The Feast that Went Wrong
Ægir, lord of the sea, brewed the finest ale in all the worlds. His hall lay on the ocean floor and the walls were lit by polished gold instead of flames, and the shadows moved like water on gold, and it was the most beautiful room any of the gods had seen. He invited the gods to a feast, and they all came, and it was one of those evenings that should have been good. The ale poured itself from the pitcher, the food was without end, and the gods praised Ægir's servants Fimafengr and Eldir for their skill, and everyone said what they were supposed to say and smiled as they were supposed to smile.
Loki could not stand it. He had been sitting there drinking and listening to the praise, and something inside him had begun to boil, the thing that always boiled, the thing that had no name but drove him to shatter what was whole. He stood up and killed Fimafengr. Just like that. In the middle of the hall, in the middle of the feast, without warning. No one knows why. Perhaps because the servant received praise that Loki never got. Perhaps because it was in Loki's nature to be unable to see something beautiful without wanting to break it. The gods threw him out into the forest.
He came back. No one had invited him, but he stood in the doorway and everything went quiet, and the last light of joy died in the room like a fire you pour water on. He said he was thirsty, that he and Odin had once mingled blood and become kinsmen, that Odin had sworn never to drink ale unless Loki was also served. Odin, bound by his oath, as always bound by his oaths, nodded. They poured for him. That was the last calm moment of the evening.
Bragi said Loki was not welcome at his bench. Loki turned on him, and his eyes were like embers in a fire you thought was out. "Shut your mouth, you gutless faggot," he said. "You are the bravest man in Asgard as long as you are sitting down. But we both know what happens when swords are drawn, Bragi. You run. You run every time. You have never had blood on your blade, and everyone in this hall knows it, but I am the only one saying it out loud." Bragi half-rose and said that if they were outside this hall he would have Loki's head in his hand. Loki laughed, a loud, vicious laugh that cut through the entire hall. "Sit down, you coward. Valiant while sitting is all you can manage. You are brave with your mouth, Bragi, and a coward with everything else."
Iðunn tried to calm Bragi, placed her hand on his arm and whispered. Loki cut her off mid-sentence. "Shut up, Iðunn. You of all people should keep your mouth closed. You crawled into bed with the man who killed your own brother. The corpse was barely cold, the blood was barely dry on the floor, and you were already fucking the killer. You were writhing under him while your brother's blood was still warm. Everyone knows. No one says it. I say it." Iðunn sat down as though someone had struck her.
Gefjun tried to speak, and Loki turned on her with a smile that had nothing human in it. "And you, Gefjun. You sold yourself for a trinket. A white boy laid you on your back and you spread your legs like a cheap whore for a necklace. Everyone knows your price, Gefjun. It was not even expensive."
Odin tried to silence him. Loki turned on him and his voice filled the entire hall the way thunder fills the sky. "Will YOU silence me, Odin? You? You who practise seiðr? Women's magic? You who sat on the heath with the völvas and drummed and carved and let yourself be ridden like a mare? The Allfather, the great one, he who sacrificed his eye for wisdom, he who hangs in trees and drinks from severed skulls, he lets himself be fucked like a woman when no one is watching. You are a faggot, Odin. Argr." He spat it straight in Odin's face, the words that cannot be taken back. Odin fell silent. It was true. Everyone in the hall knew it was true. And that was why it stung, because lies you can shake off, but truth stays like a knife in the back.
Frigg said the past should stay where it lies, that old things should not be dug up. Loki turned on her, and his voice went soft, softer, the dangerous soft that snakes have before they strike. "By all means, Frigg. Let us talk about the past. While Odin wandered the worlds chasing wisdom like an ugly old crow, you lay with his brothers. Vili had you. Vé had you. Both of them. One after the other. The Allfather's wife, the most faithful of them all, and you spread your legs for his brothers before he had ridden past Bifröst. Vili fucked you. Vé fucked you. Odin's own wife, in Odin's own bed." Frigg said nothing. There was nothing to say. The truth had no answers.
Freyja tried to defend Frigg, and that was a mistake, because anyone who defends someone in Loki's presence makes themselves a target. "Freyja," said Loki, and his voice dripped with contempt. "You have lain with every god and elf in this hall. Everyone has had you, Freyja. Everyone. Every last one. And Freyr, your own brother, has had you too, and everyone knows it. The gods found you in the same bed, and you farted with fright when they lit the candle. You are Asgard's whore, Freyja, and everyone knows it, and everyone pretends they do not. You fucked four dwarves for a necklace. Four of them, one at a time, one night per dwarf. You spread your legs for four ugly bastards to get gold around your neck. That was your price, and it was cheap." Freyja was shaking, but she had no words, because what makes Loki's insults unbearable is that they are never clean lies.
"And you, Tyr," said Loki, without waiting for an invitation, as though he were going around a table serving poison. "You who stuck your hand in a wolf's mouth. Everyone calls you brave. I call you stupid. A man who willingly puts his arm in a wolf deserves to lose it." He leaned forward and his voice went low. "And your wife. She bore me a son. You knew that, did you not, Tyr? You have never received a single penny of compensation for it, and you have never dared demand it either, because you know it is true, you pathetic cuckold. I fucked your wife, Tyr. One-armed and cuckolded, that is what you are."
Njörðr tried to say something, but Loki turned on him like a mill grinding everything in its path. "Shut up, Njörðr. You who were sent as a hostage and thought it was an honour. And what you do with Hymir's daughters in the dark, we all know about that. They piss in your mouth, and you thank them."
He went on, one by one, and no one was spared. Freyr had given away his sword, the only weapon that could kill Surtr, to stick his cock in a giantess's cunt. "And she was not even willing, Freyr. You had to send your servant with threats and curses. Skírnir stood before her with a rune-staff and curses until she gave in from sheer terror. What a bargain. What a romance. You bought yourself a wife with blackmail, and you paid with the only thing that could have saved your life." Heimdallr stood out at Bifröst like a wet dog, day and night, rain and filth, the worst job in Asgard, and he never complained because he was too stupid to understand he should complain.
Skaði was told that Loki had been the one who led the killing party against her father Þjazi, that it was Loki who had lured out Iðunn, Loki who had set the whole sequence in motion that ended with her father's burning wings. "And should you not thank me for the entertainment afterward?" he said. "I tied my bollocks to a goat for your amusement. My bloody bollocks, Skaði. And you laughed. You laughed at it. You who came in armour to avenge your father laughed at my bollocks. What does that say about you?"
And Sif. Thor's own wife. "She came to my bed in secret," said Loki, and his voice was soft as silk and sharp as a needle. "Ask her if you do not believe me. But you will not, Thor, because you know it is true. You know it. Everyone knows it."
The hall was silent. Every god sat with lowered eyes or clenched fists, and Loki's words hung in the air like acid. They ate through every surface and showed the rotting wood beneath. No one could leave, because leaving would be an admission. No one could answer, because the answers would reveal still more. They sat in their secrets as in a trap, and Loki stood in the centre and smiled, and he had never looked happier, and he had never looked more dangerous.
Then Thor arrived. He had been in the east killing trolls, but someone had sent word. He stood in the doorway with Mjolnir in his hand and thunder in his voice and his whole body was covered in troll-blood and his eyes burned. "Shut your fucking mouth, you cowardly little faggot, or I will smash your skull and kick the rest into the river and piss in the hole." Loki, who had mocked everyone else without flinching, hesitated. Thor was the only one who meant what he said, the only one who hit first and thought later, the only one who did not care about sacred rules in sacred halls. "You are the only one I do not dare insult," said Loki. Then he turned to Ægir. "This hall shall never see a feast again. Let fire devour it, and may everything you own burn." With that, he walked out into the darkness.
The gods sat on and the ale tasted of ash. They had heard truths they had known but never spoken, had their secrets lined up like corpses on a battlefield. Loki's words could not be aired out. They had settled in the walls, in the tables, in the gods' own faces. Loki had killed Baldr. Loki had refused to weep. And now he had stood in their midst and spat their own secrets in their faces. That was the last thing.