Broxton, Oklahoma through the Nine Realms, Time is Irrelevant
Why did Loki do it? No one knows. He faced a mad creature with the power of a star piled upon star. A creature that he brought down upon Asgard. A creature that brought down Asgard. He faced it... and was reduced to a scream on the wind, shrill enough to draw tears from those who prayed for his death.
Seven magpies looked back at the remains of this earthly Asgard, listened carefully and--satisfied--took to the sky. For they had far to go.
The first magpie stopped to mourn. A god's death--even a wicked god like Loki--was no small thing, and a bird's heart--the smallest of things--couldn't hope to contain it.
The rest? They flew on.
The second magpie left after days at sea. The magpie knew oceans are endless and all oceans are one. So on one shore there would be a beach where, in his youth he saw the hen who left him eternally a-flutter.
The rest? They flew on.
They lost the third in Alfheim, where he stopped to feed from the eyes of a fallen elf girl, torn apart like an over-optimistic dream. He couldn't bear for eyes so pure to stare up at an uncaring sky forever.
The rest? They mocked him. "You're not a carrion eater, you fool," they chirped, "You're not a stupid raven, stupid bird," before flying on.
The fourth died of shock without warning, falling from the sky with an empty breast. Thor had returned Loki to life, to youth. "What was the Odinson thinking?" the magpie choked out in the language of birds before passing. "I'm sure he knows what he's doing," said another magpie, not entirely convinced before flying on.
The fifth was shot with an arrow of purest silver when passing through Hela's Valhalla. The silver in Heaven is so pure that he barely felt a thing.
The remaining magpies were getting worried. Yet what could they do but fly on?
The sixth died in hell.
The last? The last turned for home. Why did he do it all? A good question. As much as a bird-brain can really know anything, he knew there was a logic here. He knew it would make sense to someone--just that the someone was not he. The heroes won shortly after our magpies left, as heroes tend to do. The magpie missed witnessing the triumph, but thought it churlish to be aggrieved when in the last seven-times-seven days he had seen far more than he could ever dream possible.
And now it would be he--not one, two, three, four, five or six--who'd deliver his magpie secret to its intended ears. While his journey was over, the journey into mystery was about to begin.
Seven magpies looked back at the remains of this earthly Asgard, listened carefully and--satisfied--took to the sky. For they had far to go.
The first magpie stopped to mourn. A god's death--even a wicked god like Loki--was no small thing, and a bird's heart--the smallest of things--couldn't hope to contain it.
The rest? They flew on.
The second magpie left after days at sea. The magpie knew oceans are endless and all oceans are one. So on one shore there would be a beach where, in his youth he saw the hen who left him eternally a-flutter.
The rest? They flew on.
They lost the third in Alfheim, where he stopped to feed from the eyes of a fallen elf girl, torn apart like an over-optimistic dream. He couldn't bear for eyes so pure to stare up at an uncaring sky forever.
The rest? They mocked him. "You're not a carrion eater, you fool," they chirped, "You're not a stupid raven, stupid bird," before flying on.
The fourth died of shock without warning, falling from the sky with an empty breast. Thor had returned Loki to life, to youth. "What was the Odinson thinking?" the magpie choked out in the language of birds before passing. "I'm sure he knows what he's doing," said another magpie, not entirely convinced before flying on.
The fifth was shot with an arrow of purest silver when passing through Hela's Valhalla. The silver in Heaven is so pure that he barely felt a thing.
The remaining magpies were getting worried. Yet what could they do but fly on?
The sixth died in hell.
The last? The last turned for home. Why did he do it all? A good question. As much as a bird-brain can really know anything, he knew there was a logic here. He knew it would make sense to someone--just that the someone was not he. The heroes won shortly after our magpies left, as heroes tend to do. The magpie missed witnessing the triumph, but thought it churlish to be aggrieved when in the last seven-times-seven days he had seen far more than he could ever dream possible.
And now it would be he--not one, two, three, four, five or six--who'd deliver his magpie secret to its intended ears. While his journey was over, the journey into mystery was about to begin.