The Gospel of Loki (30 page)

EPILOGUE

Always look on the bright side.
And if there is no bright side?
Look away.

Lokabrenna

E
VERYONE THOUGHT
I
WAS DEAD
.

Well, technically speaking, I guess I was – but Dream is a river than runs through Nine Worlds, and in the aftermath of Chaos’s triumph, my physical and ephemeral Aspects were separated one from the other for good, and my ephemeral Aspect was dragged, not to Hel, where I had hoped for an early release – Hel had sworn an oath, after all, and such oaths are not lightly broken – but into Netherworld itself, the antechamber of Chaos.

There, Dream rules in its darkest form, and every nightmare is played out. Chaos isn’t forgiving to those who try to defy it. Even less so to traitors – and I, of course, was both.

I shan’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say, it wasn’t fun. A cell built from my deepest fears, and guarded by a demon especially chosen to keep me subdued.

A snake, of course. It’s always a snake.

Not
my finest moment.

But I was not alone there. Those who had fallen
before
Surt’s arrival had been ferried straight to Hel; but when the black wing descended, and Pandaemonium was unleashed, some of the
surviving gods were dragged into Netherworld alongside me, while the rest fell into darkness, or Dream, or Hel, or Pandaemonium. Gullveig-Heid took my place alongside Surt, who gave her a new, fiery Aspect. Now she was Burning Ambition; more ruthless and destructive than Wildfire had ever been. Well, I guess she’d earned it. I half expected her to call and visit me in my new cell – to gloat or to commiserate – but she never did.

I know.
Not
a happy conclusion, but you already knew how this would end. Everyone dies, or disappears, or fades into oblivion. Let’s face it, that’s how
all
stories end, once you reach the final page. There’s no happy-ever-after for anyone, least of all the gods, who, if they’re lucky, get to rule the world for a while before another tribe takes over.

As for Asgard, it too fell under Surt’s extended wing, onto the plain of Ida, showering most of World’s End with cantrips and broken rune fragments.

And the Folk?

Collateral damage, I fear. It’s very hard not to step on the ants when you’re fighting a war on an anthill. And then, when darkness came . . . well. Winter did the rest. A winter that lasted a hundred years, or so said the new historians – bringing new gods for a New Age of Order and enlightenment.

But I’m getting ahead of my tale. The Worlds as we knew them were at an end. Still, the Worlds have ended before, many times, and been remade. Nothing lasts. History spins its yarn, breaks threads, spins again, like a child’s top, going back to the beginning. The Oracle knew that. That’s what those last stanzas mean; a new world, rising from the ruins of the old. Of course, there was no chance of
us
ever getting to see it. Our time was done; the Oracle had made that very clear. And yet . . .

On what was once the battlefield
A New Age dawns. Its children
Find the golden game-boards
Of bright Asgard, the fallen.

See what the Oracle did there? That’s what we call a teaser. A lure, thrown out at the end of a tale suggesting a continuation.

I wasn’t about to argue with
that
. My story needed a sequel. Preferably a sequel in which I rose from the dead, regained my glam, saved the Worlds, rebuilt Asgard and was generally welcomed by all as a hero and a conqueror. A little far-fetched, I knew that. But in this ocean of mangled dreams, what else was there to do but cling to even the smallest of straws?

New runes will come to Odin’s heirs,
New harvests will be gathered.
The fallen will come home. The child
Will liberate the father.

New runes? New harvests? The fallen, returned? That interested me strangely. Mimir was bound to tell the truth, though not always in the clearest of language. It struck me that if he had
really
wanted to enlighten us when he first made the prophecy, he wouldn’t have chosen verse as his medium. Perhaps, I thought, there was something hidden in the text of the prophecy that Mimir didn’t want us to know. If there was as much as the tiniest chance . . .

Hope, that cruellest of sensations, bringing release in the midst of pain, only to snatch it away again just as the sufferer dares to believe. How I hated it. And yet, I kept what little faith I could. I’ve always been an optimist. And those last stanzas spoke to me with a special intensity.

Of course, the Oracle’s trick was based on the fact that everyone hears the prophecy that they most expect to hear; everyone assumes that the verse refers to
them
in particular. There was always the possibility that Mimir had put in that last bit just to torment Yours Truly; offering the hope of escape like the gold at the end of the rainbow, only to have it disappear every time I thought I was close.

Still, what other choice did I have? The final part of the
prophecy was still up for interpretation. And if I could find a way of reading it in my favour, then that was what I meant to do. Forget the Authorized Version. The Gospel of Loki would not be complete until every scrap of hope was gone. And so I waited in darkness, and dreamed, and thought to myself:

Let there be light.

Let there be light.

Let there be . . .

THE PROPHECY OF THE ORACLE

I know a tale, o sons of earth.
I speak it as I must.
Of how nine trees gave life to Worlds
That giants held in trust.

That was the first Age, Ymir’s time.
There was no land or sea.
Just void between two darknesses,
No stars by which to see.

Till Buri’s sons brought Order
From out of Chaos; light
From darkness; life from death
And shining day from night.

The Aesir came. On Ida’s plain
The new gods built their kingdom.
Here they raised their citadel, their courts,
Their seats of wisdom.

Gold they had in quantity
From the folk in World Below,
They shaped the fates of mortal men
And sealed their own, so long ago.

From the Alder and the Ash,
They fashioned the first Folk from wood.
One gave spirit; one gave speech;
One gave fire in the blood.

I know a mighty Ash that stands.
Its name is Yggdrasil.
It stands eternal, evergreen,
Growing over wisdom’s well.

I speak now of the Sorceress,
Gullveig-Heid, thrice-burned, thrice-born,
Seeress, mistress of the Fire
Vengeful, bloated with desire.

I speak of war, as now I must
Of war against the Aesir.
The Vanir, Gullveig’s kindred
Cry vengeance for their sister.

Odin flings his spear. Now war
Is fast unleashed upon us.
Asgard’s walls are broken down;
The Firefolk, victorious.

The Aesir meet in council.
But oaths are to be broken.
The Sorceress has done her work.
The Oracle has spoken.

But I see more. There Heimdall’s horn
Lies underneath the sacred tree.
In Mimir’s well, Allfather’s eye
Was forfeit. Will you hear me?

I see your fate, o sons of earth.
I hear the battle calling.
Odin’s folk prepare to ride
Against the shadows falling.

I see a branch of mistletoe
Wielded by a blind man.
This, the poison dart that slays
Asgard’s most beloved son.

I speak as I must. The funeral pyre
Sends smoke into the fading sky.
Frigg weeps bitter tears – too late,
Her son sits, silent, at Hel’s side.

I see one bound beneath the court,
Under the Cauldron of Rivers.
The wretch looks like Loki. His wife
Alone stands by him as he suffers.

I speak as I must. Three rivers converge
Upon the gods in their domain.
A river of knives from the east; from the north
And south, twin rivers of ice and flame.

I see a hall on the shores of Death.
Acrawl with snakes and serpents.
Netherworld, in which the damned
Await the time of judgement.

In Ironwood, the Witch awakes.
The Fenris wolf will have his day.
His brothers howling at the skies;
The sun and moon will be their prey.

Night will fall upon the Worlds.
Evil winds will howl and blow.
A void between two darknesses –
What more would Allfather know?

Now crows the golden cockerel
To call the Aesir to the foe.
And in the silent hall of Hel,
A soot-red rooster loudly crows.

The wolf at Hel’s gate howls. The chain
Is broken; Loki’s son runs free.
Ragnarók is come at last,
Chaos rides to victory.

Now comes the time of axe and sword;
Brother shall kill brother.
Now comes the time of wolves; the son
Will soon supplant the father.

Yggdrasil, the World Ash
Quakes where it stands. The Watchman
Sounds his horn. In Asgard,
Odin speaks with Mimir’s Head.

The wolf at Hel’s gate howls again.
Loki’s second son breaks free.
The World Tree falls; the Serpent writhes,
Lashing the waves in fury.

Now comes a fire-ship from the east,
With Loki standing at the helm.
The dead arise; the damned are unleashed;
Fear and Chaos ride with them.

Now comes the final reckoning.
Now come the folk of Netherworld.
Now comes the dragon of darkness, Death,
Casting his shadow-wing over the Worlds.

How goes it with the Firefolk?
And with the gods, how goes it now?
The day of Ragnarók is here.
I speak as I must. Will you hear more?

Flames from the south. Ice from the north.
The sun falls screaming from the sky.
The road to Hel is open wide.
Mountains gape and witches fly.

Now Odin comes to face the foe.
Against the Fenris wolf he stands.
He fights; he falls. Need I say more?
Thor will avenge the Old Man.

Now the snake that binds the world
Strikes in rage at wrathful Thor.
Thunderer wins the battle, but falls
To the monster’s raging maw.

Once more the wolf at Hel’s gate greets
Asgard’s heroes, one by one.
Battle rages, Worlds collide.
Stars fall. Once more, Death has won.

I see a new world rising. Green
And lovely from the ocean.
Mountains rise, bright torrents flow,
Eagles hunt for salmon.

On what was once the battlefield
A New Age dawns. Its children
Find the golden gaming-boards
Of bright Asgard, the fallen.

New runes will come to Odin’s heirs,
New harvests will be gathered.
The fallen will come home. The child
Will liberate the father.

I see Asgard built anew
Gleaming over Ida’s plain.
I have spoken. Now I sleep
Till the world’s tides turn again.

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