands, and one enchanted to give the bearer the strength of Ymir himself, and make him impervious to harm. The old fool is himself not aware of this, for I gave it to him merely under the pretense of kindness, in my person of Prince Locke, and he believes it is merely a walking stick.”
“Why did you give him such a thing, brother?” Helblindi frowned, reaching up to rest a finger on Loki’s small head.
“Why, to make it possible for him to carry all the provisions I should need without fear of his collapse, nor with my own small self needing to take up any part of the burden. It was clever of me, was it not?”
“Indeed, Loki,” Helblindi smiled fondly upon his brother, “it was beyond clever. You are truly the most wise and guileful of all giants.”
“Except now we can’t kill him,” grumbled Byleist.
“Ah, I can easily remedy that, brothers. While neither of you would be able to remove the staff from his hands without waking him and filling his aged body with terror, I am small, and can take the staff without waking him. Should he wake, he is well familiar with me, and my visage is nothing to inspire fear, even in such an elderly soul as this. If you would just set me down on the ground, Helblindi,” Loki prompted, and his brother grasped the back of his shirt and lowered him to the ground. Absently, the boy brushed the back of his shirt off before walking over to the sleeping figure of Odin. He bent forward to lift the staff and squinted beneath the brim of the All Father’s hat; the god showed no sign of being awake, despite the presence of two towering giants and their loud discussions. He shook his head and hauled the staff from Odin’s lap, nearly staggering over at the abrupt weight – the staff was more than twice Loki’s height and it’s weight was immense. He gritted his teeth, tucked his branch under one arm, and dragged the staff with him as he went and stood behind Helblindi’s legs. “There. Now, brothers, you may strike him as you wish, with no fear of complications.”
It was then that Odin opened his eye and lifted his head, staring up at the two giants and slowly getting to his feet. Instantly, and with startlingly swiftness, Byleist lay the top of his stave on the god’s head.
Helblindi smiled. “Move carefully, old man. Brother Byleist is on occasion overly-enthusiastic, and should you do something he does not like, I shall not be held responsible for his actions.”
Odin braced one hand on the stave to keep it from resting on his head. “What is this I see before me? Byleist Farbautason and Helblindi Farbautason, is it not?”
“It is, old man. You are a fool to have ventured so far into our territory without protection, and you will pay for your thoughtlessness as a lesson to all those in Midgard.” Helblindi smiled. Charming and sharp, like his small brother.
“In Midgard,” the Berserker said, and in the shadow his hat, teeth gleamed in a small smile.
“Our brother,” Helblindi said, reached down and lifting Loki from behind the leg where the boy was hidden from Odin’s sight and setting him back on one giant shoulder, “has told us much of you, old man, and if you had but recognized him as you recognized my brother and I, then perhaps your certain death would not be coming so swiftly. Not recognizing this son of Farbauti, however, will be your death. It is true that our brother,” he lay a finger on top of Loki’s head, “is diminutive in stature and is womanly in appearance – ”
“Really,” murmured Odin, looking far up to the boy perched on Helblindi’s shoulder.
Loki choked.
“– despite being well into his thirteenth summer, but these things are not to be held against him. It is through no fault of his own that he chances to bear strong resemblance to our mother than our father. He is a giant and true man at heart, for all he has the face and muscle of a young virgin –”
Loki, filled with rage at his brother’s insult, growled like a wolf: “Helblindi . . .”
“– and it is for not seeing past this that you shall die, old man.”
“Truly a powerful speech, speaking of great and brotherly love. A surprise from one who is hell bound, to be sure. Of course, the faith you put in your brother is to be your downfall, Helblindi, as it will be the downfall of your brother Byleist, and of Odin, Just-as-High, who will, despite all evidence and reason, wisdom and knowledge of things that will be, will choose to put faith and trust into one who’s tongue is faster than his feet. You should weep, Helblindi, that all the knowledge of your mother, and so much more, was passed on to one so small. If it had not been, you could have avoided this fate,” spoke Odin, as he reached down in the ashes to retrieve a staff that was no longer there.
“You speak great words, old one. You are no man of Midgard,” Helblindi growled. “But you nevertheless appear before us, empty-handed. A fool of a god.”
“The fool is Odin, brother,” said Byleist, his voice rumbling angrily as he lifted his stave to crush the All Father’s head.
“Indeed it is,” said Loki, smiling softly as he took Odin’s staff, braced one end against his brother’s shoulder and shoved the other end through his brother’s ear and into his brain. Helblindi dropped his sword and fell to his knees before toppling over, nearly crushing Odin in his sudden fall.
Byleist turned slowly, catching his brother’s sword before it hit the ground, and found Loki clinging to the side of his face after launching himself from the top of Helblindi’s head. The storm giant growled: “Loki.”
Loki bowed his head to his oldest brother. “Byleist,” he said sweetly, before wiggling the burnt branch out from under his arm and jamming it so deep into his brother’s eyeball that it vanished. He let for of his brother and Byleist shuddered, dropping both stave and sword, and fell backwards. Loki, no longer clinging to his brother’s face, fell swiftly downward. He shut his eyes tightly, refusing to scream, as he prepared for the inevitable impact on the ground below, only to find himself caught by something that was not the compact ashes of Jotunheim soil.
After a minute, Loki opened his eyes and stared into the shadowed face of Odin.
“Impressive work, Giant Slayer,” Odin murmured, before dropping Loki to the ground.
“Thank you, sir,” Loki said, carefully sitting up and rubbing the back of his head.
“With the death of these two, is your honour finally restored for the death of your mother?”
“Yes, All Father.”
“But, you have shed the blood of your brothers.” Odin regarded the two giant corpses. “A severe thing.”
“I’m sure it all balances out eventually. I had my own honour to think of anyway,” he added, rather sulkily. “Helblindi dared to insult my masculinity.”
“Perhaps.” Loki abruptly found one strong hand wrapped around his throat, the other tangled in his hair, jerking his small head up to stare into Odin’s glaring blue eye. “Tell me, Loki Laufeyiarson, why I should not kill you for attempting to betray me?”
Loki wedged a finger under Odin’s hand to loosen the grip. “Betray you, All Father? Never would I dream of such a thing. Indeed, betrayal is so far from my mind that the word barely registers in my mind.” Odin’s eye glittered dangerously and Loki felt it would be best to speed his explanation up. “I merely wished to lure my brothers into a false sense of security so I could dispose of them with ease. Obviously, it was necessary to lie to them a bit or else they’d never have believed me. Besides which, are you not Odin, Just-as-High, Almighty Berserker? Had you truly wished it, and truly doubted my loyalty, you could have defeated them with your own power. But, you chose to remain silent, and let me eliminate them in my own way. You must have known that I was sincere to you in all that I do.”
Faced with that hopeful smile, that small, pointed face dusted with freckles, those big, earnest eyes, and words both sweet and beguiling, Odin was no more immune than any other, no matter how strong he believed himself to be. He released the young god’s throat. “I liked that staff,” he said, as though nothing had happened.
“We can probably get it back,” Loki said, bounding to his feet, only to have his knees collapse beneath him.
“I think not,” Odin said. “It can stay where it is. I will always find another one, when the time is right. It is not needed where we will be going, whatever else can be said for it.”
“We’re leaving Jotunheim?”
“I believe I have learned enough here.”
“Where are we going next?”
“Back through Midgard, and then, I think, across Bifrost Bridge . . .”
“Asgard!”
“Yes, Loki. Asgard. Should I chose to bring you. Betrayal, even feigned . . .”
The fire god jerked his head up and glared fiercely at the Gallows God. “I truly am loyal to you, Odin, and to none other!”
“None save for Loki.”
The boy glared, and wore on his face an expression not unlike a small child about to cry. Then he bent his head and searched furiously in his pouches until he found a rock, polished smooth by the gentle pressure of waves and salt, and tapering to a painful looking point. “I’ll prove my loyalty to you, Odin, and yours to mine,” he said, and the rock grew hot. When it began to glow, Loki took it to his palm and sliced a deep gash into it, blood spurting forth. Then he held the burning rock out to Odin. “Will a tie of blood show my sincerity more than words?”
“I have witnessed with this very eye what you are willing to do to those you share bloody with, Laufeyiarson.”
“Then understand that what I did, I did for the sake of my mother, and for you!” The boy glared furiously at Odin, even as he trembled. “Will Odin be so thoughtless as to reject loyalty and kinship beyond the ties of family, freely offered and given?”
Odin sighed, and pressed the palm of one hand against the tip of the rock, letting it dig into the flesh until blood ran down his wrist and onto the dead ground. Then he took Loki’s small hand, closing his fingers overtop of Loki’s, their blood mingling between their palms and on the ground below. “Odin accepts all things given to him by those who are worthy.”
Instantly, Loki’s face broke into a grin that only wavered slightly. “Is there not more to the ceremony than this?”
“It will wait until we are in Asgard.” Odin said, and straightened, looking down at Loki in silence while the boy wrapped a shred of his shirt around his hand. The All Father sighed and bent down, lifting Loki with the same ease Helblindi had and hoisting him behind his back. “This Giant Slayer is an idiot who over-exerts himself. Try and hold on. And keep your inane chatter to a minimum while you play the role of baggage.”
Loki grinned, wrapping his arms around Odin’s neck and his legs around Odin’s waist. “Yes, All Father.”
Odin left the death grove and headed swiftly for the border between Midgard and Jotunheim, apparently unburdened by the added weight of Loki.
Later on, had any observer chanced to see the pair, or overhear them, they would have heard a gruff voice speaking clearly in the hazy atmosphere of Jotunheim, saying: “If you speak of this to anyone, you will regret it.”
And a softer voice, high and full of laughter, responded with “Yes, All Father” before both were gone from Jotunheim.