Day Fourteen: Wind
The ancients once believed that the god known as Loki was the cleverest of the Aesir; good enough to make the giantess laugh after the murder of her father, quick enough to steal the hair off Lady Sif’s head, and smart enough to steal away with the nymph Sigyn on her wedding night—disguised as her would-be-husband.
Words weave fates and unravel them; things said and those left unsaid can give you unspeakable power over others or destroy you. This Loki knows probably more than any being in the cosmos. The eons of his existence are marked with his wordsmithing—battles won and lost, women (and horses) bedded, and kings overthrown.
But of all the tales of the Trickster God, there is one he would regret as he howled curses to the winds of the Void. There is one story the universe will remember until time is unwritten. There is one myth that tells of the time Loki was far too clever for his own good. There is one tale that sees our Ice Prince face theFenrisúlfr, the Hróðvitnir,the Bad Wolf, the one who sees and listens.
And it begins, strangely enough, in the middle.
“Do you trust me?”
“You actually trust me to tell you the truth?”
“Then…no,” he teased good-heartedly, as a shard of pain stabbed through his heart. “Why do you trust me?”
Because you should not trust me. I do not deserve it.
“Because I stole the last biscuit, that’s why.”
“I’m gonna kill you.”