Chapter 2. The First Spark
You know that feeling — the one where you're right on the edge of it? Where you can feel it in your skin, sense that the goal is just within reach, that one last push and it'll happen? That was exactly what I was experiencing right now, sitting in the gazebo across from Frigga, trying to "blur the boundaries" between myself and the world.
On one hand, everything was simple and clear. Mother explained things well — almost too well. I could feel that damned thread, feel the power pulsing in the stones and the flowers, feel the invisible tree breathing somewhere beyond the garden's edge. On the other hand, when I actually tried to do what she described — blur those boundaries and start creating — nothing happened.
— Don't rush, Loki, — Frigga's voice was calm and gentle. — You're trying to take by force what must come on its own. Relax. Imagine that you aren't creating something new, but simply allowing what already exists to manifest through you.
I sat with my eyes closed and felt like a complete idiot. Seriously — I was a twenty-year-old man, mentally at least, one who had survived a construction site, death, rebirth, and the realization that he was now a Norse prince — and I couldn't manage one simple thing. I couldn't materialize a glowing ball of light.
— You're doing it, — Mother spoke again, and I had absolutely no idea how she could possibly know that. — I can feel how close you are. Just a little more. — Right. Magic. How had I forgotten about that.
Breathing out, I tried again. I imagined that my palm was an extension of that golden thread which had spiraled between Frigga's fingers, that power flowed through my veins the way blood did, and now it simply needed to come out — because that was what was supposed to happen.
— Good, — the woman whispered. — Now picture light. Warm and golden, like sunlight. Picture it gathering right there in the center of your palm.
I did my best to follow everything she said exactly. Honestly, with everything I had, I pictured that light. I strained so hard I thought I might accidentally accomplish something entirely different. I even squeezed my eyes shut until sparks burst across my vision — and got nothing. Emptiness. Just the wind moving the leaves and the soft sound of Mother's breathing beside me.
— It's not working, — I muttered, opening my eyes. — Nothing's happening. Maybe I'm not capable of magic at all. Maybe Thor is right and it's all nonsense. — Or maybe I was just a useless Loki who couldn't even light a candle.
Frigga smiled gently and shook her head, then rose from her seat, walked around the table, and sat down beside me directly on the grass, taking my hands in hers.
— Loki, my boy, — she said quietly. — You are capable. I can see it. Your magic isn't like Thor's or the warriors'. It runs thinner and deeper, and because of that it asks for understanding rather than force. Stop wanting it. Start feeling it.
— What's the difference? — I asked, looking up at her.
— The difference is enormous. — Mother stroked my hair, and something about the gesture sent warmth spreading through me — probably the effect of being in a child's body. — To want is to try to seize, to hold, to force. To feel is to allow it to happen. Let's try something different. Close your eyes and simply listen to me.
I closed my eyes obediently. Frigga took my right hand, turned it palm-up, and rested her own hand on top of it.
— Imagine that you are a tree, — the Queen began in that same quiet, almost lulling voice. — Your legs are roots. They reach deep into the earth, into the stone, into the very foundation of Asgard, drinking power from the heart of our world. Your body is the trunk, carrying that power upward to the branches, and your arms are the branches reaching toward the sun, the sky, toward Yggdrasil itself. And right now, at this very moment, that power flows through you. It rises from the earth, climbing up through your legs, through your body, through your arms… Do you feel it?
And the thing is — I actually felt it. Really felt it. Mother's words had gotten into me properly this time. At first it was barely a tingle in the soles of my feet, the way a limb feels when it's fallen asleep. Then warmth, pleasant and slow, spreading up through my shins, my thighs, my stomach, my chest — and when it reached my hands, I had the distinct impression that my fingers had begun to glow from the inside.
— And now, — Frigga's voice had dropped to barely a sound, as if she was afraid of startling something away, — simply let that light out.
The moment I followed her words, my palm lit up. Not dramatically — it wasn't a firework show on my hand. It was more that above my skin, a soft golden light had bloomed. Faint and trembling, like a candle flame in a breeze — but it was there. Real light. Coming from my own hand.
— Oh wow… — I breathed, opening my eyes and staring at my palm. — I mean… it worked?
— It worked, — Frigga smiled, and her eyes were bright with tears. Whether from joy or pride, I couldn't say. — You did it, Loki.
I stared at my hand, at that trembling little flame, and something inside me was close to bursting. I had actually done it. Me — Sasha, St. Petersburg student, whose greatest achievements had been frying eggs without burning them and winning at dominoes — was holding magic in his hand. Real Asgardian magic.
I lasted about ten seconds before I lost all composure.
I jumped to my feet, grabbed Frigga by the shoulders, and hugged her with everything my six-year-old body had. Threw my arms around her neck and shouted directly into her ear:
— Mom! Mom, I did it! It worked! Did you see?! I actually did it!
I bounced around her like something had caught fire in my chest, hugging her, bouncing, hugging again — and somewhere in there I was fairly certain I was crying, overwhelmed by everything at once. Frigga laughed, stroked my head and tried to calm me down, but I was so beside myself there was simply no reining it in. Then it hit me. I was a mentally grown man, jumping around a woman and screaming like a small child.
Well. Technically I was a small child. But the awareness still settled over me like a bucket of cold water.
I stopped dead, released her, and stepped back. My face went hot — hotter than that little spark of magic had been.
— Mom… sorry, — I mumbled at the middle distance, not quite meeting her eyes. — I just… lost it for a second. I was so happy that I… you know. Sorry.
Frigga looked at me with that soft expression of hers, stepped forward, cupped my face in her hands, and kissed my forehead. Gently. The way only a mother can.
— Silly boy, — she said quietly. — It is perfectly natural to rejoice in what you've achieved. Emotions are not weakness, Loki. They are what make us alive.
I sniffled and managed a small smile. Honestly — how could anyone argue with her?
— Even for princes? — I asked, just to check.
— Even for princes, — she laughed, bright and clear. — And even for future gods.
We stayed in the gazebo a while longer. I lit the light in my palm again, let it go, lit it again. It came easier each time — steadier, a little brighter. Frigga nodded and guided me on how to direct the flow of power. By the end of our small session, I could not only summon the light but shift its color — from gold to a faint greenish glow.
— Enough for today, — Frigga said at last, rising. — You've taken an enormous step. But now it's time for your training. Your father and brother are waiting.
I was on my feet before she finished the sentence, already remembering — right, fencing with Thor was scheduled around now. Right. Thor. Well. I couldn't show him much on the sparring ground just yet, the brute would flatten me one-handed without breaking a sweat, but still.
— I love you, Mom, — I said, hugging her quickly, and the words came out before I'd even decided to say them. They were simply true.
— And I love you, my little sorcerer, — she answered, kissing the top of my head. — Now go. Don't keep your father waiting.
I burst out of the gazebo and ran back toward the palace by a different path, cutting across the lawns, past flowering bushes and gold-leafed trees. The air smelled as sweet and clean as ever, the sky glowed with its soft Asgardian light, and everything inside me felt easy and warm. Had I been in a Disney film, I would absolutely have broken into song.
The palace welcomed me with coolness and grandeur. Running through the corridors now with a calmer head, I actually had the presence of mind to take in the details. Ceilings painted with scenes of battles and feasts, gold columns wound with carved stone vines. Tapestries along the walls depicting great heroes of ages past, and underfoot — marble tiles fitted together so perfectly that the seams were barely visible. The whole place breathed with age and power, and yet somehow it felt alive, not like a museum, the way these things usually do.
Guards appeared at every turn, though they no longer surprised me. Tall, gold-armored, faces serious, long spears at their sides. Each one thumped a fist against their breastplate at the sight of me and smiled. I nodded back and kept running.
The training courtyard wasn't hard to find — I shot through an archway into one of the inner yards and stopped dead on the threshold.
Now this was a training ground.
An enormous stone-paved space, its surface marked here and there by the scars of old strikes. Along the edges — weapon racks loaded with swords, axes, spears, shields, all of it abundant and all of it entirely serious. Training dummies stood in the center of the yard, so thoroughly battered that several were barely holding together. Benches lined the walls for observers, and the air carried the smell of iron and something else I could only describe as the spirit of martial dedication. Or just old leather and metal. But the first version sounded better.
The yard was already in use. Thor — red-faced, thoroughly drenched in sweat — was swinging a training sword at a moving target being operated by a servant on the far side. He was doing well, admittedly. The target dodged, but brother landed several solid hits on it. Solid by anyone's standards.
Beside him stood Odin. Tall, composed, dressed simply but finely, the patch over his eye, and Gungnir in hand — Father appeared to go nowhere without that spear. He was watching Thor with the particular look of quiet pride that seemed to be a permanent feature of his face. When he noticed me, he gave a nod and gestured me forward.
— Loki, — said the King, and his voice came out like a peal of distant thunder even though he wasn't raising it. — How was your lesson with your mother?
I walked over and stood beside him, watching Thor continue his assault on the target.
— It went well, Father, — I answered, keeping my voice steady. — I succeeded. I summoned light in my palm. Mother said it was good progress.
Odin looked at me with his single eye, and something warm crossed his expression.
— I know, — he said. — Frigga has already told me. I am glad for you, son. Magic is a great power.
— Thank you, Father, — I nodded.
Thor finished his exercise and jogged over to us, breathing hard — sweaty, disheveled, and deeply pleased with himself, like a large dog after a swim.
— Loki! — he boomed, slapping me on the shoulder hard enough that I nearly went sideways. — Well? Did you learn any magic? Show me a trick!
— It isn't a trick, it's magic, — I corrected him, rubbing my shoulder. — And yes, I learned. Soon I'll surpass you, brother.
He laughed, head thrown back, the sound enormous and entirely unrestrained. Infectious in other circumstances. Currently just slightly irritating.
— Never! — Thor declared once he'd recovered. — You will never surpass me! I am going to be the greatest warrior in all of Asgard!
— We'll see, — I said, and smiled.
Inwardly, I acknowledged the uncomfortable truth that physically he had every advantage over me. But magic wasn't about brute force. So — plenty of time.
— Enough talking, — Odin's voice cut through us both and we went still. — Take your weapons and show me what you've learned.
We went to the sword rack. Thor, without a moment's hesitation, grabbed the largest and heaviest one available. I picked something that suited me — lighter, shorter. I held it, tested the weight. Heavy. For a six-year-old, very heavy. The blades were training swords — dulled — but otherwise real. The kind you could genuinely hurt someone with, if you were determined about it.
— Begin, — Odin commanded, and we took our stances.
Thor came at me immediately, and he came at me hard. He swung with the wild aggression of someone who had decided that the point of swordfighting was to make the other person go away as fast as possible. He aimed high, aimed low, aimed for my legs. I dodged and blocked and tried to find openings for a counter. I even caught him twice — a glancing strike to the shoulder, one to the arm. But overall, I was simply overwhelmed. Thor was faster, stronger, and had stamina to spare. He had no subtlety and wasn't interested in developing any — he just pressed forward with weight and speed. A few minutes in, I was lying flat on the stone tiles, staring at the sky, waiting for my lungs to start working again.
— Good, — Odin said, and I hauled myself upright. — Thor — your aggression is commendable, but you are far too direct. Any experienced opponent will use that against you. Loki — your defense showed thought, but you lack the physical strength to sustain it. You both have work ahead of you.
Thor, still glowing with satisfaction, extended his hand to pull me up.
— Don't be down about it, brother, — he said cheerfully. — You'll get there eventually.
I dusted myself off and said nothing. Inside, frustration was building — but not at Thor. At myself. I was mentally older, smarter, more experienced. And he had just run over me like a cart over gravel. Fine. We would work on it.
— Axes next, — Odin announced, and we went back to the rack.
The axes were worse. They were simply not made for anyone built like me — heavy, unforgiving, requiring a base of physical strength I didn't have yet. Thor handled his like it weighed nothing. I could barely lift mine. Every time I tried to block one of his strikes, the shock traveled straight up my arms and left them numb. The outcome was the same as before: me on the ground, Thor standing over me, victory cry echoing off the stone walls.
— The axe is not your weapon, Loki, — Odin observed, without particular surprise. — But a warrior must know how to handle all of them. We continue.
The spear went better. It didn't demand the same brute strength — footwork mattered, and keeping distance, and timing. I actually managed to hit Thor several times while he was trying to close the gap. But when he finally did close it, he simply drove through my guard with his body weight and the spear went flying. Third defeat in a row.
Lying on the tiles, looking up at the golden sky, I thought: Well. They really worked me over. And we were both six. Six years old. When I was six, I was building sandcastles and rolling toy cars around the floor. This one was already swinging axes like a Viking who had been doing it for twenty years. These gods, honestly — everything runs on a different scale from birth.
Odin walked over and placed a hand on each of our shoulders. Thor's — easy and firm. Mine — slightly more careful, as though he was keeping the pressure calibrated.
— You both fought well, — the Allfather said, and pride was audible in his voice. — Thor, your strength grows with every passing day. Loki, you showed tenacity and cleverness. In time you will both become strong warriors of Asgard. A true foundation for this kingdom.
Thor practically lit up from the inside. He raised his fist toward the sky and shouted:
— I will be the greatest warrior and protect Asgard from all its enemies!
— We will grow stronger, Father, — I looked at Odin steadily and said it as evenly as I could manage. — And we will protect Asgard from whatever danger comes in the future.
Odin nodded, and for just a moment something moved in his single eye — something that looked like recognition. As though he knew things we didn't, or simply had decided that my seriousness was worth noting.
— Good, — said the King. — Training is over. See to yourselves — you may go eat or spend time with the servants. You have time before the evening meal. — He turned and walked away, unhurried and absolute in his composure, leaving the two of us standing in the middle of the yard, sweaty and tired and satisfied.
I looked at Thor, who had already forgotten about the fight entirely and was squinting at something across the courtyard.
— Thor, — I said, keeping my voice neutral. — Why haven't you been coming to the magic lessons? Mother invited you.
He turned and made a face so pronounced it could have been seen from the Bifrost — the face of someone being asked whether they'd like a bowl of worms.
— Magic? — he said, as though tasting the word and finding it deeply suspicious. — That's boring, Loki. Sitting there and imagining things, making lights… that isn't for real warriors. Skill and strength are what keep you alive on the battlefield! — He raised his arm toward the sky in a gesture clearly borrowed from Odin, and delivered this with such theatrical gravity that the effort of not rolling my eyes was physical.
I took a slow breath. He's six, I reminded myself. He's six and he's a child and this is how children think. Which was charitable of me, considering that at six I had been reading books, not staging dramatic monologues about strength and glory.
— Brother, — I said, in my most patient voice, — I'd genuinely recommend coming to the next lesson with Mother. For your own sake.
— Why?
— Because, — a pause, the kind that is supposed to make a person reflect on their choices, — there are things that can't be solved by force. One day you may find yourself in a situation where no weapon in the world would help you, but magic would.
Thor thought about it. By which I mean he furrowed his brow and scratched the back of his head. Then, apparently concluding that thinking was too much effort, he waved his hand.
— Sure, sure, sure, — he muttered, with the tone of someone technically agreeing while not listening to a single word. — Right, Loki. I have to go anyway. Baldur's waiting, we wanted to train and play.
He put his hands behind his head, started whistling something tuneless, and wandered off toward the palace. I watched him go.
Stubborn hammer-swinger. Fine. Time will tell.
I stood there a moment longer, straightened my clothes, and headed in the opposite direction.
The library.
If I was going to become the best possible version of Loki, I needed to study, and study seriously. And illusion magic was exactly where I needed to start. With that kind of knowledge I could protect myself, stay three steps ahead of everyone, and — admittedly — give Thor some very educational experiences along the way.
The Asgard library turned out to be an enormous hall with shelves that reached so high they seemed to disappear into the ceiling. Books, scrolls, manuscripts in quantities that staggered the eye, and the whole place smelled of old parchment, dust, and accumulated knowledge. Perfect.
I walked along the shelves, reading the spines. A History of Asgard in Twelve Volumes. Myths and Legends of the Nine Realms. Ancient Combat Techniques. Not it, not it. Then, finally, what I was looking for — a section labeled Magic and Sorcery.
— Right, let's see, — I muttered to myself, trailing a finger along the shelves. — Foundations of Illusory Magic. That'll do. Creating Realistic Images. Also useful. Concealment and Transformation. Now that — that is exactly what the doctor ordered.
I gathered a stack of ten books, which I barely managed to hold in my arms, carried them over to a table, settled in as comfortably as a six-year-old could, opened the first one, and disappeared into reading.