The Tragedy of Loki
Nov 5, 2017 20:02:24 GMT -5
Post by Odin on Nov 5, 2017 20:02:24 GMT -5
The great god, Odin, for he had once been great, sat in a wooden chair only barely touched with gold. It was sturdy and magnificent, but weathered, worn; old, as Odin was now old. Its legs were an intricacy of lines and curves to suggest the legs of horses; the heads of horses were its arms, with their front legs, as they reared, also part of the arm. Its back was tall and grand and wrought with knots. It had been fashioned by Odin's hand himself, once, long before he had been king, to last centuries, which it had done more admirably than it seemed Odin's realm would.
Was this to be his legacy? The neglectful father, the rejected father, who three times over now failed to produce a worthy heir? Yet perhaps Odin was not the worthy one. The old man's hand only trembled with the onset of age as he lifted it distantly. With a caw, the raven flew to perch upon his write. He nodded along, spoke to it but briefly, and sent it out again into the garden where it alighted on a fruit-bearing tree. The apples littered carelessly upon the grass looked golden, but they were merely yellow.
The bird told him what he suspected. He had made his proclamation but a day before, and knew it would spread throughout Asgard in a matter of hours. He could not feel relief that his people seemed to forgive him more quickly than his sons did.
How much more selfless Loki's supposed self-sacrifice seemed now, now that the world knew of his true parentage. The child of two worlds, left a frostbitten mite in the snow, raised a prince, and fallen defending his true homeland - but no longer. Loki belonged to one world now, to Asgard, and he was returned to them. Would he not come now that his people demanded it?
Frigga had warned him he was pushing Loki - she nearly dared more than that, in truth. She had every right to speak her mind, of course; it was her gentleness, not her wisdom, that stayed her tongue. She knew he was an old man, impatient, exhausted. She did not yet know how near he was to the time of his ending, perhaps, nor what that meant.
Another cawing, another beating of black wings. The other raven returned from its own circle, but it brought the news Odin had held out for. Now Odin had but sit and wait for his son - no longer his youngest, yet still in his mind he could see the baby he had first laid in an Asgardian cradle much like that his infant brothers shared - to arrive - to be led, or to curse at him and leave again, he could not say; and he did not dare to hope.
Was this to be his legacy? The neglectful father, the rejected father, who three times over now failed to produce a worthy heir? Yet perhaps Odin was not the worthy one. The old man's hand only trembled with the onset of age as he lifted it distantly. With a caw, the raven flew to perch upon his write. He nodded along, spoke to it but briefly, and sent it out again into the garden where it alighted on a fruit-bearing tree. The apples littered carelessly upon the grass looked golden, but they were merely yellow.
The bird told him what he suspected. He had made his proclamation but a day before, and knew it would spread throughout Asgard in a matter of hours. He could not feel relief that his people seemed to forgive him more quickly than his sons did.
How much more selfless Loki's supposed self-sacrifice seemed now, now that the world knew of his true parentage. The child of two worlds, left a frostbitten mite in the snow, raised a prince, and fallen defending his true homeland - but no longer. Loki belonged to one world now, to Asgard, and he was returned to them. Would he not come now that his people demanded it?
Frigga had warned him he was pushing Loki - she nearly dared more than that, in truth. She had every right to speak her mind, of course; it was her gentleness, not her wisdom, that stayed her tongue. She knew he was an old man, impatient, exhausted. She did not yet know how near he was to the time of his ending, perhaps, nor what that meant.
Another cawing, another beating of black wings. The other raven returned from its own circle, but it brought the news Odin had held out for. Now Odin had but sit and wait for his son - no longer his youngest, yet still in his mind he could see the baby he had first laid in an Asgardian cradle much like that his infant brothers shared - to arrive - to be led, or to curse at him and leave again, he could not say; and he did not dare to hope.