The Gospel of Loki by Joanne M. Harris Page B

scarred smile quite attractive – but that wasn’t the point, of course. Chaos is unforgiving. And in spite of my defection, I was still a child of Chaos.
    Isn’t it funny, how quickly things change? Nine little stitches, that’s all it took for me to suddenly realize the truth: that whatever I did, whatever I risked, however much I tried to fit in, I would never be one of them. I would never have a hall, or earn the respect I so clearly deserved. I would never be a god; only ever a dog on a chain. Oh, I might be of use to them now and then, but as soon as the current crisis was done, it would be back to the kennel for Your Humble Narrator, and without as much as a biscuit.
    I’m telling you this so you’ll understand why I did the things I did. I think you’ll agree I had no choice; it was the only way I could retain what little self-respect I had. There’s such purity in revenge, unlike those other emotions I’d had to endure in Odin’s world. Envy, hatred, sorrow, fear, remorse, humiliation – all ofthem messy and painful and quite spectacularly pointless – but now as I discovered revenge, it was almost like being home again.
    Home . See how they corrupted me? This time, with nostalgia, that most toxic of their emotions. And perhaps with some self-pity as well, as I started to think of all the things I’d given up to join them: my primal Aspect; my place with Surt; my Chaotic incarnation. Not that Surt would have understood or cared for my belated remorse – that too was the product of their pernicious influence. Hence my hunger for revenge, not because I expected a reconciliation with Chaos – not then – but because the urge to destroy was really all that I had left.
    My first and purest impulse was to seek out the enemies of the Aesir. Just as Gullveig-Heid had done in the days of the Winter War, I thought to find refuge among the renegade Vanir, exchanging my skills for their protection. The problem was, I’d been too good. My reputation preceded me. I was known throughout the Worlds as the Trickster of the gods, the man who’d given Odin his spear; Frey his ship; Thor his hammer. I was the man who’d built Asgard in stone and cheated the builder of his reward. In fact I’d cheated everyone – including Death itself – with the result that no one would trust me, or believe I meant business.
    And so I decided to bide my time. There were perks to living in Asgard. The food was good, there was plenty of wine and the view was the best in the Nine Worlds. War with the Aesir would change all that. Living under a grubby tent, or in a cave in the mountains; no Idun to heal my wounds; growing old; getting fleas; looking up at Asgard and remembering what I could have had . . .
    No, I decided. That wasn’t my style. Better to live as a dog in Asgard than as a god anywhere else. Better to work undercover for now; undermining them one by one; spreading discord among them; working to find out their weaknesses; taking them down one at a time. Then, when they were ready to fall . . .
    Boom!
    I started with Freyja. No reason, except that she was the weakest link in the chain. Odin had a soft spot for her, and if my plan worked, I meant to cut him as deeply. Now the Goddess of Desire was vain and, since my encounter with the Tunnel Folk, had never ceased to question me about their treasures, especially the jewellery I’d seen on my visit to World Below.
    ‘Tell me more,’ she would say, lounging on her silken couch, eating fruit, attended by her maidens. One of them was Sigyn, whose interest in me seemed to increase the less attention I paid to her. Next to Freyja she looked plain, which I guess was Freyja’s intention. Freyja herself was peerless, of course; creamy skin, red-gold hair, a rack like you wouldn’t believe. Her amber-eyed cats purred at her feet, the air all around her was scented. No one – not even I – was wholly impervious to her charms, but I preferred the wilder type, and besides, I