The Makers and the Made

Lóki woke many hours later, with no idea whether it was day or night. What roused him was a sharp jab under the ribs and the racket of someone shouting on the far side of the tent. The shouting could wait; the assault on his sleep could not. He jerked his head off his makeshift pillow — a tuft of half-moldy straw — and glared at the three warriors who’d had the gall to interrupt his dreams. “What?” “You were screaming in your sleep,” sneered the man with the rotting teeth — Wulgir, if Lóki remembered right. “Like a maiden.” Lóki frowned, trying to recall the dream. Fire. The branches of the Ash blazing, flayed by the hurricane of an unrelenting force. Roots burning, earth melting beneath the canopy of the World-Tree. But there had been something else as well — something that had drawn him from his star-born father and driven him onward without looking back. Hope. The thing he had chased. The thing he’d begged for in his nightmare. “And here you are again!” Lóki snorted, rising to his feet and tossing a thin wool cloak over his shoulders. “I swear, you haven’t even been at war that long, but you’re seeing maidens everywhere. Vili’s spoiled you lot…” He shoved past the teeth-grinding warrior and his equally sour companions and strode toward the raised voices. Sounded like Vili and Heimdallr were in one of their glorious rows. “Go on, go on,” Wulgir spat behind him. “Maybe you’ll fetch something useful for your masters!” Lóki didn’t so much as twitch at the insult. He reached the far end of the tent — a section he hadn’t yet been invited into — and swept the hide curtain aside. This, clearly, was the commanders’ quarters. The floor was layered in animal skins, they had their own small smoky hearth, and instead of ten ratty pallets there were only two — laid out tidily, not heaped like firewood. Most of the space was cluttered with weapons and gear, and propped prominently against a wall stood the enormous golden horn, Gjallarhorn, whose blast had once sent entire armies fleeing. Its owner was here as well, locked in a bloody-minded argument with an equally furious Vili. Both fell silent the moment Lóki appeared, staring at him while catching their breath. “Orders from the All-Father,” Heimdallr said first, flicking his hand toward a small tripod in the corner — something Lóki hadn’t noticed before. Incense curled around it, and atop it sat a matte-white stone the size of a hen’s egg, pulsing faintly in time with a heartbeat. “You were right, friend. Scouts report the army of the dead is marching on Asgard through the Vigrid plain. What giants remain are gathering there too. Looks like they’ve made common cause with the dead, hoping to take revenge.” “How old is this news?” Lóki asked, studying Heimdallr’s face. “Not an hour. Odin, Thor, and most of the host have already set out for the valley. As for us...” The giant hesitated awkwardly — Vili finished the sentence for him, firm and grim: “You’re to be taken to the All-Father for judgment. As a possible traitor.” “Who could have guessed!” Lóki threw up his hands. “And how do we intend to get there? Vigrid’s three days away on dry land. Unless we wait for the sun? Won’t see your rainbow till spring otherwise — no more than I’ll see my own backside!” “That’s what the waystone is for,” Heimdallr shrugged. “We’ll arrive whole — don’t doubt it.” “Oh, splendid news.” Lóki sighed and turned toward the exit. “Fine. I’ll go squeeze in another nap before they start deciding whether I’m to be executed or forgiven. When do we leave?” “In two hours,” Vili grunted, glowering. To him, Lóki’s flippancy in the face of Odin’s wrath bordered on blasphemy. “So, no long sleep for you.” Lóki didn’t bother replying. He slipped out, weaving among warriors who eyed him sideways while packing gear for the march. Reaching his straw mattress, he flopped down and shut his eyes, hoping to kill time until departure. But boredom didn’t stand a chance — Wulgir, apparently nursing a personal hatred for him, seized the moment to express it. “Does the great trickster truly plan no escape from judgment?” the brute growled, looming over Lóki once he was sure no one else could hear. “A bit cold for running,” Lóki drawled. “I’d rather not freeze my backside like some daft goose.” “A pity…” Wulgir murmured. “Because a back like yours practically begs for an axe.” The threat washed over Lóki like a lukewarm bath. “You know, Wulgir,” he purred, stretching out and folding his hands behind his head, “I marvel at you. What kind of warrior takes pride in striking a defenseless man from behind? Or no — not even striking, but poisoning him with that tongue of yours.” He paused, savoring the warrior’s swelling rage. “Makes me think the All-Father lets the valkyries warm themselves with too much mead. Otherwise, I can’t imagine how you ever passed for einherjar.” By the end of this taunt, Wulgir’s face was so purple Lóki wondered whether he’d die a second death or challenge him to a duel on the spot. But the man somehow held himself in check. He leaned in so close Lóki could smell the stench of fish and sour ale on his breath. “Watch yourself, Æsir — I’d hate to be in your place.” Lóki, as though he’d been waiting for exactly that line, grinned broadly and shot out a hand, gripping the warrior by the neck and yanking him closer. His eyes gleamed with triumph — and with a promise that bode very poorly for the man. “Oh, but you will.”

***

They roused Lóki two hours later and dragged him outside — after first locking him into a set of heavy iron shackles they must have dug out from the very bottom of some forgotten armory. The warriors were already assembled, restless and quick to snap at one another over nothing. It wasn’t only the capture of a god — something that could fracture the whole might of Asgard — that gnawed at them, but also the ominous signs in the sky, which had long ceased to promise anything good. Overnight the heavens, once dull and leaden from horizon to horizon, had turned a deep, blood-red, as though they had drunk their fill of the wounded world beneath. Here and there soldiers whispered, trying to guess what such a dire change foretold. Rumor said that Surtr had left the halls of Muspellheim and now carried the fire of the abyss to aid his children. What omen could be clearer of the end of all things? Only one thing gave comfort: the cursed snow had stopped, and the long winter that refused to release them for three years had finally stumbled, as if losing its footing on its own frozen stilts. On the clearing before the tents stood Vili, glowering at the unrest among his men, and Heimdallr, sword-belted and having traded his leather corselet for his familiar traveling armor. In the center of the trampled ground, they had set up the tripod with the waystone, ready to carry the whole warband straight to the All-Father’s camp. When Heimdallr finished his working, he nodded to Vili. The scout stepped forward, raising his hand to call for silence. “Brave warriors of Asgard! The All-Father summons us to the last battle against the spawn of Hel. Step forward without fear! Over our heads lies the All-Father’s blessing, and at our right stand the wrath and might of his sons — Thor and Týr!” Cries of approval rose from the ranks. Vili stepped back, allowing Heimdallr to speak. “The path will open shortly. Move quickly — Yggdrasil is weakened by the long winter, and its branches may break at any moment. Vili’s unit goes first. After them — Lóki, Wulgir, and Brömir. I will go last and close the passage.” Having approved the plan, Odin’s brother took his place in the line and motioned to his men to bring Lóki into position. The trickster god stood off to the side, shackled and seemingly indifferent. Two warriors with short spears quickly moved in behind him, ready to seize him the moment he tried anything clever. Finally, Heimdallr, guided by signs only he could read, stretched his hands over the waystone and began a long chant in the ancient tongue. At his call, a bright arc of light flared open behind him; within its silvery frame the jagged peaks surrounding the Vígríðr came gradually into view. At the signal, Vili led his warriors forward, shouting battle cries to steel their courage. Lóki followed, stepping as if in a dream, with his two guards in tow. One of them — Wulgir — matched Lóki’s steps almost exactly, staring at the back of his head with the fixed vigilance of someone expecting treachery at any moment. The instant Lóki crossed the threshold of the arch, both guards exhaled in relief, having feared to the last that the Father of Lies would pull some stunt. But the deed was done — Brömir even shot Wulgir a weary glance of relief… only to feel a sharp blow in his side a heartbeat later. Steel punched through his shirt and two layers of leather armor, driving itself beneath his ribs. Brömir threw one bewildered look at his attacker — and collapsed dead, two steps short of the glowing passage. “Forgive me, friend. Must be unpleasant, dying a second time. Though really — by now you’d think it’d become a habit,” the remaining guard muttered, shaking blood from the spearhead before tossing the shaft into the snow. Then he turned toward Heimdallr, who stood nearby. All of the Guardian’s focus had been fixed on holding the gateway open, so he noticed something amiss only when the waystone flew off its stand — straight into the murderer’s outstretched hand — where its light died instantly. At the same moment the shimmering arch flickered and vanished, closing the path and trapping the rest of the warband on the far side. “What…!” Heimdallr tore his sword free and leveled it at the traitor. “How did you…?!” “This?” The rebel smirked and dangled the stolen stone mockingly. “Wanted it, took it. Nothing to it.” “Traitor!” The Guardian’s roar echoed like thunder in the low crimson clouds. “Show your true form!” “Oh, gladly.” Wulgir brushed his hand across his face as though ripping away an invisible veil; his body rippled like air above a blazing hearth — then revealed its true shape. “And as for treachery — well, that’s old news, dear nephew.”

***

Silence fell, taut as a drawn bowstring, broken only by the whine of the wind. Heimdallr stared at the transformed visage before him, unable to decide what should come next. Lóki’s returning gaze was the same as countless times before — mocking, defiant… yet shaded with a pain that suggested this might be the hardest thing he had ever done. “What have you done…?” Heimdallr’s voice, when it came, was dull and lifeless. It drew a bitter smile from Lóki. “You know,” Lóki began slowly, “just yesterday I told one of Vili’s lads there’s no honor in stabbing a man in the back. Good thing honor’s never been my favorite virtue, don’t you think?” “Wulgir…?” “Took my place, imagine that. Had to fiddle a bit, of course — can’t let Hel be the only one who gets to raise the dead. Though I admit, my first attempt was… mediocre at best.” Lóki tapped the chestplate of the armor hanging loosely on his disguise. “Still, that wretch won’t be missed. They drag all sorts of rabble into Valhalla these days.” “And Brömir? Why him?” Heimdallr whispered, shaken. “By the gods, Lóki, I knew his grandfather.” “That one — my apologies.” Lóki glanced at the corpse lying beside him, the snow already stained red. He grimaced, stung by the sloppiness of his improvised plan. “I swear, if we survive this, I’ll bring him back to you by the hand from the afterlife.” Heimdallr gave a hollow smile. To him — who knew the workings of the Nine Worlds more intimately than any being alive — Lóki’s games had always been an unfathomable mystery. But there was no time left for riddles. “Why, Lóki? Why go this far? Who else are you willing to betray, and for what? Surely not because you fear the All-Father’s wrath. You warned us of the attack — you could have cleared your name at judgment. And I never knew you to fear anything.” “Iðunn, maybe,” Lóki sighed. “She beat me bloody when I was a boy stealing apples in her orchard.” He shrugged. “But no — you didn’t think I came back to teach Odin how best to punch undead in the jaw, did you?” “Then why?” Heimdallr boomed, eyes blazing. “To talk,” Lóki answered simply — nonsensically. “Not with the All-Father. There’s nothing I can say to the man hurling us all into doom just because he believed the ravings of a dead crone.” “What nonsense are you speaking?” For a moment the Guardian of Worlds simply stared, at a loss for how to even respond. Lóki and the Allfather had disagreed a thousand times, but to accuse Odin of causing the doom now swallowing the realms — that was unheard of. Usually, it was Lóki’s own pranks that left Asgard howling. “The truth, for once. Even I’m shocked,” Lóki smirked — then let the smile die and held out his hands. “You know much, old friend. Let me show you the rest. Then judge for yourself whether I’m wrong.” Suspicion narrowed Heimdallr’s eyes. The sword he still held levelled at Lóki’s chest dipped only slightly as he searched the trickster’s face, hunting for deceit in the familiar features — lined now with deep, tired creases. At last, with a decision made, Heimdallr flung the weapon aside. Foolishness? Recklessness? Anyone else might have thought so, considering everything Lóki had ever done. But Heimdallr was not “anyone else.” He was the shepherd of mortals, the watcher of worlds, the one who trusted because he must. The habit of being deceived lived alongside an unshakeable belief that every mistake, every squandered chance, would one day be redeemed. And what was his life worth, compared to the chance to finally see the truth? “Show me.” He took a single step and placed his hands into Lóki’s outstretched palms — and nearly cried out at what crashed over him. In all the centuries he had known Odin’s adopted brother, Lóki had never been this open, this unshielded. If he allowed someone into his mind at all, it was as a guest shown nothing but glitter and smoke, banquet halls and illusions. Always misdirection. Always curtains drawn. But now — now the enigmatic, impenetrable mind of the greatest trickster of the Æsir lay bare to him. A mind restless and flawed, full of doubts, grief, and failures, all long buried behind laughing eyes and ready quips. Heimdallr plunged into Lóki’s memories and somehow, by miracle alone, did not drown. He witnessed everything that had terrified his friend. He heard the words of the star-born giant Fárbauti, felt the bottomless despair that truth had carved into Lóki’s soul. He glimpsed the fragile hope that had kept him moving, and the impossibly beautiful sky-ship that had carried him out of death and madness — only for a poison to seep from its wake into all Nine Realms. When the vision ended, Heimdallr found himself on his knees, drained to the bone. When had he fallen? It didn’t matter. The weight of what he had learned crushed every ounce of strength. Tears streaked his face and beard; his head rested against Lóki’s chest like a man utterly undone. “Why did you show me this…” Heimdallr forced himself upright, meeting Lóki’s grief-lit eyes. “You should have let me die fighting. Better that than knowing what awaits those who survive.” “I would spare you if I could,” Lóki replied quietly. “But it seems the Norns have spun another fate for us. Perhaps we’re meant to witness the world’s death before we follow it. Or perhaps… there is still a chance.” “A chance?” Heimdallr laughed hopelessly. “You jest. Was it not you who showed me the death of the world? How can one prevent that?” “You can’t,” Lóki said after a pause. “You cannot stop fire with bare hands. But you can shelter a spark from it. You can give life one more chance. And that is what I’ve come to ask of you, Heim.” “I don’t understand.” But in his voice — against all reason — lurked a shadow of hope. “No one knows Yggdrasil like you do. You are tied to it more deeply than even the Allfather, who bit off more than he could ever chew. Only you can beg the Tree to shield and protect at least one world. The storm is coming — we cannot escape it. But perhaps, in the chaos, something can survive. Something that may live after us.” Heimdallr stared at him, stunned. What Lóki asked meant the end. For all of them. To ask the Great Tree — the source of their own power — to cradle a seed of new life even as everything else burned… It was blasphemy. Treason. And the only hope anyone had left. Lóki, for all his flaws, was right. Looking into his mind had shown Heimdallr clearly what madness had overtaken their kin. Their Allfather suffered the same sickness that extinguished stars and unmade the creators of their universe — driving him now to turn god against god in a senseless doom. To admit it was agony. To fix it — impossible. Perhaps mortals would manage the task better than the gods ever had. He, Heimdallr, had already failed. He lifted weary eyes to Lóki — who watched him in silence, waiting. “And you? What will you do?” the Guardian asked at last. “If I survive by some miracle?” Lóki glanced away, as if embarrassed by the thought. “I’ll seek out whoever’s left. I thrive where there is life — real life — the kind only mortals know how to live. And truly, what use is trickery if there’s no one left to trick?” Silence fell between them, a quiet untouched even by the ceaseless wind. Heimdallr thought — of mortals he’d cared for, of friends now dying in Vigrid’s shadow, of the long ages spent watching over a world that might not outlive the hour. And Lóki gazed into the wounded sky above them, thinking thoughts he did not share, not looking at the man he was likely seeing for the last time. “Very well,” Heimdallr finally said, shattering the stillness. “I will do as you ask, my friend. Save whoever you can — and may Yggdrasil’s light be with you. My path now leads where even you cannot follow.” Lóki had already turned away when he paused for one last look. Heimdallr nodded — solemn, resolute, almost fond. “Just imagine the uproar when they learn the Father of Lies saved the world from the jötnar’s wrath.” “An ordinary uproar,” Lóki shrugged with a faint smile. “They’ll just say I lied — and beat me for good measure.”