ÉNOUEMENT

LOKASENNA

WHAT THEY HATE about humanity is its permanence.

Not in the sense of time, because Loki knows that worms such as these will die and fade as their life giving star collapses into their selfishness, but the physical aspect of the human form is disgustingly indelible.

Loki shoves their way through the sweaty hallway and curses all who cross their path. They detest Midgard and all its vices, this body they inhabit included.

In quiet moments they will steal away and dream of the ease with which they once molded the fabric of reality. How they could trade hard edges for gentle curves, narrow hips for soft breasts. The Liesmith was both man and woman, god and goddess, because they desired it to be so.

On Earth, Loki has observed with growing disdain, you are one or the other, and when you choose to make the change it is an oath. Some are born as both but seem to live as one, and those who are neither are ostracized.

They see the children lost in a realm that can not or will not understand them, and Loki longs to scoop them up, ferry them off to a better world.

But the better world is gone.

In this life they are trapped. They are rough hands, sharp jaw, and the preciousness of womanhood is a wistful thought.

They remember what it was to carry a child, to feel the swell of soft life beginning, and it kills them.

"Move it, fag," a voice grumbles, and Loki is shoved to the side by one of the beasts they are forced to share this world with.

They catch a glimpse of the culprit and snort.

Tall and bulky, varsity jacket fitted snugly, shown off like a war prize. In their own time, this is the kind of boy who would have prayed to Thor and Tyr, asked them to grant him glory on the battlefield.

Here he seeks renown on a different sort of field, tests his strength with sport instead of sword.

This is not to say, however, that humans don't value their fights. Loki was never fond of their realm's own bloody pastimes, but on Midgard they seem to be even more glorified. Military recruitment starts younger here than it does on Asgard, uniformed men and women smiling with eyes either proud or broken as they shake the hands of children.

Loki ducks into the bathroom as the bell rings. This has become a usual part of their routine; spending lunch crammed into a filthy stall because they'd rather have to deal with numb legs than the cafeteria. They lock themselves in, sit down, and pull out their phone to text Sigyn.

By the time the year ends, I suspect you'll have to take me to a chiropractor to fix the damage.

She replies in seconds.

omg ur hiding in the bathroom again aren't u

Loki wrinkles their nose at her insistence on using modern texting slang.

I don't understand why you say "omg" when we are quite literally gods.

Though we are hardly that, they think.

omg it's just habit lol

...but srsly this is sad u need to get out more

Loki bites their lip and shoves their phone back in their pocket. They love Sigyn with all their heart, but it would be a lie to say that the ease with which she has adjusted to this new era didn't spark jealously deep within them.

Still, small blessings. At least in this life they have found her. Many times they have had to walk the Earth without feeling her touch or hearing her voice. Baldr, too, though Loki dares not approach him. Time does not heal all wounds. But for any piece of home they can find, they will be grateful. Their luck has not run out entirely, it seems.

When this cycle of death and rebirth first began after the gods' realm fell, each of them still clung to power. In Loki's second life, they were born a wily girl with bushy brown hair and ochre skin, and magic thrummed in their veins. But it was a short-lived experience. The first time they shapeshifted in that form, they were called a witch, a demon sent to drag all the village folk to hell.

The flames licked their skin and ignited despair in their soul. It would never be the same.

Each life after, Loki felt the power slip away, more and more until they are here, hunched over a toilet with nothing but cold memories.

The smell of the bathroom becomes unbearable, so Loki sighs and gets up, joints aching. They shouldn't be this frail at sixteen. This form is not only unchangeable, it is weak. Brown hair splitting at the ends. Lips that crack in the cold or the heat.

Pale body easy to bruise, easy to bleed.

Loki fancies themselves a cursed snake, unable to shed a too tight skin, writhing in a silent plea.

Gritting their teeth, they plunge back into the fray of human youth and are almost envious of them. To be so unaware of one's own existence must be bliss.

If Loki were able, they would erase all memory of being a god. Of the worship, of the merrymaking in the Allfather's great hall.

Of the crimes they committed and the punishments they endured.

Of their own children.

They miss their magic.

To be human is pain.