Chapter Twenty-One

In Asgard, the realm of the gods, the whole world is still. Silence has spread across the land. Birds wait in their nests, foxes huddle in their dens, gods cower in their halls. The wind and storms that have besieged them all for months, rattling their bones, pulling trees from their roots and tearing Asgard apart, have finally come to a sudden and shocking end. Some of the older gods who have held witness at similar – although not as devastating – tempests insist that this calmness is merely the eye of the storm. They are certain, they tell the younger gods, whose egos are not so large as to ignore the advice, that this peace can be broken. It is held in a delicate balance, like the weighting of a scale, and a tip in either direction could end the squall forever or plunge them into a deeper, harsher storm that will rip creation apart in minutes. And though it is not always in the habit of gods to be correct – especially the gods of Asgard, who most frequently think with their bellies and their warring fists – this time they are right. The calm is a sign that the tempest will either end or flourish. It all depends on the actions in the next few minutes of two figures lying by the Well of Urd.

Arthur Quinn sits up first. He can feel the dull throb of wounds and aches all over but he ignores them, pushing them to the back of his mind. There are more pressing matters at hand than a bleeding forehead. He can feel the craggy ground of Asgard under his fingertips and hears the pounding sound of the waterfall rushing into the nearby well. He looks over and sees the Father of Lies lying by his side, half propped up against a boulder, eyes shut, tongue lolling out. Arthur’s own hand is next to his. The stray end of Gleipnir flutters in a non-existent breeze and touches off the god’s fingers. A single flake of snow drifts down onto the ground by their hands. It worked, Arthur thinks to himself, pulling the hand away. Just by touching the ribbon, Loki was saved, as Arthur had been saved before.

He gets to his feet, sliding slightly on the dusty ground. He steadies himself against the boulder and looks around, then walks a few steps towards the pool. Though the water still falls into the well, there is no sign of the Norns. More snow falls, alighting on the ground and on his shoulders. It is only when he notices the flakes settling on the water that he realises it’s not snow. A fleck lands on the tip of his nose and he picks it off with a fingertip. It is a pale steely colour and doesn’t melt to his touch like it should. He rubs it between two fingers and watches as it smudges them with dirt. It’s ash.

Arthur looks at the sky as it rains ash over Asgard. The dark clouds are still there, though the ash isn’t falling from them. It’s fluttering down from the tree at the top of the cliff, Yggdrasill. There isn’t much left of the tree now. The half that survived the lightning strike is black with disease and rot. Small flames burn along the split and the branches have almost totally disintegrated. All that is left of Yggdrasill is half the trunk, and even that is crumbling and decomposing into ash and embers.

‘Arrrw?’ asks a moan from behind him. He turns in time to see Loki’s eyes open. They look about him, at first with confusion but then with growing relief. They find Arthur on the barren landscape and fix on him.

‘I’m back here?’ he says, taking in his surroundings, his voice hoarse and croaking. ‘No matter. I’ll summon Bifrost in a minute to take me back to Midgard.’ He looks at Arthur. ‘You saved me.’

‘No,’ says Arthur. ‘I saved her.’

Loki plants an arm around the boulder and pulls himself to his feet. He is momentarily shaky and leans back against the rock to steady himself.

‘Hmm,’ he says as a grin reaches from one ear to the other. ‘You did, didn’t you? But how, pray tell, did you manage that?’

Arthur holds up his wrist for Loki to see. There is no breeze to pick up the ribbon yet Loki sees it glimmering in the dull light.

‘Is that Gleipnir?’ he asks.

Arthur nods, keeping silent.

‘Ah. I should have noticed it. I would have worked it out if I had.’

‘You were too wrapped up in your own plans.’

‘Ha! I suppose that is the problem with gods. Too wrapped up in ourselves to notice the rest of you. But you’re not like the rest, are you, Arthur? You’re not like the rest of mankind at all.’

Arthur doesn’t reply. He slides his hands behind his back, and a finger and thumb start to work at the knot on the ribbon, loosening it. Loki pushes himself away from the rock and begins to pace.

‘The last time I was here,’ he starts, ‘the gods betrayed me. They laughed at me. Like I was the trick and not the trickster. And then, when they discovered my plan for revenge, they banished me from this place. From my home. They bound me under the earth for what they thought was eternity – all that time spent in agonising torture. But they should have known that even that wasn’t enough to stop me. Revenge is a very powerful motivator, Arthur. If you learn nothing else, learn that.’

As he paces, he gets closer to Arthur.

‘But you, Arthur. You succeeded where the gods failed. Time and time again. You killed the Jormungand when they could only stun it. You found Fenrir after he escaped. You stopped a war. And even now, even though you shouldn’t exist, you’re still here! Standing before me. Nothing can stop you. But, as you’ve no doubt realised, nothing can stop me either.’

Loki comes to a standstill mere feet from the boy.

‘Of course, it’s to be expected, really. You are my grandson, technically. So I have a proposal for you. I haven’t been a good grandfather to you. I haven’t given you sticky Werther’s Originals from my pocket and I haven’t told you naughty jokes when your parents weren’t listening and I haven’t done all the other cutesy things granddads do in adverts on television.

‘But despite all that I feel we have a bond, Arthur. True, I may not show it much – or at all. But I do care for you. I love you, as much as a god can love his meddling part-human grandchild. I know that really you’re just going through a rebellious phase. Hormones are raging, you’re probably finding hair in strange places and you just want a parental figure to act out against. Well, let me tell you something, Arthur. That doesn’t have to be me.’

Arthur continues to listen, still fiddling with the knot of the ribbon out of sight.

‘You are such a clever boy, Arthur. You tricked me. You even tricked your own mother into not destroying me. We could be great allies, Arthur. You and me. So what do you say? Huh? Let’s join forces. Together we’ll control all of creation. Together we’ll do wondrous things. Together we’ll be unstoppable. Totally unstoppable.’

‘There’s one problem, though,’ Arthur speaks for the first time.

‘Oh? And what’s that?’

‘You’d be unstoppably evil.’

Loki throws his head back and Arthur watches his pointed Adam’s apple bob up and down as the god cackles loudly. Loki looks back at him, tears of joy streaming down his face.

‘I take it that’s a no then?’ he asks between chuckles.

‘That’s a no,’ Arthur confirms. He manages to get the ribbon off his wrist for the first time in almost a year. He palms it in his right hand, holding tight.

‘Well, if you won’t join me, you’re against me. And I’m afraid, grandson or not, I’ll have to put an end to your interfering. It’s time to do things the old-fashioned way.’ He clenches his hands by his sides, blue veins popping up along the skin, and takes a step towards Arthur. ‘With my fists.’

Before Arthur can react, Loki hits him a blow that sends him spinning backwards. He tumbles to the ground and grinds to a halt on his front against the lip of the well. The little ring of stones around the edge of the water barely reaches as high as his shins. Loki leaps onto his back: a dead weight that forces something to snap excruciatingly loudly inside Arthur’s body. For one terrible moment, as the pain washes through his back and chest, he is certain that his spine has been broken. But when he discovers that he can still move his legs and torso, he throws himself on his side, dislodging the god. Staggering away, he realises that the ache is pulsing from his left ribs.

Arthur is stumbling across the barren landscape when he hears Loki’s rollicking laugh coming from behind him. Feet pound across the stony surface before a shoulder knocks into Arthur’s spine. He cries out in agony and tumbles to the ground before he can so much as cushion the blow with his hands. His head slams into the rocky ground and the world spins.

The gash over his eye – which had partly scabbed over – gushes blood once more with the impact. He can feel the heat of the blood running down his face, over the eye-patch, and he can taste the metallic flavour on his lips.

Suddenly he is on his back and Loki is looming over him with a wicked sneer fixed on his face.

‘No more talking,’ he says through the smile. ‘No more pleading. No one is here to save you.’ He drops to his knees, one leg on either side of Arthur’s chest. Loki wraps the long, bony fingers of each hand around Arthur’s neck. ‘This isn’t as much fun as torturing you. But at least it’s quick.’

The gripping fingers tighten around Arthur’s throat, vice-like.

Arthur gasps as the flow of oxygen to his lungs is cut off.

He can’t catch a breath.

Loki pushes his head back.

His neck is being slowly crushed and he can’t catch a breath.

Ash, he’s thinking. Dad, Mum, everyone.

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

And he’s reaching up his hand.

His nose whistles as it tries to suck in oxygen.

And it’s not enough.

It’s not enough.

Ash, Dad, Mum, everyone.

Blackness darts around the side of his vision.

And Loki is smiling.

He’s grinning.

He’s laughing.

He’s happier than he’s ever been before.

He’s finally squeezing the life out of Arthur.

And Arthur can feel it leaving him.

Ash, Dad, Mum, everyone.

And all Arthur can do is reach up his hand.

And he keeps reaching.

And he touches Loki’s wrist.

And Arthur Quinn is about to die.

And.

And–

Water. There is water washing over him. It’s so cold that it’s almost burning; so cold and so unexpected that the shock causes Loki’s hands to release his throat. Arthur sucks in a great gasp of air. He can breathe, he can breathe!

Loki rises to his feet and turns to look at the well. Arthur also lifts his head. This simple act sends pain shooting through his body. His ribs are still tender, his throat hurts with every breath and the fresh blood on his forehead continues to pulse out of him. But when he sees what Loki is looking at, he can’t help but smile.

The Norns are standing in the well, staring right at Loki. Water is drying on the stones around him from where a wave has crashed over the rim of the well.

‘You!’ Loki is saying. ‘It was you three. You have been helping him all along, haven’t you?’

The Norns say nothing.

‘Answer me! You have to answer me! You helped him, didn’t you?’ shouts Loki striding towards the rim of the well.

‘We merely guided him,’ says Urd, standing between her sisters.

‘You can’t do that!’ Loki sounds like a petulant child to Arthur, who pulls himself into a sitting position. Every part of him still hurts, but he has to do it. He has to get moving. He looks at the ribbon still in his hand and he knows what to do.

‘You can’t do that!’ Loki says again. ‘You can’t interfere in the deeds of gods and men.’

‘We protect the tree,’ says Verdandi. ‘That is our most important purpose.’

Arthur is on his feet and he’s shuffling towards the boulders by the well. He’s keeping his footsteps light, keeping his breaths shallow, keeping his one eye fixed on Loki’s back. He reaches the rocks by the side of the well. Loki is still too focused on the Norns to notice him.

‘So when the life of the tree is threatened,’ says Skuld, ‘we can act.’

‘And you, Loki,’ says Urd, ‘you threatened the life of the tree.’

Arthur is walking around the boulder nearest the well when Loki spots him.

‘You can’t hide, Arthur Quinn!’ he shouts at him. ‘Get back over here! I need to kill you before I go back to Midgard.’

‘No, Loki. You’re going somewhere. But you’re not going back to Midgard.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Loki jeers as he storms towards Arthur.

Arthur simply lays his hand on the boulder and then the god sees what he’s been up to.

Gleipnir is coiled right around the rock, criss-crossing itself countless times so that the rock is held tightly in its grasp. There is no knot keeping it in place; the end is bound to the rest with magic, sealed forever. Loki’s eyes follow the other end of the ribbon as it trails across the ground, between pebbles, over dust. Finally, his gaze follows it off the ground, as it rises towards him. He cries out in horror when he sees that the other end of the ribbon is wrapped around his wrist.

Arthur smiles. While Loki was preoccupied with strangling him, he had sealed it around the god’s arm.

Loki tugs at it. His face turns beetroot red as he struggles to slide it off or snap it in two but, throughout the assault, Gleipnir stays firmly fixed around his arm.

Arthur has somehow, somewhere found the strength to slide the boulder up onto the lip of the well. It balances there, precariously. Like the eye of the storm, this could all end with a tip either way. Loki, still struggling to release himself from Gleipnir, turns his attention back to Arthur in time to catch the boy’s smile.

‘Noooo!’ Loki screams, rushing towards him. But he’s too late. Arthur throws all his remaining strength against the boulder.

It’s as if time stops in that moment. The Norns turn to watch. Arthur stares. Loki can’t take his terrified eyes off the boulder. It seems to take forever to grind over the lip before toppling down into the water with a slow-motion splash that barely even ripples the surface. Once it hits the water, it disappears from sight, sinking into the eternal depths of the well.

Loki watches as the ribbon grows taut above the ground. He grasps it tightly, but this is a tug of war he can’t win against the inexorable pull of gravity and Gleipnir simply slices through the soft flesh of his palm. He lets go with a cry and is dragged forward in the direction of the well. With a flash of light, he transforms into Joe.

‘Arthur!’ he pleads to the boy in his father’s voice. ‘You have to help me. I’m not really Loki. It was all a trick. I’m your dad! Let me go.’ His feet scrape along the ground, struggling to find some purchase.

Arthur looks on with pity and shakes his head.

With another green flash, Joe becomes Rhona.

‘I love you, Arthur,’ she says. ‘Even if you won’t save me.’

‘You’re not fooling anyone, Loki,’ Arthur says.

Loki transforms a third time. His feet keep sliding across the craggy ground, scrabbling frantically as he tries to pull himself back from the water’s edge. He claws at the ribbon, doing his best to break free. But his best isn’t good enough. Gleipnir is so strong that it shows no sign of being shredded by the rock lip around the well. In fact the reverse is happening. The ribbon is cutting a shallow dip in the stone itself. And all the while, Loki is pulled relentlessly on and on.

He has become Ash now, who is begging Arthur with pained eyes.

‘You’ll be sorry, Arthur,’ she says. ‘You’ll realise that I really am Ash. Loki tricked you and now you’re killing me.’

‘Just give up,’ Arthur sighs wearily. ‘Can’t you see it’s over? You’re nothing, Loki.’

And now Arthur remembers all that Loki has done to him, to his friends, to his family. As he recalls the pain, the hardship, the pure wickedness of every action, sudden red-hot anger rises in him.

‘You’re nothing, Loki!’ he screams, his voice breaking on the higher register. ‘You hear me? Nothing!’

The god is so shocked by Arthur’s outburst that he instantly changes back to his own form. He falls to his knees and claws at the ground to try and slow his progress, but the ribbon keeps dragging him towards the well. As Loki’s feet touch the water, he shrieks in anguish.

There is one flash of green after another as Loki becomes Ellie and Ex and Stace and Max and Morrissey and Fenrir and Donal and Orla and Drysi and Nurse Ann and even Ruairí and Deirdre and Luke Moran and everyone else Arthur has met in the past few months. All these faces plucked from Arthur’s memories and meant to stir his sympathy. And finally, finally, Loki becomes Will. The boy with the platinum-blond hair and distinctive nose – the boy who betrayed Arthur – grips the edge of the lip. The rest of him is submerged in the water and Arthur can see that the muscles in his hands are white from the strain of trying stop himself being dragged completely under the water.

‘Arthur …’ Will says. ‘Help.’

‘Goodbye, Loki.’

With one last burst of green light, Loki reappears. His face is an expression of torment, of dread, of fury. His hands grip tighter around the stones. But now three pairs of watery hands reach out from the cascade. They stroke his fingers, teasing them apart and away from the stones, making them slippery and slick.

He loses his grip.

And with one last look at Arthur, the Father of Lies, the trickster god, the god of mischief, the Lie-Smith, Loki, is gone.