Hela once lost her hand and in its place she created a Handmaiden. Leah, as she was called, went on a series of adventures with the Boy and they became fast friends. Best friends. [ A small smile wavers, wry and guilty, but it doesn't last long because he has a story to tell. ] After a bunch of these thrilling escapades, there came a time when the Boy wrote about Leah in a book, inserting her history into its pages and rewriting reality for a particular series of events that needed to come to pass, only he wrote poorly and without flushing her character out. Not long after, they helped restore Hela's hand, and the Boy lost his best friend as she returned to her mistress in the form of raw power.
[ Pushing his food around, he takes a sip of water and continues. ]
Some time later, when Surtur of Muspelheim went a little nuts (on not the first occasion) and manipulated a new line of deities called the Manchester gods into his service, the Boy's efforts of thwarting were themselves thwarted by the return of Leah, only she wasn't the original. She was the girl from the story he had written and she was furious with him for forcing her into a role with no freedom.
For the gods are stories come to life, our fates are usually what they have ever been. To be someone you don't like is ... not a heap of laughs.
[ Unless one feels like breaking out, ahem. ]
The Boy had two options: to save the world or his best friend. He chose the latter, going back in time to add more and more to her story but ultimately giving Leah the chance to choose her own destiny, a great gift. Their reunion in the present was of much embracing and they fooled the All-Father into banishing Surtur's skanky ass where it belonged.
But all was not well, for there was a magpie. A magpie who whispered in the boy's ear, a horrible creature. [ Rubbing the pad of his thumb against his fork, Loki goes on evenly. ] There came a time when the magpie, a copy of an old wretch's soul, blackmailed the Boy into destroying himself because it had been created for that very purpose and knew nothing of freedom. It, like Leah, had been given a role to play, and it did so to the letter in allowing the Boy to bid farewell to his loved ones first.
And that is how the Child Who Was Loki journeyed to Hel to ask its mistress, Queen Hela of the Dead, to send Leah Who Began As A Story into the far distant past where the monster who would consume his body could never reach her, not ever, not even if he tried with all his might. Leah was cast into the ancient past, into a time before time, without explanation from the Boy who could not understand what he had done in creating Hela before anything else, building the foundations for a friendship that the monster had already experienced because of the Boy's protective measures taking effect; a friendship that Leah could not help but form after having missed her Boy for so long, growing close with him until she would become the Queen of Hel again.
"For the gods are stories", aye, and we must be what we must be. Ninety-nine percent of the time, anyway. Broken records, Norse-style.
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Hela once lost her hand and in its place she created a Handmaiden. Leah, as she was called, went on a series of adventures with the Boy and they became fast friends. Best friends. [ A small smile wavers, wry and guilty, but it doesn't last long because he has a story to tell. ] After a bunch of these thrilling escapades, there came a time when the Boy wrote about Leah in a book, inserting her history into its pages and rewriting reality for a particular series of events that needed to come to pass, only he wrote poorly and without flushing her character out. Not long after, they helped restore Hela's hand, and the Boy lost his best friend as she returned to her mistress in the form of raw power.
[ Pushing his food around, he takes a sip of water and continues. ]
Some time later, when Surtur of Muspelheim went a little nuts (on not the first occasion) and manipulated a new line of deities called the Manchester gods into his service, the Boy's efforts of thwarting were themselves thwarted by the return of Leah, only she wasn't the original. She was the girl from the story he had written and she was furious with him for forcing her into a role with no freedom.
For the gods are stories come to life, our fates are usually what they have ever been. To be someone you don't like is ... not a heap of laughs.
[ Unless one feels like breaking out, ahem. ]
The Boy had two options: to save the world or his best friend. He chose the latter, going back in time to add more and more to her story but ultimately giving Leah the chance to choose her own destiny, a great gift. Their reunion in the present was of much embracing and they fooled the All-Father into banishing Surtur's skanky ass where it belonged.
But all was not well, for there was a magpie. A magpie who whispered in the boy's ear, a horrible creature. [ Rubbing the pad of his thumb against his fork, Loki goes on evenly. ] There came a time when the magpie, a copy of an old wretch's soul, blackmailed the Boy into destroying himself because it had been created for that very purpose and knew nothing of freedom. It, like Leah, had been given a role to play, and it did so to the letter in allowing the Boy to bid farewell to his loved ones first.
And that is how the Child Who Was Loki journeyed to Hel to ask its mistress, Queen Hela of the Dead, to send Leah Who Began As A Story into the far distant past where the monster who would consume his body could never reach her, not ever, not even if he tried with all his might. Leah was cast into the ancient past, into a time before time, without explanation from the Boy who could not understand what he had done in creating Hela before anything else, building the foundations for a friendship that the monster had already experienced because of the Boy's protective measures taking effect; a friendship that Leah could not help but form after having missed her Boy for so long, growing close with him until she would become the Queen of Hel again.
"For the gods are stories", aye, and we must be what we must be. Ninety-nine percent of the time, anyway. Broken records, Norse-style.