Odin hung for nine days, nine nights, but Loki was bound for a thousand years. His wrists and ankles were held with magic chains, created from the entrails of his own son. Numbing pain the likes of which no man or god had ever known became his condemnation, as he waited, bound to a cavern in the bowels of the Worlds.

Each day, for a hundred human lifetimes, he had felt poison drip into his flesh. His roars of anguish echoed through the bedrock of existence, his black mane covering his own eyes from the darkness around.

But they were not cries of defeat.

Each night, he and his wife Sigyn, ancient goddess of victory, cursed the names of those who bound them. For a thousand years, through screams of pain, Loki planned his revenge.

And then, one day, the core of the world shook, the entire planet rumbled, stones cascaded down from the cavern, the ground opened, and his laughter echoed along with his pain.

Sigyn clung to his body, her eyes in a frenzy of fear and anger.

“Do not weep!” shouted Loki, as the ground shook again, making him writhe and twist. With a thunderous roar, an entire section of the cavern collapsed in front of him. Stone and dust raised as its aftermath.

“Do not fear, my bride, my victory,” he exclaimed. “These are the drums of freedom, these are my rescuers. See? They are freeing us, my love!”

Giant stones crumbled before him, the entire world clattered, and a mountain flattened on top of him. And yet, Loki stood, for he was a Jotun, a giant of a more ancient race, stronger than mankind. He laughed beneath the rubble, his flesh maimed, wounds caressing his flesh. He gathered strength, the strength he had kept throughout his agony, he pushed the stones through grunts and anger. He climbed back up, chains bound to his wrists, but with no mountain to hold him down.

The moon shone bright in the center point of the universe, at the base of Yggdrasil itself, so bright that it made him flinch.

A lithe hand stood out from the rubble. The Lord of Chaos went down and lifted stone after stone, until his goddess was free. He lifted her in both arms, the wind of the netherworld making her golden hair flutter.

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“Awake, Sigyn, my loyal bride, my fire, my victory,” he said reverently.

And then he laughed, looking down at her bride, glorious blonde-red hair and the scars of a thousand deaths and a thousand curses, none of which marred the beauty of her features.

“Awake, my love. This is no day to mourn,” he hissed. “This is no day of rest.”

Sigyn opened her eyes softly, her blue eyes fixing on him.

“My beloved, my god,” she said, placing her palm on his naked chest, long fingernails scratching his skin. “My god, we are…”

“We are free,” Loki hissed. “We are free to do justice on the Nine Worlds, justice at last. Justice, to burn them all and to burn all that they hold dear.”

She grinned widely, her eyes wide open.

“Yes!” Sigyn shouted through her teeth, with a voice that begged for bloodshed and revenge.

“I know,” Loki said with a grin. “We will make them pay. Every moment of my pain, every moment of this humiliation, they will experience a hundredfold.”

“Yes!” she shouted, her long nails clutching his forearms.

In that moment, a mighty roar raged in the center of the earth. Loki turned. The earth shook once again, while a black light covered the sky like a floating mist. As it drew closer, its shape became clear. The ship had been released; a black ship that floated through the Nine Worlds, carrying an army of Jotun, of ancient giants, rulers of the cosmos before the Aesir founded Asgard. An army for him to lead; to take Asgard once and for all, to burn it to the ground.

Loki smiled.

A figure towered above the ship, tall and proud, broad shoulders and a mane of gray hair that fluttered with the raging wind.

“Hrymr!” Loki shouted.

The figure leapt with powerful, superhuman legs and descended like a rock falling down a mountain, landing on one knee before Loki.

“My lord,” the Jotun said. He lifted his face, pale like a block of ice, almost translucent, and eyes like blue sapphire, his features were sharp and hair like gray wool.

“Brother,” said Loki. “Friend, you have no idea how much have I waited for this day.”

Hrymr carried a bundle wrapped in leather. He unfurled it, revealing a black staff and a golden spear with emblazoned runes. He threw the staff at Loki, who grabbed it with a regal gesture and whirled it. He swung it and it became a sword of flame, illumining the sky around him, which he turned to break his chains at last. He whirled it again, turning it into a long spear, then back into a staff. It was Laevateinn, Loki’s magic wand, capable of taking any shape and generating endless magical power.

“How I’ve missed you, little thing,” Loki said, examining his weapon and talking to it as though it were alive. He chuckled. “Are you ready to kill some gods?”

Sigyn was on her knees, then leapt like a tiger and caught the golden spear, grinning wildly.

“Yes, my beloved,” Loki said. “I can’t wait to see you kill.”

Then, he looked at Hrymr. The Jotun seemed pleased, wth eagerness shinning in his eyes.

“The Thunderer is dead,” Hrymr said with a voice as deep as a gorge.

“I knew it,” Loki said. “The Norns have delivered. Every word they spoke was true. And now, let’s go, my friend. Let’s go and burn it all to dust. Let’s burn it all, so that time itself might burn away.”