The Tree at World's End

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Loki fretted.

He knew not how, but he had lost his gambit.

Moments earlier, both of Thor’s goats, the one who now looked like him, and its lame brother, had simply vanished.

So had Mjölnir, Thor’s hammer.

He understood why Thor might want his hammer back, but what of the goats?

And now, try as he might, he was not able to find Fjiorn anywhere.

Something was clearly up, for the world had darkened and the cause had to be much deeper and deadlier than the onset of night.

Sköll and Hati, the mocker and the hater, had somehow finally managed to catch Sol and Mani and were even now feasting on the flesh of the sun and the moon.

This was it.

With Tanngrisnir gone, Loki could no longer send him to lead the giants against Asgard, as he had intended; so, he had no recourse but to do so himself. But the prophecy was clear, and this could lead to only one outcome. Death. His, Heimdallr’s, and in fact everyone else’s too.

The sly one rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

On the other hand, with everyone gone, who’d be left to do a body count?

Damn prophecy … there just had to be some way he could survive.

He had wormed his way out of countless traps, had solved thousands of riddles and forged an infinite number of counter-riddles. He had tricked and lied and betrayed. He was the weaver of spells, the wearer of infinite masks, and the master of illusion.

Was it possible that this was to be his end?
As a master shape-shifter, he could perhaps take up his favourite form, a fly; fast, underestimated and often unseen.

Who would notice if a fly survived Ragnarøkkr?


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