The Makers and the Made

The sun over Asgard was already sinking toward the horizon when a furious and thoroughly disgruntled Lóki finally hauled himself back to the top, cursing and slipping at nearly every step, and at last managed to catch his breath after the long, treacherous climb. What he had seen at the bottom weighed heavily on him. The first thing that had struck his eye down below was a massive boulder, wrapped entirely in a wide blue ribbon — of the kind maidens weave into their hair during spring festivities. The loose end of the ribbon stretched deeper into the cavern, disappearing into the dark. Shrugging, Lóki followed it, careful not to misstep and plunge headfirst toward the center of the earth. He did not understand what he was looking at right away. In the gloom he walked straight into what he thought was a jagged stone wall bristling with sharp spikes; he yanked back his hand — now scraped bloody — and only then realized that the “rock” was the back of an enormous wolf curled into a tight coil in the farthest corner of the cave. The creature’s size was staggering — indeed, one like this could have smashed all of Asgard to rubble. Týr’s hand, hardly small in its own right, would have been to him no more than a toothpick. Only after studying what his son had become did Lóki notice the two red eyes fixed on him, tracking his every move. Meeting that gaze, he barely stopped himself from flinching — an admission of fear he was not willing to grant. Fenrir — so far as Lóki remembered — had always been strong. He had even carved out his own people: fierce warriors able to take animal form at will, populating Vanaheim and giving the neighboring Æsir no end of trouble. Not even the All-Father had achieved anything similar — his own clumsy wooden creations had once required Lóki himself to breathe life into them… and naturally, he had taken the liberty of making a few “improvements” to the original design. But the raw, unbridled force and fury burning in Fenrir’s eyes now — Lóki had never seen anything like it. The giant wolf would unquestionably have leapt at him if he had not been trussed up in maidens’ ribbons like a fat caterpillar, able only to twist his head and move his hind leg just enough to rake the granite wall with meter-long claws, chipping and gouging it with every scrape. “Well then… greetings, my son.” The first words cost Lóki no small effort. “Shall we speak…?” He left the cave with a heavy heart, the hours spent there wasted, having wrung not a single coherent word — spoken or thought — from Fenrir. The wolf seemed not to recognize anyone, glaring with unbroken hatred at the Áss before him and offering neither reply nor sign of reason. Only at the very end, when Lóki had nearly gone, came one flicker of thought — one word, scraping across his mind like a blade of ice: “Kill.” And even then, it was impossible to tell — did the wolf want to destroy the one he mistook for an enemy, or was he begging for release from his torment? Having accomplished nothing, Lóki turned away and began the climb back up, where his escorts waited. “Well? Convinced now?” The one-handed Áss thrust out a broad palm to help him up; twice as wide in the shoulders and three heads taller than Lóki, Týr let out a harsh laugh. “Some ‘beloved kin’ you’ve got there!” “Convinced,” Lóki muttered darkly, brushing stone grit and the water that had run down his neck off his cloak. “Convinced that you swing axes first and think afterward. And if axes fail, you resort to treachery.” “I sacrificed my hand to pin that monster down. And you still think we acted wrongly?” Týr’s brow furrowed. “You should’ve shoved your thick skull into his jaws from the start,” Lóki tossed over his shoulder without turning. “Now that would’ve been right.” “I’ve no need to justify myself. One hand or two — I’m still a warrior,” the god of valor answered wearily. “And I don’t intend to regret a sacrifice given for victory.” Lóki almost flung a new barb, but stopped himself. Some dark corner of his nature cried out for immediate vengeance: tear off the bindings, unleash his son, and perhaps — why not? — tell the All-Father and his corpse-stiff tyranny to go hang, thus fulfilling that mad völva’s prophecy. But reason whispered that he’d best wait. Not act rashly. Only the great Ash Yggdrasil knew what strength it cost him to hold himself back. Still — snapping at the one-handed fool had helped, oddly enough. Shaking off the last of his stupor, he sighed and waved a hand. “All right… forgive me. Let me rest a moment, and then we’ll head back.” Overjoyed, Týr clapped him on the shoulder — so hard Lóki’s spine cracked. “That’s more like it! We’ll go back to the All-Father, you’ll tell him you stand with us — and everything will be fine! We’ll tan all their hides before this is over!” Who “they” were, and why in Hel’s name the Æsir needed those particular hides, Lóki did not bother clarifying. Barely suppressing a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he walked toward Heimdallr, who sat some distance away on a rocky rise, polishing his sword with a handful of dried grass in melancholic silence. “So? Bad news?” The watchful god’s keen gaze missed nothing of Lóki’s strained expression. “What will you tell Odin?” “Nothing. I won’t need to say a thing.” Lóki settled beside him on the rock and looked into the giant’s eyes — a look full of quiet pain. Heimdallr stared back, startled and troubled. “Why not?” “You really don’t see it, Heim?” Lóki smiled crookedly. “I won’t be returning to Asgard.” “What are you planning, friend?” Heimdallr straightened, instantly alert. “You know exactly what the others will decide if you run. And how will you even do it?” “With the permission of the guardian of the roads, of course,” Lóki grinned. “Would I dare leave without asking you first?” “You’ve never asked me before!” the giant snapped, brushing off the flattery and nervously fingering his greaves. “And where will you go? And why? And what am I supposed to tell the All-Father?” “Tell him the wily god of lies tricked you. What shame is there in my own reputation?” Lóki’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “As for your other worries, Heim — do you truly believe the jötnar are behind all this? They’re sturdy lads, I’ll give them that, especially once they’re drunk. But… if all Nine Realms were struck by collective hangover, perhaps I’d believe it. But Ragnarök?” He shook his head. “I’ve questions, friend — far too many. And to find the answers, I must walk across my own grave.” Heimdallr paled. “So, you mean to…” “Exactly. There is one place — and one being — who can tell me everything I need to know. But in its current dwelling, the living have no business.” Lóki rose and clapped Heimdallr on the shoulder. “Farewell, my friend. With luck, we shall meet again…” He had barely finished the sentence when he suddenly dashed toward the chasm and dove into the dark abyss like a fish into deep water. The last thing he heard was Týr’s enraged roar echoing after him — furious at the treacherous escape of the one he had been charged to guard.