Chapter 1. Construction, Death, and a Golden Toilet
There's a saying people use in life: "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans." Well, if God exists, then he, the bastard, had himself a real good laugh at my expense. Because my plans were about as down-to-earth as they come. Finish my third year, pass my exams, find decent part-time work instead of hauling boards on a construction site for pennies, and maybe even get a girlfriend — someone to go to the movies with instead of hanging out with Zhenek in the dorm drinking Doctor Diesel beer.
My name is Alexander, and for friends and good acquaintances, just Sashka or Sanёk. Twenty years old, a student by trade, living in St. Petersburg. Studying to be something or other — honestly, that doesn't matter anymore. What matters is that on the day everything changed for me, I was working a part-time job at a construction site. Summer, heat, the wind off the Neva cuts through you sure enough, but you don't get cold at a construction site, especially when you're hauling those damned boards up to the top.
The foreman who hired me turned out to be a decent guy, though not without his sentimentalities: "Sasha, bring the cart over," "Sasha, don't drag your feet, the sun's still high." So I didn't drag my feet. I walked along the scaffolding, carried an armful of boards, and thought about my own things, the lofty kind. Like how I really should start writing my term paper before it was too late. Or how Zhenek had borrowed a thousand again until payday and still hadn't paid it back, the little weasel.
And then the world simply fell out from under my feet. I don't know what happened or how it went exactly — maybe a board had rotted, or I stepped wrong — but the fact remains: the scaffolding under me collapsed, and I went flying downward. The boards I was carrying scattered in every direction like a fan, the sky above me started spinning, the wind whistled in my ears. Beautiful, probably, from the outside — shame I wasn't in any state to appreciate the scenery.
I met the ground, as expected, fast and hard. The last thing I remembered wasn't the pain, which came and went in some kind of flash, but a wild, gut-piercing cold, as if I'd been shoved into liquid nitrogen. And after that... darkness. Click — and I was gone.
When I opened my eyes, I immediately understood that something was very wrong here. Because the ceiling I was staring up at was not our dormitory ceiling and not a hospital ceiling either, since the typical Soviet whitewash and cobwebs in the corners were nowhere to be seen. It was entirely golden, with intricate carvings depicting dragons, warriors, and trees that seemed to move if you looked at them from the corner of your eye. And so high, so impossibly high, it took your breath away.
I tried to turn my head and felt something unbelievably soft against my cheek. Silk? Seriously? And the room didn't smell of sawdust and paint either, but of flowers and freshness, like after a thunderstorm.
"Well, that's it," I thought. "You've done it now, Sanёk. This must be the brain firing off one last firework before death. Beautiful, damn it. Just like a movie about ancient Greece, except with more gold."
I tried to sit up, but it wasn't happening. My body was limp, foreign, unresponsive. And just as I finished that thought, my consciousness lurched again and plunged somewhere deep, into a swirl of memories.
It all looked and felt like a very strange dream, but one happening while awake. I wasn't just seeing pictures — I felt absolutely everything: the smells, the touches, the emotions. As if I were living someone else's life, but it was mine. And that was scarier than any golden ceiling.
First frame. Darkness, a hum, cold — but not the cold before death, just an uncomfortable chill. Someone's enormous hands scooped me up, and a voice that boomed like a drum sounded right in my ears:
— He shall be my son, a son I shall name Loki.
Then the picture switched and before me was a woman's face. Beautiful, radiant, with eyes the color of warm honey. She leaned over me, her hair tickling my face, while she sang something soft and tender.
— Loki, my little one, are you awake? — she whispered, and by her voice I understood that this was my mother — Frigga. And from that knowledge, warmth spread through me, and it became easier to breathe.
Everything blurred before my eyes and a new scene appeared — me sitting on the knee of an enormous one-eyed man. His beard smelled of smoke, and the arm that held me was heavy, yet it held me carefully and gently, trying not to cause pain. He was teaching me to hold a toy sword. I puffed and strained, but the sword was heavy all the same. And my father laughed:
— Don't rush, little trickster, strength will come, but wit will remain. You are different from Thor, you have a different path. — The word "different" stung a little, but there was no anger in his voice, only a strange sort of pride.
The scene froze again, faded into haze, and in its place a new memory — the two of us running through the palace corridors, Thor and I. He was stockier than me, taller, always red-faced and sweaty as if fresh from a bathhouse. He loved barbarically whacking his stick against the columns, pretending to slay dragons. I ran behind him trying to trip him so he wouldn't get too big-headed, and sometimes it worked — brother crashed to the floor and we both laughed like lunatics. Thor called me brother, and I liked that, even if he was sometimes too loud, and at times outright dense — but when he stood up for me against the older kids who teased me for being skinny, I was ready to forgive him everything.
Next frame, an evening in our mother's chambers. Frigga brushed my hair — she just ruffled Thor's mop — but with me she sat for a long time, clearly because she loved me more. In her hands was a glowing thread, which she waved before my eyes, leaving a luminous trail in the air.
— Magic, Loki, — whispered the Queen of Asgard. — It is the fabric of the world, far more powerful than one can imagine. Do you feel it?
I reached for the thread; it singed my fingers with cold, but it wasn't painful — more pleasant than anything. Thor in the corner was already snoring, his head dropped onto the table.
— Thor is strong, — Frigga continued, gently guiding me. — But you will be wise. Never forget that.
The last picture — I had just turned six. I stood on a balcony looking at the Rainbow Bridge as it shimmered with every color, stretching off into infinity. Thor came up behind me and nudged me with his shoulder.
— Are you bored? — he asked, but I said nothing, irritated by his bluntness. Seeing that I didn't react, he didn't give up and tried again — he put his heavy paw on my head and declared, — Don't be bored, brother, the two of us will always be together, and once we've grown just a little, we'll conquer all the worlds! — The sheer stupidity of it made me unable to hold back a smile, while inside a thought was already taking shape: "But what if I don't want to conquer anything? What if I just want to live, and for everyone to stay alive?"
And at that moment I was sharply flung back out, like a cork from a bottle. I lay on the same bed, on the same silk, and felt tears running down my cheeks. From the surge of love for these people, or from the realization that these weren't Loki's memories but my own? Because I am Loki.
Staring blankly at the ceiling — which was entirely unbecoming of a young and doubtlessly future greatest of Gods — I tried to collect my thoughts. So, what do we have: First, I, Alexander, fell to my death, and judging by the cold I felt at the end, I died thoroughly. Second, I was reborn and became the son of Odin, a six-year-old prince-toddler with a budding obsession with proving himself to the world. Third, I now have two sets of memories in my head: from my past life — twenty years of St. Petersburg rain, dormitory life, and odd jobs — and memories of my new self, Loki — six years in a golden palace with a loving mother, a stern but just father, and a dense-but-kind brother.
I tried to take stock of my condition. I wiggled my toes, my hands — the body obeyed well enough, but it was small, light, and nothing like my clumsy twenty-year-old one. One long breath in, one short breath out... I'd really gotten myself into something here. Or, on the contrary, what a stroke of luck had fallen on me. I'm Loki, the God of Mischief, who knows his own story perfectly well — from the comics we used to read back in the dorm, and from the movies we'd sometimes run through the night.
And that's when the old memory kicked into full gear, sorting through the facts. According to the comics, Loki was not actually Odin's son at all, but the son of Laufey, King of the Frost Giants of Jotunheim. Odin had found him as an infant after the war and taken him as a trophy, hoping to use him for diplomacy. And when the truth came out — and it would come out, no great wisdom needed to see that — it would shatter Loki to pieces. He would feel not merely an outsider, but a counterfeit, a toy in the hands of someone who had spent a whole lifetime pretending to be his father. And that would spiral into such a mess that heaven help us. He would try to seize Asgard, kill Thor, destroy Jotunheim. He would constantly teeter between villainy and anti-heroism. And the most galling part — he would always be in Thor's shadow. Thor, the hero. Loki, the cunning trickster whom no one fully trusted.
From the cinematic universe it was more of the same, but even more brutal. In the first Avengers film, the Hulk grabbed him by the leg and just — smashed him into the floor like a ragdoll. I even remembered that stupid line everyone kept repeating: "Puny god." And when Thor tried to save him and Loki fell into the void anyway? And the look in his eyes then — broken, lost. And then his mother was killed. He grieved genuinely that time, and that was probably his most human reaction of all. But then everything went downhill again.
And so I lay there realizing: that guy's fate was one hell of a raw deal. His whole life he searched for himself, tried to prove he was no worse than Thor, that he was loved — and then sabotaged it all himself with his distrust and craving for recognition. Loki was a brilliant strategist but an absolute zero in personal relationships.
And then a thought pierced through me. Bright as the Bifrost — why on earth would I want to repeat any of that? Why become that bitter, twitchy wreck who ends up dying at Thanos's hands? Or who endlessly swings between good and evil like a weather vane in the wind?
I know the script. I know exactly what blood runs through my veins, which means I'm learning this not at the most traumatic possible moment, but in advance, like reading classified files. I know that magic is a real power that can and must be mastered. I know that Thor is not a dim-witted hammer-swinger but a brother who loves me, and that love is not something to throw away. And honestly, he's a decent guy even if he gets arrogant sometimes — he can be taught a lesson, sure, but a friendly one, purely as preventive maintenance, so he doesn't get too big for his boots.
The decision came instantly and finally. I would become the best Loki of all possible Lokis — a true, charismatic God of Mischief. Not the petty nuisance who irritates everyone, but someone who would be both respected and loved. I would be cunning but not treacherous, I would play my own games, but in a way where all the right people came out winners in the end, and I would build such a position where I simply could not be written off.
But for that, I needed to start small, from the very foundation. Right — today was my first real magic lesson with Frigga. Magic! Asgardian magic, flowing through the veins of gods, capable of working miracles. This was the key to everything. If I applied myself fully from childhood, if I put everything into it from the very start, I could dodge a mountain of problems.
The excitement gave me strength. As quickly as a six-year-old body allowed, I jumped out of bed. My legs were still a bit unsteady, as if I were relearning how to walk. But that was fine, I'd get used to it.
I looked around. The room I'd woken up in was mine — wooden figurines of warriors, little ships, books with golden spines, and in the corner a training dummy with a child's leather armor set beside it.
I ran to the large water basin and splashed my face several times, washing away the last of the sleep. I looked at my reflection. Staring back at me from the water was a dark-haired, slender boy with pale skin and green eyes. In them I recognized something not only of Loki, but also of a Russian student.
The clothes had been laid out the night before. A clean linen shirt, soft leather trousers, light boots. I dressed quickly, fumbling with the ties, but muscle memory did its job — the body knew how.
I flew out into the corridor, which at first glance seemed endless. Gold, marble, and tall columns. Everything gleamed and shimmered, the beauty was incredible, but I had no time for it now. I needed to get to the garden, the route to which, going by memory, was: left down the main gallery, then down the wide staircase, through the inner courtyard and to the side door.
I ran as if the world were on fire. The speed was, in truth, a child's speed, but respectable for my size. At one of the turns I collided with two guards, literally flying between them.
— Careful, my prince! — rumbled one of them, smiling into his bushy moustache. Both simultaneously thumped their fists against their breastplates in salute. — Good luck with your studies!
I barely had time to properly reply before my legs carried me onward.
— Thank you! — I shouted over my shoulder as I ran, and the two of them exchanged knowing looks and, it seemed to me, chuckled.
At last I burst out of the palace and found myself in something like paradise — Asgardian-style. The air was thick and sweet, smelling of a thousand flowers. Lush greenery everywhere: trees with golden leaves, bushes with glowing berries, and flowers of colors never seen before. And above it all shone Asgard's soft golden-and-starlit sky.
I crossed the lawn and spotted a white gazebo covered in ivy with blue buds, where my mother sat at a polished stone table. In person she was even more beautiful than in the memories — warmth and light radiated from her so strongly that you relaxed automatically and stopped worrying or panicking.
She wore an elegant pale golden dress, her hair arranged in an elaborate style. In her hands was some scroll, and she looked at me with that soft, all-understanding smile of hers, as always. I ran up, out of breath, stopped in front of her and tried to catch my breath.
— Mom... — I straightened my clothes, but it came out awkward. — Am I late? Can we start already? — And I looked at her with such hope that from the outside I probably looked ridiculous, but I was genuinely trembling with impatience. Magic wasn't mathematics or language class — this was my ticket to a future where I controlled my own fate.
Frigga tilted her head slightly to one side, her smile growing wider:
— You are right on time, my dear, — she said warmly. — I'm glad you hurried so — it means you have a true interest in magic.
The Queen of Asgard paused, studying me carefully.
— What is it that draws you to it, Loki?
I hesitated a moment. Tell her the truth? That I want to become the greatest of gods and rewrite my own destiny? No, that was something no one should ever hear.
— It... it gives you the power to choose, — I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. — Thor is strong, and that's wonderful, but he can only break things. Magic, on the other hand, lets you do everything. Protect, help, change. It's like a key to all the doors at once.
Frigga nodded, satisfied, but then shook her head slightly, a shadow of concern crossing her eyes.
— You are right, my clever boy. Magic is a key, and its absence can lock doors shut. Thor... — the woman sighed softly. — He has no interest in it whatsoever, convinced that his hammer and strength will resolve everything. But the world is more complicated than that, and because of it he may face great troubles in the future.
— Mom, let me drag him along next time! — I burst out enthusiastically, seeing how much it bothered her that Thor was skipping lessons on such an important matter. — We'll channel all that brute strength into something educational for once, otherwise he's going to be a completely uneducated layabout.
I pulled a comically outraged face, and Frigga laughed quietly.
— Oh, Loki, — she shook her head, but smiled this time. — Brothers must always stand together, you are each other's foundation. Never forget that.
— Of course, Mom, — I said, smiling warmly and as sincerely as I could manage. — I'll be as brotherly as brotherly gets, I give you my word.
And inwardly I was practically shaking with anticipation. Brotherly, yes. I'd be brotherly. Just as soon as I learned a spell or two. I rubbed my hands together in my mind. Oh, Thor, little brother, you have absolutely no idea how many entertaining situations await you. Slip some nettles into his armor? Make his training sword weightless for just a moment when he's swinging it around in front of Father? Or make his helmet start talking to him in an irritating voice right in the middle of a parade? The possibilities of magic were limitless, and brotherly love would only grow stronger from a healthy sense of humor. The main thing — don't overdo it, so he doesn't feel genuinely hurt, but understands that I love him and that this is just how I express it.
Frigga either noticed nothing, or noticed but decided it was simply a child's excitement. She gestured for me to sit across from her on the soft cushion resting on the bench inside the gazebo.
— Good, — said my mother, turning serious again. — Then let us begin your first real lesson. Remember, Loki, what I'm about to tell you now is more important than all the spells you will ever learn. This is the foundation upon which everything is built — and not only in Asgard.
I froze and stared at her, ready to absorb every word with my entire being.
— Asgardian magic, my son... is nothing like the sorcery practiced by mortal wizards in Midgard or the dark elves in Svartalfheim. It does not come from nothing, and it is not fed by evil or good. Our magic is life itself — the breath of the World Tree, Yggdrasil.
She raised her hand, and a thin, glowing golden thread began to spiral between her fingers.
— Do you see? This is a fragment of Asgard's own power, the power of our lineage flowing through all of us. Every Asgardian is born with a spark of this magic in their blood. In some it barely smolders, granting only long life and strength. But in others... — Mother snapped her fingers, and the thread transformed into a small, perfectly formed flower that floated gently down onto the table before me. — ...in others it can blaze into flame, or in your case, — the woman looked me directly in the eyes, — become an endless source of cunning and transformation. Because our magic is tied closely to our very nature — it amplifies what is already within. Thor's power will manifest in lightning and storms, because there is a storm inside him, and your power will manifest in...
— Deception? — I cut in, perhaps a bit too sharply.
Frigga shook her head, gently but reproachfully.
— In change, Loki. In illusions, in shapeshifting, in the ability to see different paths. This is not deception in the sense you are thinking — rather it is the ability to show the world a side it did not expect to see. Or conversely to hide what it must not see. But the power you will be given will be dangerous if you do not understand the most important thing. — She took my hand in her warm ones. — The magic of Asgard is a union with it. You become part of the pattern woven by the Norns, and to truly work magic, you must feel around you not emptiness, but the living body of Yggdrasil — whose roots extend invisibly deep into every world, and whose branches touch the stars. And each time you work magic, you will be touching those roots.
Her eyes glowed with a gentle light.
— That is why the first step in magic is not to learn words or trace runes. The first step is to learn to listen. Close your eyes, Loki, don't be afraid. Simply close them and listen with your very being. Feel how the power pulses in the stones of this gazebo, how every flower in this garden breathes, how golden light flows through the sky above us. And try to distinguish yourself within that current. Find the boundary between "you" and "the world." And then try to blur it — just a little.
I obediently closed my eyes. At first there was simply darkness, then sound reached me — a quiet, barely perceptible hum, as though a great transformer were running somewhere deep underground. Then the warmth of the sun was added to it, the coolness of the stone, the rustling of leaves — but this wasn't quite it, I needed to find the very essence... the essence...
And suddenly the world around me ceased to be a mere collection of sensations. I felt that the stone of the gazebo was not dead matter — a slow, heavy, ancient force moved through it. The flowers pulsed faster and brighter; their lives were short but intense. And somewhere far away, beyond the garden, beyond the palace, beyond the golden sky, I sensed something colossal. Something enormous, alive, permeating everything — the tree of Yggdrasil.
I felt like a grain of sand on the shore of an ocean that was also a part of me. My body, my sense of "I," seemed no longer quite so solid. The boundaries truly began to blur. For a moment I stopped understanding where I ended and the flower began — the one I had unwittingly touched on the table.
— Good, — whispered Frigga's voice from somewhere both far away and close at once. — I can feel that you understood. Open your eyes, my little sorcerer.
I opened my eyes as instructed and noticed that the world around me had become somewhat different — more layered, somehow. Every leaf, every beam of light now held some new, deeper meaning for me.
— You have just taken the first and most important step, — my mother told me with a gentle smile. — You have come to understand that magic is the fabric, and you are the needle. On its own, a needle sews nothing — it needs thread and fabric. The needle only guides. Your body and your will are the needle, the power of Asgard and Yggdrasil is the thread, and the world around you is the fabric. Now we will learn how to make the stitches properly, so the pattern comes out beautiful and not ragged. And our first lesson today will be...