I see a new world rising. Green
And lovely from the ocean.
Mountains rise, bright torrents flow,
Eagles hunt for salmon.
Of course, that could have been another of the Oracle’s tricks: a misdirection to keep us in Hope, and therefore prolong our torment. With the passing of time, that World seemed increasingly out of reach. Watching through Dream became almost too painful for us to bear. The new World of the Prophecy was not for us, we understood. Its mountains and its rivers were for other gods to rule and enjoy. One by one, we succumbed to despair; we closed our eyes to the green world.
But demons are tougher in some ways than gods. And though I missed corporeal form (especially the food, sleep, and sex), my primal state was discorporate. Boredom was as much my foe as torment in that darkness, and with nothing left to hope for, what else was there to do but watch?
And so I watched as a new World was found. I watched as a man set foot on the Moon. I watched the rise of the paperback, the movies, computers, video games. And those little pockets of brightness, instead of disappearing, grew. Still, our stories stayed alive, and little by little, I began to believe once more in the possibility of escape. That’s why, when it came at last, I was the one who saw the means of breaching Pandaemonium. I could do it; I knew I could. I would use my powers of persuasion to negotiate with my torturer. And by the time Chaos realized they had a jailbreak on their hands, Dream would be swimming with damaged gods trying to find their way back to the light.
The tricky part was explaining the situation to the snake. Jormungand wasn’t the brightest spark. These concepts were beyond him. But he did understand the idea of escape—the essential concept of freedom—and that was what I sold him, gradually, and over time, until at last I saw my chance and made a break for the river Dream.
Of course, it was a dangerous move. There was no certainty I’d survive. But the silvery skein of hope was the strongest I’d ever seen. Thousands—millions—of the Folk, all sharing the same dream—it seemed impossible, and yet, that’s precisely what it was. You see, just like the Worlds themselves, the Folk and their dreams had expanded. Television, computer games, e-books, apps, all these concepts I’d glimpsed in the dark had come together to make a world in which dreams could not just be shared, but manipulated. And the river Dream runs through that, too, that world they call the internet—a fitting term for a medium able to catch the gods themselves. And so I took the plunge, and found myself crossing through Dream and into a bubble-World so dense that it almost felt like reality.
Understand that the worlds of Dream are as varied as the stars. Some are as distant as the stars, and as inhospitable. But this was a world that might have been built for our very purpose. Have you ever had a dream that seemed so real, when you awoke, you found yourself refusing to believe that you were even awake at all? A dream so potent you found yourself not even questioning it? Well that was what this bubble was like. So bright, so clear that even memory seemed to pale in comparison. Best of all, it was familiar, from the taint of sulphur in the air, to the curtain of Northlights in the sky—nostalgic, unforgettable—
In short, the bubble was Asgard.
There was the Sky Citadel, standing tall with Bif-rost arching towards it. There was Valhalla, and Odin’s high seat with Hugin and Munin, his ravens, soaring above it. There was the world of the Folk down below, and Ida’s plain all flowered and green beneath a sky of the shade of blue that only exists in memories. And far away, on the horizon, there was a shimmer of something more, something that shone as bright as the sun, all swimming with colours and runelight.
For a moment I stood in Aspect on the parapet of the Sky Citadel. The air smelt like the ocean and the flowers from Idun’s garden. I knew it was a dream, and yet it felt so powerful—surely beyond the power of any human to sustain. Once more, I looked at that glow in the sky. Tangled with runelight, it beckoned and shone like a luminous, living thing. Had one of the gods survived? Had Gullveig-Heid escaped Ragnarók? Could this be a new god, dreaming a new World into being?
Then I looked up, and it hit me. Printed across the sky in words that must have been a thousand feet high, words that, like the Bif-rost of old, were made up of millions of tiny runes, coded together to create something vast and unbreakable, I read:
CHOOSE YOUR CHARACTER.
And I knew. This wasn’t a dream at all. I was in a computer game.
3.
Its name was Asgard!™—with an exclamation mark, like a fifties musical, and that little rune alongside, as if somehow to prove ownership. The premise, to hold the Sky Citadel against an assault from our enemies—Ice Folk, Rock Folk, renegade demons, and so forth. There were a number of possible ways to play, according to character. You could play a Warrior (Thor), a General (Odin), or a Warrior Princess (Freyja), depicted as a generic female in impossibly scanty armour.
I know. You’d have thought that in a World as advanced as this one, such gross misrepresentation would have been inconceivable. I mean seriously. Freyja? If I’d created a game in which Elder Age gods came back to life, I certainly wouldn’t have chosen her. Not that she couldn’t fight when she had to, but Freyja was always too touchy for words, besides not being a fan of mine. Still, there were plenty of things about this game that I wouldn’t have planned myself, least of all the fact that I was clearly one of the bad guys. I mean, talk about stereotyping. Of course the guy from Chaos would be representing the black hats. And representing them, I observed, in the most one-dimensional way, complete with manic laughter and the most impractical headgear I’d ever encountered, even in dreams.
Still, minor inaccuracies aside, it seemed like a pretty cool game. In fact, there was a whole world to be discovered in there: battles with giants, problems to solve, goblin minions to destroy, unlikely treasures to be found, a quest to reawaken a group of sleeping comrades buried under a layer of ice with as its primary objective being the eventual defeat of the boss monster (me) and the reclaiming of Asgard.
I’ll admit, it gave me the chills. So familiar, and yet so strange. But to me, the important thing was that during the course of this extraordinary game, the player seemed to enter a dream-state of intense suggestibility, becoming his character: speaking his lines, maybe even sharing his thoughts. And that’s where the gulf between the Worlds narrowed to the point at which you could almost reach—
I looked into that blameless sky.
“YOU HAVE CHOSEN THOR,” it loudly announced. Martial music began to play. I looked around, only to see all the goblin minions rushing to take cover as something appeared on the horizon. Something fast. Something big. Something that made the ground shake.
Ah.
The basic premise of this game seemed to be adversarial in nature. “YOU HAVE CHOSEN THOR,” it said. And sure enough, coming over Bif-rost was the Thunderer, in Aspect, wielding his great hammer, his face twisted into a pretzel of rage—
I grabbed at the nearest minion. It was a goblin of some kind, more or less the size of a large dog, its furry face half hidden beneath an oversize round helmet.
“What the hell is this?” I said.
The minion goggled at me from eyes of luminous, wedding-ring gold. For a moment I wondered if it could speak. Then it squeaked, “Let me go, Captain, let me go! I didn’t do nuffink! It wasn’t me!”
I held it fast by the scruff of the neck. “What’s happening? How do you know me?”
The goblin looked surprised. “Everyone knows you, Captain,” it said as if I’d said something ludicrous. “Quick, you gotta get ready! It’s Thor!”
I took a moment to process it all. Apparently I had assumed the Aspect of my counterpart in this strangely familiar game. And my adversary was Thor, the Thunderer, in person. I wasn’t what you’d call thrilled at the thought. The last time we’d met hadn’t been much fun. The Oracle describes it as follows—and trust me, poetic licence doesn’t enter into it.
Now the snake that binds the world
&n
bsp; Strikes in rage at wrathful Thor.
Thunderer wins the battle, but falls
To the monster’s raging maw.
Which means, in layman’s terms, that Thor had fallen to Jormungand, my monstrous, ungrateful offspring—which made for a certain awkwardness now as he suddenly caught sight of me. Of course, this wasn’t really Thor. The real Thor was somewhere in Netherworld, still trapped in his own personal hell; but this Thor had the red beard, the hammer, and the ultraviolence, as well as the apparent desire to make mince of Yours Truly. He also had a kind of corset made from shining metal, which I thought looked rather silly, and a helmet with horns on, which made him look like a giant cow.
Even so, I wasn’t keen to feel his hands around my neck. And so I dropped the goblin and both of us sprinted for cover. I made for Asgard’s nearest wall, whilst trying to work out what weapons I had. Apparently, I was unarmed. Not even a broken runemark. Not that the Thunderer cared about that—apparently this version of him was a stranger to the Queensberry Rules. I ducked beneath a parapet just at the moment when Mjølnir smashed into the massive wall only inches from my head—accompanied by a brief fanfare from an invisible orchestra—while at the same time I heard his voice roaring like a hurricane:
“FLEE, THOU CREATURE OF CHAOS, BEFORE THE MIGHT OF THOR, THE THUNDERER!”
Yeah. I had to laugh at that. Even Bragi, the Bard, who had written some cheesy lines in his time, would have balked at that one.
“I SHALL REND THEE LIMB FROM LIMB,” continued Meta-Thor. “TONIGHT, I SHALL FEAST IN VALHALLA, AND PICK MY TEETH WITH THY SHARPENED BONES!”
The language was ridiculous. But I had to admit, the sentiment was Thor. I decided to make a run for it over Asgard’s battlements, then maybe shift to bird Aspect until the big guy had settled down; but as I did, I realized that this version of me might not even have the power to shift Aspect. I turned towards the goblin, who was sidling hopefully in the opposite direction.
“You. Stay.”
The goblin pulled a face.
I flinched as, once more, Mjølnir crashed into the parapet, sending a massive plume of black smoke and pulverized rock into the glittering air. I flung up my arm to shield my eyes, and just managed to catch hold of the goblin, who was sidling away again.
“What weapons do I have? What glam?”
The goblin goggled at me idiotically.
“Don’t tell me I have nothing,” I said, considering for a moment the possibility of holding the creature over my head and using it as some kind of shield. “This game, this battle—this World—has rules. What chance do I have if I’m unarmed?”
The goblin gave a whole-body shrug. “Well, you are the Trickster,” it said. “You’ve got a bunch of tricks you can use.”
“What kind of tricks?” I said.
“I dunno,” said the goblin. “You’re the god, remember? I’m just a minion of evil.”
I sketched a runeshape in the air, without any great expectation. Somewhat to my surprise, there was a fanfare—and a shining disk of silvery light sprang into being in midair a foot or so from my face.
Just in time, too. Mjølnir had flown back to Meta-Thor’s hand and now came hurtling at me. It struck hard, but the disk held. I wondered what other powers I had. I sensed they might not be enough to defeat the Thunderer, but all I needed was the chance to connect with the mind of whoever was currently playing the game. I tried a delaying tactic: raised my voice, called out to Meta-Thor.
“Er, can we talk about this?” I said.
Meta-Thor looked a little confused.
I tried a different idiom. “I prithee, O brother, O Mighty One. Er—look, could we possibly do this some other time?”
I started to edge away from him, keeping the silver shield raised. It was starting to fail, I could tell; whatever glamour gave it power was beginning to lose its substance. The goblin gave me an anxious glance and started sidling away again. But Thor had started to move, and I had to pursue my argument.
“I mean, quite apart from the fact that this isn’t Asgard, you’re not actually Thor, and I could use some help here—” I addressed this final plea to the universe in general as that damned fanfare came again, the silver disk winked out of existence, and Meta-Thor, with a howl of triumph, hurtled towards me, Mjølnir in hand, ready to smash me against the wall—
I attempted to summon the shield again, but instead of a fanfare, it simply produced a sad little twanging sound, as if I’d stepped on Bragi’s lute. I raised both my arms, thought of Asgard, and—
Fanfare.
A small, spinning runebolt struck Meta-Thor right between the eyes, making him stagger backwards.
Ah, I thought. I have mindbolts, too. Pity I don’t know how they work.
Meta-Thor recovered fast. But I had used my time wisely. Running along the parapet towards the High Seat of Odin, I vaulted over a low wall, ducked behind a stone arch, climbed a set of spiral steps, and found myself some thirty feet or so above the head of Meta-Thor, balanced on a platform that seemed to be made of fossilized wood. I tried for another mindbolt, but was once more rewarded with the mournful lute-twang of failure. I looked around for the goblin, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Meta-Thor took a mighty leap and grabbed me by the hair. Ouch. So, I could feel actual pain in this odd little bubble-World. Interesting in principle, but not something I was eager to pursue in practice.
“Snap out of it,” I told him. “This is a dream, remember? All this is ephemera, reflections of reality.”
Meta-Thor’s pretzel face took on an expression of enhanced confusion.
“We already lost Asgard,” I said. “You fell to the World Serpent.”
Meta-Thor gave a low growl, but he hadn’t killed me—yet.
“Remember that?” I told him. “Remember the smoke rising from the plain? The bonfires on the battlefield? The Sun and the Moon gone from the sky, and nothing but Bif-rost to light our way? Remember that?”
That growl again. But now I thought it held a plaintive, questioning note.
“Don’t blame me. I fell too,” I went on, feeling his grip on me weaken. “That smug bastard Heimdall punched me, and we fell together. Remember how Odin fell to the Wolf, and you avenged him? Remember that? Remember the stench of blood in the air?”
Meta-Thor made a half-hearted move to raise the hammer in his hand. But his eyes were that of a sad dog that doesn’t know whether to bark or to bite.
I turned to happier memories. “And what about that time we went with Odin to see the midnight Sun? We ended up in Utgard-Loki’s hall, and got our asses properly kicked? Remember the eating competition, and when you wrestled the old crone?”
The big guy was paying attention now. I started to feel a stab of hope. “Or what about the time you had to dress as a bride? And I was there as your bridesmaid, and you ate all the little cakes and drank two barrels of mead to yourself? Or what about the time Skadi wanted to take my head, and I made her laugh by tying my balls to a goat? You laughed like a drain. We all laughed. Good times. Remember that?”
Thor put down the hammer. His hand on my hair was almost a caress. Plus, he seemed to be trying to think, an unusual task for the Thunderer, requiring a great deal of energy. I pressed my advantage further.
“Just think of all those times we shared in Asgard, as it was,” I said. “All those barrels of mead you drank. All the times we laughed and cried. Even that hammer in your hand, you owe to me. Remember now?” (I hoped he didn’t remember the precise circumstances of the gift, a complicated story that, as you may recall, included my sleeping with his wife, then cutting off her golden hair in a moment of post-coital madness.)
Moving rapidly on, I said, “This is me, man. Loki. Your friend. Brother in blood to the General. The guy who saved Asgard a dozen times. And now, in the teeth of Chaos, I’ve found a way to help us again. All you need is to trust me. All you need is to let me in.”
I thought I saw a glimmer now in the eyes of Meta-Thor. Something not q
uite awareness, but something other than murderous rage. Had the Thunderer followed me as I slipped Pandaemonium’s bonds? Was this creature in front of me ephemeral, or something more? A prisoner, released from the pit, slowly returning to consciousness?
“Trust me,” I repeated. “I’ve always come through for you in the end. It may have taken longer this time, but I always have a plan. So trust me now, and I swear I’ll be back. For you, the Old Man—everyone.”
For a second, he looked at me. “Swear it on your name,” he growled. “Swear your oath—on all your names.”
I raised my hands and swore the oath. Frankly, I wasn’t exactly in a position to refuse.
Meta-Thor gave a heavy sigh. “Go, then,” he said. “And remember your vow.”
And on that, he opened his big fist and, releasing me, I fell to the ground in a cloud of fragmented ephemera, while all around me the fanfare played, and the letters in the sky above proclaimed in a tumult of Northlights:
LEVEL 1 UNLOCKED
GAME OVER!
And I was reborn into flesh.
4.
Gods, what a feeling. What a trip. I swear there’s nothing like it. Emerging like a newborn from Dream into a living body, feeling that rush of sensations—heat, cold, hunger, lust, exhilaration, appetite—seeing colours, hearing sounds—no, there’s nothing like it. Which is why it didn’t occur to me until a little later that there was something very slightly odd about the whole experience.
When Odin first called me from Chaos, I determined my own Aspect: that of a young man with red hair and a certain louche charm. When rescued from bondage by Gullveig-Heid, restored to the height of my powers, I naturally resumed my corporeal form. But this time it was different. This time, I had no corporeal form, no glam to create one. Yet here I was, in the physical world, in a physical body.