Unsung Giant

Since the dawn of humankind's awareness, we have recorded history in the form of drawings and writings, developing habits of storytelling to express what we see. Though what we see and how he interpret them are not always the same. Loki, Asgardian god of Norse mythology, known as the God of Mischief and Trickery, is a victim of historical and literary misconception - one who is pictured as a god who loves to wreak havoc and leave behind strings of misfortune. Unsung Giant is a story to lay all wrong accounts to rest. What would you do, if ultimate power is in your hands? "Loki has both the Mjollnir and the teningur lifsins; two very powerful weapons he could keep and use for his own purposes. The thought of wielding such power is very enticing, even for one who has a strong resolve." "Even the All-Father could not help but beam at his younger son's impulsive nature. Well, Loki would not be Loki if he became insipidly predictable."

Prologue

Loki cocked his head to the side and flashed a malignant grin. “You will obey me, Brother,” he addressed the chain-bound Thor. “I have convinced Father Odin that he made the wrong decision of naming you his successor and heir. It won’t take long ‘till Mjollnir becomes fully mine; and when that time comes, no one will know about Thor, the beloved of Norse gods!”
The scenery shows a snow-swept section of the plains surrounding Asgard, the fabled home of the gods. Ragnarok is at hand, the Tree of Ygdrassil is about to topple, and the wolves of Odin howl in the distance.

Thor, bloody and bruised, raised his head to stare with one good eye to the god he had known as Brother, his left eye swollen and nearly shut. “Loki, taking Asgard is not the way to let the Nine Worlds know of your power,” he coughed, spitting blood. “You can still become one with us–” Thor hissed as the snake venom trickled from his head down to his right shoulder.

“How does it feel when no one holds a bowl under the savage fangs of that thing?” Loki pointedly eyed the snake coiling on an upturned root, mere inches above Thor’s head. “You should consider your current situation before negotiating with me. It’s not as if I’m the one still bound in those chains.”

Loki barked with laughter and hefted the Hammer of Destiny over one shoulder. Before stepping out the door of the iron cell, he cast one last glance at Thor, still in chains, almost freezing, his godly powers waning. “Ragnarok is just the beginning, Brother. It is not the end…”

Chapter 1 - Birth of a King

The sun struggled to pierce through the thick grey clouds, the wind sweeping the landscape with an icy grip. Snow-capped mountains rise in the distance, the morning sun glinting and winking on those diamond-like frosts. Such is the view of a normal morning, if there is truly anything normal in the homeland of the Aesir…and yet, this is no ordinary morning. A palpable anticipation fills the air. Everything waits with bated breath; from the tiny sapling, struggling to break out of the hard, frozen ground, to the clutch of birds, perched on snow-laden branches. Every creature waits expectantly, the silence encompassing all.

In the golden halls of Gladsheim, Odin, the All-Father, paced, his long lavish cape swishing back and forth. It’s almost comical, the mighty Odin, conqueror of worlds, destroyer of nations, tamer of giants, now reduced to a nervous wreck, wringing his hands in grim anticipation. One can almost taste it in the air.

Suddenly, a shrill wailing of an infant – a new born – tore the silence. Just as suddenly, all natural sounds resumed, a cacophony of a myriad trills and clops and swishes and taps.
The midwife, breathless, hands still sticky with half-dried blood, fell on her knees in front of the ruler of Asgard, raising the bundle with both hands, swaddling dangling.

“’Tis a boy, Milord,” she whispered in reverence, “just as you predicted.”

The All-Father looked down and beheld the baby presented. It is a boy, indeed. With eyes, blue as a summer sky, looking up to him, the infant’s unblinking stare piercing through the Aesir’s core. The child’s head shone like a halo, his crown of hair shining like threads of fine gold.

“Thor,” Odin whispered, clasping the infant in his arms. The tides of time stopped flowing for the old, immortal king. He felt young again, just as when the world was fresh and still unexplored.

Odin felt a tear trail down his cheek. It is in instances like these that mortal men can claim to be equal with the gods – the pride one feels upon gazing at the innocent face of an offspring, a beloved one.

Remembering his place, Odin turned to address the midwife. “How fares the Queen?”

“She is well, Majesty,” the midwife replied, relief and joy coating her words. “Lady Frigga is a strong one. She is recovering rapidly as we speak.”

“Very well,” Odin responded, and handed the infant back to the woman. “Might I see her now?”

“In a while, Milord,” came the midwife’s reply. “She is still resting. I will fetch you personally once she awakes.”

Odin nodded, the corners of his mouth visibly curving upward. His smile can be seen, despite the mask of thick beard covering the lower half of his face.

The King of Asgard turned away to face the open balcony, resting his hands on the marble-topped balustrade. The sun had finally won the contest, spearing the frigid clouds with its lances of light. The day could not get any better than this, Odin thought with satisfaction.

Little did the King of the Gods know that the day could get better, still. How little did the All-Father know, indeed.

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