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An End and A Beginning

All tales have an end and a beginning, though sometimes it is unclear which is
which. Sometimes you must tell the end of one tale before the beginning of another. The
same can be said of lives. In every life there is a beginning and an ending. Birth and death.
Though at the same time there can be many beginnings and endings as a child grows from
a baby to an adult. Eventually, however, a person will die, and while most cultures see that
as an ending, some also see it as a beginning of something greater.

Men have fought and died over that particular truth, more times than I can count.
For myself, I've never thought about death, since I am never going to die. Unless someone
kills me, I will live forever. Who am I, you ask?

I have many names. They call me the Thief of Asgard. Also Master of Mischief.
Sometimes the Lord of Fire. The Cunning One. Silvertongue. Lord of Magic and Lies. But I prefer to go
by the name my mother (yes, I did have one) gave me. Her name was Laufey. She called me Loki. She was one of the Aesir, a clan of immortals who ruled in my homeland of Asgard. And my name was
the first and last word she ever spoke to me, for she died soon after I was born. I don't know
who my father was—she died without telling. Some of the stories mortals tell about me say I was sired by the frost giant king Farbouti, I guess that sounds better than not knowing who your father was. But the truth was no one, giant or otherwise, had acknowledged me as their son, illegitimate or legitimate. For all I know he could have been an Aesir lord, or a giant, or a prince of the Vanir, who are blood enemies of the Aesir. It doesn't really matter. It was obvious that he didn't care enough for my mother or his unborn child to stick around once he'd had his fun with her. But he was merely the first in a long line of men who have betrayed me. Once that would have bothered me—did bother me—but no longer. After so many centuries the taunt of half-breed bastard loses its sting.

There are advantages to not having a father, you know. For one thing, I never had
to obey orders I didn't like, such as do your chores, go to bed, and eat your vegetables. I also
didn't have the tiresome responsibility of living up to the honored name and deeds of my
ancestors. I was free to do and be whatever I chose. I had no one to hover over me telling
me to be a good fisherman, or boatbuilder, or spinner of sagas. No one to scold me if I came
in with muddy boots, or forgot to do the milking or plowing. Sounds wonderful, right? It
was, in a way. In another, however, it was damn lonely. I had to learn first and foremost
that I had one person to rely on—myself. Oh, I had an elderly couple of Vanir to watch over
me when I was little, but they merely saw to it that I had food and clothing. To them I was
nothing but a foundling, child of nobody, and therefore not worth much.

Not that they were deliberately cruel to me, but I was no kin to them and back then,
a family name was everything. It defined you. My lack of one left me free in one respect
and trapped in another. I had no obligations to live up to but neither did I have the
protection of a name, or a sense of belonging. I was the fosterling of Hefrin and Marta, but
I was never their son. As I said, they were old when they assumed my care and they had not
much affection left to go round. Then again, I was not an easy child to manage. Big surprise
there! I was too clever, too stubborn, and too inclined to mischief. And guess what, I still
am. I was not what you would call a biddable child.

I wonder if there even is such a thing? Somehow I doubt it. Usually a child is only
biddable when he or she is sleeping, or sick, or scared to death of being beaten. I was only
the former and never the latter two. Though Hefrin did take a stick to me once for my
impudent tongue. Once and never again. I was all of about nine, I think, and that first time
I was too startled to do anything about it. Except cry, that is. Afterwards, though, I vowed
to never let myself be in that position again. Young as I was, I still had command over a
decent portion of magic, something which my foster parents lacked. Thus I set about
protecting myself from Hefrin's switch.

Respect for authority has never been my strong suit, and after he had beaten me I lost
what little respect I'd ever had for him. Violence has never gone over well with me, now
or ever. Which has led certain members of my Aesir family to label me a coward. I see
little point in covering myself in blood and gore by slaughtering some helpless mortal, then
patting myself on the back for it. Nor yet having a warrior attempting to do the same to me.
There are much better ways of settling quarrels, a fact my noisy, crazy, war-obsessed family
has yet to learn. I've been trying to pound some sense into their dim skulls for centuries
with no success.

But I was speaking of my childhood, or what passed for one. Despite my dislike of
physical force, Hefrin's beating did not make me fear him. Being immortal, I heal quickly.
Nor did it make me think twice about my smart mouth. I cannot remember now what it was
I said to make him angry, but it can't have been half as bad as the insults I later used on
those who irritated me. If he'd ever demonstrated the least little bit of affection for me, I
might have been remorseful and attempted to modify my behavior. As it was . . .the
punishment made me angry, for I did not feel as if I owed him any obedience and therefore
he had no right to demand it of me. Worse still, he thought he could command it by fear.
Wrong attitude entirely. I have always hated bullies and my first instinct when confronted
with one is to get even. By using my head, not my fists.

This I did by using my fledgling skills as a magician to cast a spell about myself that
convinced wood not to harm me. Quite a useful spell, that. I never got splinters when I
gathered wood for the fire any more, and any sticks in my path slithered away so I wouldn't
trip over them. The next time Hefrin lifted a stick to me, why isn't important, since I
provoked him by my mere presence, the stick broke before it ever touched my skin. I'll
never forget the look on his face when that happened. It was priceless. The mixture of
shock and disbelief in his dull face . . .I had no self-control back then and couldn't resist
snickering.

That only made him angrier, and he dragged me by the hair over to a log and threw
me over it, screaming, "Make fun of me, will you, little brat? I'll teach you!" Then he
grabbed a damn piece of wood at least four feet long (I kid you not) and swung it at my
backside. I was praying now that my spell would hold, for I knew if he belted me with that
I wouldn't be laughing for a long time. I cursed him in my head, for if I'd had any kind of
family, he'd never dare to beat me like this, there are laws against beating a legitimate child
to death. But I was the orphan, Loki son of Nobody, and I had no shield against his abuse.
Except my magic, which caused the wood to warp and snap in his hand.

Gaping, he swung at me with the broken part and that twisted out of his hand too.
By then anyone with a grain of sense would have figured out it was useless to hit me with
a stick and have grabbed something else. I couldn't escape, he had me pinned there by the
back of my neck. Luckily for me, Hefrin has never been smart. He chose another stick.
Then another, all with the same result as the first. After ten minutes of this and about twenty
broken sticks, he finally realized he couldn't beat me and let me go.

"Little Aesir witch!" he spat, and aimed a cuff at my head.

I dodged it neatly and fled, sprinting for all I was worth into the forest that bordered
their house. I thanked all the stars he hadn't thought to use his belt, for I'd not had time to
develop a spell to protect me against leather. I spent the night in a tree, too wise to go home
and put myself within reach of his hands.

I woke cold and hungry, but at least I had a whole skin. I crept home, having learned
to be wary and quiet from my forest animal companions. I planned to nip inside the barn
and sneak a few mouthfuls of milk from our goat and sleep in the soft hay. But as I crept
up to the side of the barn, I heard Hefrin and Marta within, talking, while Marta milked.

I bit my lip, cursing my fleeting luck. My stomach was growling like a horde of
wolves. I started to back away toward the main house, thinking to steal a bowl of porridge
or some bread and cheese from the pantry, when I heard Hefrin snap, "I don't care if he is
an orphan, I've had it! I'm not feeding no useless half-Aesir witch anymore. He's nothing
but a sneaking scamp, no good for anything but mischief. So let him play his tricks on
somebody else, I say. Tomorrow I'm selling him to Mudir the frost giant, let them teach him
some respect for his elders. He can be a thrall for them for a hundred years and learn his
place in the world, the impudent niding!"

I listened with a mixture of horror and disbelief. Marta said something, but I
couldn't hear it, and anyhow it wouldn't make a difference, since she did whatever Hefrin
said anyway. I tripped over my own feet and ended up sprawling on the ground., skinning
my knees and hands. But that pain was nothing to the one in my heart.

Slavery! They would make me a slave to frost giants, the meanest cruelest creatures
in the realms. And for what? A few boyish pranks and leaving my chores half-done? A
saucy tongue? It was true I didn't help them as much as I could have, but when I did work
at a task, it got done well. And I wasn't always backtalking Hefrin, and Marta had always
said I told the most entertaining stories about animals and such (which weren't stories, but
truth, since I spent a good portion of my time in the woods interacting with animals). Surely
nothing I'd done warranted being sold into slavery to Mudir!

Hefrin continued. "I could get seven pieces of silver for him, I'm thinking, even if
he is a scrawny wretch. It wouldn't cost them much to keep him, he doesn't eat much. And
then I can get that new plow I've been wanting and maybe an ox."

My head spun and I felt sick. A new plow and ox! Was that all I was worth? A
farming implement and a stupid cow? He doesn't eat much. Which meant they could starve
me if they wanted, I thought bitterly. I didn't eat much because there wasn't much to eat,
and I knew if I ate more than my share I'd be yelled at and Marta would go hungry. Hefrin
never bothered to strike a decent bargain with the traders for Marta's woolens, and he was
stingy with food, except for himself that is. If he'd let me go with him to trade, I could have
gotten three times what he did, and then he would have seen how useful I was. But Hefrin
never let me off the farm, saying he couldn't be bothered with a half-Aesir brat tagging
along. I knew the real reason was because he was ashamed of my status as an orphan and
he didn't want the villagers to know he'd taken in an outcast. He couldn't even claim me
as a bondservant, for my mother had been a free person and claimed the right of hospitality
for me and herself.

"That'll be a damn sight more use than him, the disobedient wretch!" Hefrin snorted.
"I'll tell Mudir not to spare his whip, the brat could use a good dose of the lash. Ain't no
use my trying to beat manners into him, it don't take. Devil's brat, ought to be grateful I
didn't switch him more often."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Now I was being blamed for not wanting to
get beaten. Name one child anywhere who's ever asked for a beating! And I hadn't done
anything truly destructive about the place to even warrant such treatment. I never stole from
them, unless you count food, and I never mistreated the goat or the chickens. Yes I was lazy
about chores and I enjoyed harmless practical jokes, but nothing I'd ever done was bad
enough to merit being sold as a thrall. Was it?

Not by a long shot. I didn't bother hanging around to hear more of Hefrin's plans.
I slithered like a snake inside the cottage, grabbed a leather sack off the hook next to the
door and raided the pantry. I took two loaves of bread, both fresh, a half a wheel of cheese
(the whole one was too heavy for me), a string of smoked sausages, and a bag of dried
apples. Then I took a waterskin, empty, since I've never liked ale or mead and one of
Marta's knives. I would need a sharp knife for gutting a kill, or protection. Lastly I
scampered into the loft and grabbed my sheepskin and a blanket as well as my extra set of
clothes and boots. That was all I had in the way of worldly possessions, that and the clothes
on my back.

I took nothing else from them, though months later Hefrin would accuse me of
stealing a gold arm ring from him. What a liar! I was too upset to take anything but food
from them, and in any case he was wearing the damn thing when I left. Though I have to
admit if I'd had the opportunity, I would have taken it, as payment for all the nasty things
he'd said of me.

I slung the sack and the fleece over my shoulder and crept past the barn yet again.
Hefrin was still going on about the things he would buy with Mudir's silver. Ha! Fat chance.
"Lock him in the feed bin," he was telling his wife. "I'll tell Mudir to be here bright and
early tomorrow and that'll be that. He'll be someone else's problem then."

Someone else's problem. Those words burned me like a red-hot iron. Was that all
I was? A problem, something to be gotten rid of? Apparently so. Well, no longer, I vowed
with clenched fists and burning eyes. Hefrin, your problem just walked out of here, you
miserable skinflint bastard. And if you want your seven pieces of silver you're gonna have
to catch me first.

I took off at a dead sprint, but quietly. Only the wind heard me go. I left without a
backward glance the only home I'd ever known. My heart was sick within me at their
betrayal. Oh, I'd always known they didn't love me the way parents loved their own child,
but I'd tricked myself into thinking they cared for me a little. They'd raised me from a baby,
after all. A small part of me had always hoped that one day they'd even grow to love me.
What an idealistic fool I was!

I was the unwanted baggage they'd been saddled with, since my mother had the bad
taste to die while she was staying with them and I'd had the bad taste to live instead of
following her to the underworld. Loki son of Nobody. Nothing but an outcast piece of half-
Aesir trash, worth seven pieces of silver.

I ran as hard and as fast as I could with the food and the fleece, deep into the
trackless forest that bordered the lands of the Vanir and Aesir. My only goal was to put as
much distance as I could between me and those who had turned on me. I was small but wiry
and strong, despite my thinness, a perk of my immortal blood. I ran for hours, until the only
sounds in my ears were the chattering of squirrels, birds, and the panting of my own breath.
I halted and listened intently. No one was following me. I wasn't too concerned about that,
Hefrin had never been much of a woodsman. I could track better than him when I was six.

By now I was tired, hungry, thirsty, and sore from carrying everything on my
shoulder. I needed a drink of water desperately. I cocked my head and listened again.
There! The gurgle of a stream. I followed the sound till I came to a respectable brook of
fresh clear water. Oh joy under the mountain!

I tossed my belongings under an ash tree and threw myself face down on the bank
and drank greedily. Then I filled my waterskin. I splashed some water on my face and hair.
If I haven't mentioned it before, I have red hair and green eyes, cat eyes some have said. Not
flaming red, mind, but the darker red of the fire's embers. And I have pale skin, though I
don't freckle, thank the heavens.

I tossed a few crumbs of bread into the stream as a thank you gift to the nymph of
the stream. This was not just a superstitious gesture on my part. In Asgard, the very air you
breathe is filled with magic. Nine times out of ten a stream or a wood has some kind of
spirit in it and it's never wise to offend them. Especially not if you're a child alone, as I was
then. One day I would have enough power not to have to worry about offending any minor
nymph or wood sprite, but back then I was a mere babe, though smart enough to realize it.

Throwing the bread in the water made me realize how hungry I was. I promptly
devoured half a loaf of bread and some cheese and two sausages, having had nothing to eat
since yesterday morning (before Hefrin had tried to beat me). After I'd eaten, I looked for
a place to lay my bedding, and took some pine boughs and wove them into a frame. This
I moved back some yards from the stream, placing it beneath a large oak tree. The oak
provided shade from the sun and was good luck besides. I placed my fleece and blanket on
the pine boughs and thought about going to sleep.

But I was dirty from my run and I've never enjoyed being so. I decided to take a
quick bath in the stream. Since the water was cold, I didn't linger, just long enough to wash
myself of the dust and grime and then I was out shivering. I spoke a charm to dry myself,
I've always been good with fire, and then I dressed in my other set of clothes. I'd wash my
trousers and tunic tomorrow.

I went back to my sweet smelling bed of pine boughs and fleece, which was by far
a better bed than the one I'd had the night before, intending to fall asleep. Only I didn't.
I curled up in the middle of the bed and began to cry instead. All the mean hateful things
Hefrin had said and done came flooding back to me in that instant and I was helpless to
defend myself against them. I told myself inbetween sobs that I was better off alone, a free
person and not a thrall to giants. Living in the forest was much better than living under
Hefrin's thumb, or Mudir's, Norns have mercy!

But while that was true, I was also just a boy, and I had just lost the only home and
the only people I had ever known. No matter how indifferent they'd been to me, still I'd had
someone. Now I had no one. So I cried until I was exhausted, and fell asleep. That was the
first and last time I ever did that.

Not one more tear did I shed until many centuries later, but that is another story.
Thus began my life as a solitary man and eventually a magician of great power. I have been
alone for most of my adult life, and for the most part I prefer it that way. Even when I
became blood brother with Odin of the Aesir, I was still not a full member of his company.
Not that I wanted to, for most of them were no better than Hefrin, brutes who delighted in
physical strength and drinking and wenching, worse than animals. I've been drunk a time
or two, don't get me wrong (and I've always, always regretted it!) and I've enjoyed the
company of a sweet lass too, but I've never forced a woman (and never will), nor lost my
heart to one.

Some of my family members will tell you that's because I've not got a heart, but
that's just plain stupid. I have one all right, I just didn't pay any attention to it for a long
time. And mindful of my early betrayal by Hefrin and Marta, I was damn careful to never
let anyone get too close to me. I trusted no one and in turn no one trusted me.

Which suited me fine. I was content to be a figure of mystery, the unknown man at
the feast, the trickster with the clever hands and smart mouth. I'm sure you've heard all the
stories about me. One and all of them speak of my cleverness, which didn't count half as
much as being able to bash a man's head with a hammer back then. Why was that, you ask?
How in hell should I know?

But just to set the record straight, before I came along Odin and the rest of the Aesir
in his hall were little better than beasts. I was the one who brought some kind of culture into
their lives and made Valhalla a place for decent people to live in. Left to themselves, they'd
still be wearing animal skins and eating half-raw meat over a stinking fire.

But my magic changed all that, sprucing up the place enough to make it civilized
enough to attract Frigga, Freya and the other Aesir ladies. Because no self-respecting
woman would set foot in the sty Valhalla was before, trust me! I introduced Thor to the
novelties of a bath too, you have no idea what he was like before, believe me! I did the
whole world a favor. And did I get any thanks for it? Hell no! Did any lady say, I want that
clever man for my husband, look at what he's done to this bunch of rude, stinking louts? No.
One and all they fell for Thor's shoulders and Baldur's face and Odin's smile. They sighed
over Frey's golden hair and Heimdall's thighs and they thought the fact that Modi could lift
a whole ox and parade round the hall with it was just dreamy.

Don't ask me why a woman's head is nearly always turned by a set of flashy biceps,
but there you have it. Now, I'm no scrawny beanpole, but next to Thor and Odin I look like
a twig. But then again, I've always valued brains over brawn. I make my living with my
wits and I'm damn proud of it.

But that can't compete with a chest like a prize stallion's, even if the immortal in
question has a brain to match. You'll note, I don't call my fellow Aesir gods, since we really
aren't. Oh, I know mortals worshipped us as such, but they were mistaken. We're
immortals, meaning we don't die from disease or old age, but we can be killed. If we
couldn't then explain to me why Odin is so deathly afraid of Ragnarok?

I hate that stupid prophecy. Because once again I'm the scapegoat. According to the
ravings of the Norns—three old women who control the fates of gods and men—I'm going
to betray the gods to the giants and bring about the end of the world.

Utterly ridiculous. I could have betrayed them any number of times to the giants
when they were all passed out drunk on the floor of Valhalla, and gotten away with my
pockets full of gold too. You'll note, they're all still here, though one or two of them are
missing a ring or two. Sorry, but I'm a thief, I got into the habit when I was a child and
never really grew out of it. I do it mainly for fun, and half of what I steal I eventually return
in the form of favors. And I never kill anyone doing it, unlike some criminals I could name.

Unfortunately, my reputation as a trickster and a thief isn't one most women want
to have in their husband, but even they admit that my conversational skills are better. Still,
I suppose one or two women might be willing to overlook those flaws, since I'm considerate
of their feelings and know how to compliment a lady. But I have no wife, because I can't
trust anyone with my heart. You see, having a wife means having a partner, at least to me
it does, and that means you have to share things. And not just a bed and your food either.
In a true marriage you need to share yourself and that is the one thing I will never, can never,
give away. Been there, done that. And never again. Hefrin and Marta and a few others
taught me the folly of doing so long ago. It's the one lesson that stuck with me forever.

And thus I will forever be a kind of outcast, never truly belonging. Sometimes this
bothers me. But never enough to risk my heart. The life of a magician and a trickster is
usually a lonely one. I know that. I accepted that fact long ago, after I'd woken up red-eyed
in the forest and realized that the only person in the world who gave a damn about me was
myself.

I did not live with the other Aesir at Valhalla, they were too noisy and they disturbed
my concentration with their parties and complaining and petty bickering. To practice my
magic I needed solitude and quiet. I could never get that over there, so I relocated to a small
pleasant valley some seven miles away. Far enough to not get woken up by another drunken
bar fight and close enough for Odin or Thor to come and get me when they got tired of
scrapping and needed somebody to fix their cuts and broken noses. And give them
something for their aching heads and queasy bellies the next morning. Did I mention that
I'm their unofficial healer too? Ah, didn't know that did you? Think about it, though. I'm
the one with the most brains, and I know herbs from my wanderings in the forest. Ask Thor
the difference between parsley and mint and he'll just look at you like a cross-eyed cow. So
guess who got called when Tyr cut off his own hand in a drunken demonstration with an
axe? Good old Loki. I know some of the tales say he got it bitten off by a giant wolf, but that
is the worst lie ever told.

I was the one who got woken up at the crack of dawn by Thor bellowing, "Loki! Get
your skinny ass down here before Tyr bleeds to death!"

Now there's no love lost between me and that uptight warrior, but I didn't think
bleeding to death was a nice way to die either, and so I came down and fixed up Tyr's
stump. I used alcohol and my magic to cauterize the thing, unpleasant, but necessary. And
got a black eye for it when Tyr belted me afterwards for hurting him. No use my even trying
to explain why I had to do what I did, infection and gangrene are not in his vocabulary. Not
many words are.

But I kept the arm from going bad and now he wears a golden cuff or a hook on it
and boasts that he's the prince of warriors and lost his hand in a terrific battle with a wolf.
A wolf, by Hel's blackest pit! As if I didn't see the damn axe with my own two eyes, covered
in blood. And what credit did I get for saving his arm? None whatsoever. He forgets I
stayed with him when his fever spiked, pouring medicine down his throat, and cooling him
down with ice and water.

Until the next time someone cuts himself on a sword or has a stomachache from
stuffing himself like a pig at a banquet. Then it's "Loki, bring your satchel and help me, I
think I'm dying of a disease!" My standard response to this is, "Of course you aren't dying
of a damn disease, you stupid ass, you're immortal!"

Where did I learn my medical skills? Mostly from watching the animals and the
mortals of Midgard. Mortals fascinate me. They live such brief lives, barely the blink of
an eye to us, yet they pack so much into them. Eternally innovative and curious, they remain
a constant source of amusement for me.

I used to travel quite regularly down the Bifrost Bridge to the mortal realm, but now
I mostly observe them in a seeing bowl or a mirror. My house is a snug two-story affair,
which I built myself using my magic. And that was damn hard. It cost me as much to use
magic to build the house as it would have the ordinary way. But magic was faster, and in
the end, it lasts longer. Not that the house was an illusion, for it isn't. Only that I used
power instead of brute strength to align timbers and stones and so forth. One end of the
house has a tower which I use to stargaze. I love watching the stars and finding new
constellations in the heavens.

I also have a small barn and a pasture for my horse, Heror, and my goat Olga. Both
of these are not ordinary animals, what kind of a magician would I be if they were? They're
stronger, smarter, and stubborner than their regular counterparts, and they can talk. If you
think having animals that can speak is something to look forward to, let me tell you it's both
a blessing and a curse. A blessing because I don't have to talk to myself a lot and risk being
thought crazy (though people do anyhow—sigh!). It's also a curse because both of them
think they can tell me what to do. Believe me, you don't know how lucky you are to have
dumb animals to take care of once you've had Olga threaten to kick you into next week if
you don't quit squeezing her teat so hard or listened to Heror complain that there's not
enough molasses in his bran mash. Not to mention the sly comments I get about getting too
old to attract a girl! And people say I have an impudent tongue? Still, they're good animals,
more like friends than animals really, and ten times as loyal as any immortal I could name.
Do I ever tell them so? About as many times a day as I threaten to hit them with a stick for
being so blasted opinionated. Of course they know I'm kidding about the stick, I would
never dream of hitting them.

All in all, it's not such a bad life, being known as the Magician and Trickster of
Asgard. I have plenty to eat, a roof over my head, my privacy, and two loyal companions
to keep me humble (no small task that!). My house, unlike the hall at Valhalla after a night
of feasting, is kept neat as a proverbial pin. Though not by any menial efforts of yours truly.
I hate housekeeping, and would rather be lancing boils than dusting or sweeping. Probably
because I was made to do those chores continuously as a small child, and was always
criticized for doing them wrong. So how then does my house stay so clean?

That's due to my friend the Nis, a house sprite. Nisses live to clean houses and keep
everything neat and tidy. Really. If you ever see a Nis sitting in the street crying, it's
because some idiot has kicked it out of their home and there's nothing more pitiful than a
Nis without a house to keep. Nisses are unhappy without work, they adore being useful, and
they sing when they sweep and hum when they dust. Honest. And when they scrub the floor
they're in paradise. Of course, with only myself in the house, things don't get all that messy,
but I occasionally will leave dirty laundry and dishes about just to make it happy. And the
Nis is content to live in the rafters and do my housekeeping in return for a bowl of milk and
honey and brown bread. Nisses are such odd little creatures.

My Nis calls herself Ava, and she doesn't mind living in the same house as a known
warlock and thief, which ought to say something. You wouldn't catch a Nis within fifty feet
of Valhalla, even though the place begs for the touch of ten of them. That's why Odin and
his family have servants to do their cleaning and such. None of the Aesir, except maybe
Idun, Lady of Apples, knows how to treat a Nis so it'll remain and keep house for them.
Nisses don't work for free, and they expect to be paid with food and drink and the occasional
candy on holidays. They also expect once in awhile to have someone say thank you for their
efforts. It's only polite, after all.

Pity most of the Aesir didn't learn any manners, because once there was a Nis or two
about. Before they got disgusted with not being fed or appreciated and left for better
domiciles. I can't say I blame them. Would you want to clean up puke and old beer and
bones and dirt day after day for nothing except a stale crust or a bit of moldy cheese? Didn't
think so. Even though Nisses are only minor sprites and therefore rather low on the scale
of importance here in Asgard, I still think they deserve respect. I'm sure Ava would agree
with me.

And if you've got a happy Nis, you've got a clean house. I could eat off my floor if
I wanted. So the arrangement is mutually beneficial for us both. I see Ava most times in the
early morning or late at night, since she likes to sleep in the afternoon. She resembles a
small woman with long brown hands and white hair with huge brown eyes. She wears a
kerchief over her hair like a proper house frau, a Nis is a dragon when it comes to propriety.

She wears a soft gown of amber cloth and a sparkling white apron over that, but no shoes.
Nisses like to go barefoot. Her features are a bit more pointed and pronounced than a
human's, and she's only about three feet tall, and she always has a pair of scissors and a bag
of herbs at her sash. The scissors are to defend herself from some of the nastier inhabitants
of the realm and the herbs are to season stews. Did I mention that Nisses make wonderful
cooks? If I've been working late in my laboratory, Ava will usually bring me soup and a
glass of milk. Usually that's accompanied by a scolding about working too hard. I swear,
sometimes Ava thinks she's my mother, as if I needed one at this late a date.

I usually reply by drawling that she's forgetting her place and when last I checked
I was still her master. And she sniffs and says, "You ain't gonna be nobody's master for
much longer if you don't stop mucking about with those potions and eat something, sir."

"Yes, Ava. Now go away, Ava. Don't you have some silverware to polish or
something?"

"Humph! I'll go then, but you'd better finish all that food before I come back, sir,
you hear me?"

"Or else what?" I tease, grinning.

"Or else you can clean your own room tomorrow," she growls, wagging her finger
at me.

"Oh very well, Mother," I sigh, because I know that's not an idle threat. Ava gets
insulted if you don't eat her cooking and when a Nis is insulted, your house suffers.

"Oh, but you're bad, Master Loki," she sighs. "I'm not old enough to be your
mother."

"Uh huh. So they tell me." I smirk. "Just how old are you, anyhow?"

That always makes her shriek indignantly. "You never ask a lady her age, Master!"
she says, stamping her foot. "Didn't your mother ever teach you that?"

"No, cause she died when I was born," I would say matter-of-factly.

"Well, I'm telling you now, so shut up and remember it."

"Or else what?"

"Or I'll make you do your own laundry too!" she flares.

At that I have to laugh and I tell her I'm sorry and I'll never ask how old she is again,
since she can't remember it anyhow.

"Of course I can! Do you think I'm stupid? I'm three hundred and sixty-seven!"

"I see," I grin triumphantly. "Much too young to be my mother, fair one."

"Why you—you—" she sputters.

"Conniving rascal? Sly–tongued rogue?" I offer.

"Tricky damn bastard!" she spits, then bursts out laughing too. Nisses have a pretty
good sense of humor, fortunately for me.

"Yeah, well they don't call me Master of Mischief for nothing, Ava."

"You are bad, Master Loki," she sniffs, waving a finger under my nose. Then she
goes off to polish some silver and leave me in peace with my experiments. When she comes
back the plate is always empty.

Contrary to popular belief, I don't use dark magic to enhance my powers. I was born
with magic and have no need to steal some poor virgin's life force or suck the soul from an
infant to increase my power. I have quite enough power as it is, thank you very much. Only
stupid mortals need to resort to that kind of disgusting practice, and most of the time they
mess it up anyway and end up with a vengeful spirit haunting them and enough power to fill
a thimble. Go figure! They don't know that if you want true power you don't cut off a
thrall's finger, but your own. A magician willing to sacrifice himself is the one who gains
power, not the other way around.

Just ask Odin. He sacrificed an eye to gain wisdom and hung himself on the
branches of Yggsdrasil the World Tree for nine days, so he could gain a drink from Mimir's
Well of Wisdom. On my advice, might I add. He tried first by sacrificing some willing
warriors and women, but it availed him nothing. What a waste. I had suggested he cut off
a hand, but he refused since he was a war god and he needed his hand to fight. But a warrior
can still fight with one eye, so that's what he gave Mimir.

Pretty gruesome, isn't it? Thank the Fates I never wanted anything that badly. Most
of what I want I can get by stealing, and if not, oh well I can do without it. You'll never
catch me ripping out my eye or strangling myself to become wise. Wisdom comes to us all
if you live long enough and I have time to wait for it to happen naturally. Not to mention
the fact that once Odin lost an eye, he damaged his good looks. Lucky for him he was
married to Frigga at the time, else he'd have had to pay a Vanir girl to be his wife. Ah well,
no one ever said my blood brother had much in the way of brains. Wisdom, yes, but that's
not the same thing.

I said that then, never knowing what the Norns—those meddlesome harridans!—had
in store for me. For my peaceful bachelor existence was about to end. Remember when I
said people think I have no heart? Or that I would never risk my heart again? Well, I lied.
About not risking my heart, that is. For there would come a time when I would lose my
heart not once, but twice.

The first time was to a child, the second to a woman. Shall I tell you how it
happened? Yes? Very well, pull up a chair, pour yourself a cup of mead or whatever, and
keep still. I don't like to repeat myself.