The Makers and the Made

Sitting before the gates of Asgard’s feast-hall, Valhalla, the god of mischief and discord — already worn out from the long road and the endless waiting — idled and drifted into memories. He remembered this place and had counted it as his home ever since he arrived here as a child, brought by sheer accident together with his mother, who, alas, died soon after. He had never seen his father nor knew him, though in later years he heard whispers that the man had been one of the Hrímþursar — a people no one had laid eyes on in an age. Among the Æsir there circulated an infinite supply of tales: this one was supposedly descended from giants; that one had once wrought something with their help; another had met them once upon a time. And if the ale happened to be particularly strong, then not only met — they had spoken with them at length! In truth, however, no one had ever managed to find these elusive titans, much less reach their supposed dwelling, Niflheim. As for the regular giants — the jötnar — that was another matter entirely. Those uncouth, ill-smelling louts existed in abundance: in Midgard, among the Æsir, and in Jötunheim, where no one else dared to exist at all. Lóki’s unhurried drift through his thoughts was interrupted by a thunderous crash as Valhalla’s doors burst open, followed by a cacophony entirely uncharacteristic for this place. No — shouting, axe-rattling and threats to dismember one’s opponent were commonplace. What differed was that, this time, everyone involved was disturbingly sober. That alone was cause for concern. In the half-open doorway appeared the quickly approaching silhouette of Heimdallr. Reaching the bench on which the god of lies lounged half-reclined, the giant nodded toward the entrance. “Go. They’re waiting.” Lóki stretched into a long yawn and slid off the stone bench, sauntering into the feast-hall with deliberate laziness. Upon stepping inside, he was met with a sudden hush — broken moments later by hurried, poorly concealed whispering. “There he is…!” “Look at that, he wasn’t afraid to show up…” “Frigg is going to smear him across the paving stones…” “Let’s just hope he doesn’t fall into the beer — you’d poison yourself for certain…” Smiling as he took in the public commentary, Lóki strolled between rows of long wooden tables occupied by Einherjar, all of them scowling – deprived, as they were, of their customary drink, and let his eyes roam across the familiar hall. Nothing had changed during his exile: the same walls hung with wooden shields, the same ceiling disappearing into a gray haze from which cold metallic light poured down upon the seated warriors, and the same immovable Odin on his high seat at the far end, surrounded by the loyal Æsir. Deadly dull, as always. Lóki walked forward with confidence, tossing cheerful replies to the glowering Vikings. They had never had much affection for him; he had never been a warrior, preferring to settle matters by other means. And as for his jokes… Well, fair enough: who would enjoy finding a dead mouse floating in their mead? And thanks to young Lóki’s industrious pranks, such things had happened… regularly. Reaching the central table, he halted under the heavy stares of his fellow Æsir, and bowed, greeting old companions — some glaring at him like wolves, others like boars maddened by the scent of blood. “Long life to my brother Odin, and to you, noble Æsir!” Someone — looked like Týr — shot up at such a greeting, but was promptly forced back into his seat. Lóki was in his right. Their sworn brotherhood with the All-Father had never been revoked and never could be. Studying his brother’s grim face, Lóki noted that since his banishment Odin had acquired new wrinkles, and a deep furrow now sat between his brows — evidence that, for once, the All-Father had spent time thinking, rather than using his iron skull to crack enemy heads. Frigg, seated beside him, stiff and statue-like as ever, looked no better. Her intentions, however, were written plainly across her face: she was holding herself back from clawing out the eyes of the god of lies who had caused her beloved son’s death. “And health to you as well, Lóki,” the All-Father replied in a velvet bass, pointedly ignoring the unrest among his own. “I am glad you answered my summons.” “How could I miss such an event? A reunion with my brethren — each eager to shake something of mine. Some may even settle for my hand.” “Do not play the fool.” Odin winced wearily, turning aside for a moment to listen to one of the ravens perched on his shoulder. Huginn or Muninn — Lóki had never bothered to tell those arrogant, screeching hens apart. Finally, Odin continued: “Heimdallr tells me that you, like he and I, feel the trembling of the world, foretelling doom for us all. Is that true?” “It is,” Lóki answered briefly, prompting another wave of whispering behind him. “Though I admit, at first I blamed it on indigestion.” “Silence!” Odin’s single eye flashed coldly, instantly quelling the debate. “The seeress has spoken. A storm approaches, one that spells great calamity for us all. And you, Lóki…” “You’ll die with our enemies!” someone shouted from the benches, provoking a scatter of suppressed snickers that died at once under Odin’s dark glare. “You, Lóki,” the All-Father continued, “must choose whom you will fight beside when the battle comes. The time has come to cast aside our quarrels in the face of Ragnarök, for only united can we survive.” “Rubbish!” burst out one of the Æsir, Thor’s hot-tempered son, slamming his cup and splashing its contents over himself. “You heard it yourself, All-Father! That cunning snake and his misbegotten brood will betray us — hand us over to the jötnar!” “Be silent, Móði! The rest of you as well!” Odin’s anger cracked like thunder, and from the rafters heavy storm-clouds began to gather — omens of a tempest meant for all Nine Realms. “Speaking of misbegotten brood…” Lóki finally broke his silence, having watched the argument unfold while pondering his own thoughts. “Where is Fenrir, All-Father? Did my son sit among you as an equal on the day you banished me from Asgard?” “They’d have done better sending him with you!” Týr snapped, breaking free of the hands restraining him and rising to his full height. “Just look what he’s done!” Lóki’s gaze landed on the immense god of honor and valor — particularly on his right arm, now only a forearm ending in a round golden plate at the elbow, etched with protective runes. “Your whelp went mad! And bit half my arm clean off while we tried to restrain him!” Týr finished, glaring at Lóki with blazing fury. “I want to see him.” Lóki swallowed a flicker of hesitation and turned a pleading look on Odin, who had slumped deeper into his throne. “I must speak to him and understand what happened.” “No!” the All-Father thundered, and the heavens themselves echoed the wrath of a storm ready to break. “You will choose now! Enough of your games!” “You will hear no jests from me, Odin — but no answer, either. I will not decide until I speak with my son.” Lóki held the gaze of his former brother, wondering what judgment would follow. Frigg leaned in, whispering frantically into her husband’s ear, abandoning the icy dignity she had worn until now. Listening to her lamentations, Odin waved her off and leaned forward, staring deep into Lóki’s face. “Very well,” he exhaled, squaring his shoulders. “You will be permitted to see Fenrir in his prison. Go at once. Týr and Heimdallr will escort you.” With a sharp nod, Lóki turned and strode toward the exit, ignoring the looks boring into his back — the fury of the one-handed god, the quiet confusion of the watchman — eager to escape these walls that no longer felt like home.

***

They had been traveling for three hours when the tall white towers of Asgard finally vanished into the hazy mist behind them. Still seething with fury, Týr strode several paces ahead, marching across the stony plain with long, chopping steps, his gilded stump swinging in rhythm. Heimdallr kept beside Lóki, glancing at him now and then, wondering what mood the trickster god was actually in beneath that familiar mask of flippant indifference. “So, tell me, nephew,” Lóki decided to cast a probing stone, hoping if not to pry secrets out of the Áss, then at least needle the brooding warrior with harmless nonsense. “How exactly did you lose that hand of yours? Lost it in a game? A wager gone poorly?” Týr walked on in silence for a while, his wild uncombed mane shaking irritably with each step. At last, he couldn’t restrain himself. “Stop babbling about what you don’t understand! Your Fenrir turned into a great wolf and nearly tore the All-Father apart right at the feast. After that, he almost brought down half of Asgard. And he would have — had we not managed to bind him.” “With what, exactly?” Lóki whistled, wondering what could have driven his son — normally sensible and not particularly cruel — into such a frenzy. “Or did you volunteer to feed yourself to him in hope to give him indigestion?” Heimdallr spoke before Týr could explode again. “They struck a bargain. Fenrir agreed to let himself be bound with maiden’s ribbons — if Týr placed his hand in the wolf’s jaws in return.” “What ribbons?” Lóki blinked in surprise. “The dwarves forged them,” Týr grunted. “Everything else your whelp tore to shreds without flinching.” But beneath his anger was unmistakable pride. After all, it was he who had taken that frail, awkward boy of Lóki’s under his wing — trained him, shaped him, turned him into a warrior equal to, perhaps even surpassing, many of the Æsir. Even if madness now clouded Fenrir’s mind, Týr could not discard the years he had spent molding the lad into a fighter and battle-leader worthy of the gods. “All right then,” Lóki drawled. “And what about the prophecy? Since I’m the future traitor, I ought to know how much to ask for my betrayal. Wouldn’t want to sell myself short!” “Two winters ago, I first sensed something was wrong,” Heimdallr began. “Some branches of the Ash ceased responding to my call and withered. Frightened, I went straight to the All-Father. He listened — for he too had felt something amiss — and by his will summoned a seeress, a völva, from the realm of the dead. Mad as a frostbitten goat, if you ask me. But she foretold war with the jötnar, and the swift doom of all Æsir and all Nine Realms.” “Right,” Týr growled, shooting Lóki a look. “And she said you would stand with the giants. And that you’re a snake besides.” “Charming. And she didn’t mention how I managed to rid myself of their stench? A pity,” Lóki murmured, already drifting into his own thoughts again. “Tell me this — since when does the All-Father have the strength to summon the dead without asking Hel’s leave?” “Oh, he’s been busy!” Týr huffed, scratching his beard. “While you, dear uncle, were corrupting maidens all across Midgard, the All-Father went to Mímir again to seek counsel.” Lóki rolled his eyes heavenward. “By the Great Tree, don’t tell me my darling brother decided to give up spawning weaklings and this time left more of his sacred parts with this rotten bastard!” Týr barked a laugh, then spat, “Bah! Wretch! No. Rumor has it the All-Father pinned himself to the World Tree with Gungnir for nine days — and came away with unspeakable power.” “Whatever keeps a child amused…” Lóki sighed. By now they had reached a colossal crack in the earth, stretching farther than the eye could follow. The opposite wall of the fissure stood some fifty meters away. Lóki crept toward the edge, peered down, and quickly stepped back — dizzy at the sight. The bottom lay lost in fog, impossibly far below. “We’re here,” Týr said grimly, pointing to the brink, where a narrow stairway had been hacked into the sheer stone face. “Down you go. We’ll wait here.” “Could’ve said you just wanted to get rid of me,” Lóki muttered under his breath, but he approached the stair nonetheless and gingerly set his foot on the slick, time-worn first step.