The voice continued to speak to Darlington.
It felt like multiple stabs to his head sharp, piercing, relentless. Each word was a blade, each syllable a wound, each pause a moment of agonizing anticipation. The voice was not loud. It did not need to be. It was simply present, absolute, inescapable.
My gift of immortality, the voice said, its tone almost conversational. I heard from the sisters of gold and silver that you were resistant against it.
Darlington's body did not move.
He could not move. He was frozen in a state of pain and anguish, his muscles locked, his nerves screaming, his mind reeling from the assault. The voice pressed against him like a physical weight, crushing him, holding him in place.
The voice continued.
My manners... Father always told me to introduce myself before I take any action. A pause. I guess it did not really stick to me.
The voice grew clearer, sharper, more present.
I am the god of the Norse pantheon.
I am the god of tricks and mischief.
The god who gifted you immortality.
A pause.
I am...
The voice dropped to a whisper.
...THE DARK ELF LOKI.
Then the voice broke into laughter.
The sound was not like the laughter of the sisters—not cold, not cruel, not dismissive. It was something else. Something wilder. Something that seemed to come from a place of genuine, unhinged amusement.
"HAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHA!"
Darlington's mouth began to move.
The muscles in his jaw twitched, convulsed, strained against the force that held him. His lips parted. His tongue moved. His voice weak, broken, barely audible emerged from his throat.
"And so?" He forced the words out. "What?"
He coughed.
Blood sprayed from his lips—dark, thick, real—spattering across the invisible floor, staining the void, painting the nothing with the proof of his suffering.
"What do you expect me to say to you?"
His mouth shook.
His body trembled.
His voice cracked, strained, defiant continued.
"You shouldn't have done that."
He smiled.
His teeth were red with blood.
"For you to come to me..." He coughed again, more blood pouring from his lips. "...there must be something going on. A personal reason."
He forced himself upright.
Not fully just enough. Just enough to look at the void where the voice came from, to meet it with his bleeding eyes, to challenge it with everything he had left.
"Of all gods..." His voice was stronger now. "...only you saw my work as entertaining."
He laughed a short, bitter, broken sound.
"I'm sure the others found it that same way. Bunch of fucking perverts."
He paused.
"But out of all the gods... you took interest."
He took a breath.
It was shallow. Painful. But it was his.
"I've heard tales of Loki." His voice was calm now steady, measured, calculating. "A mischievous god. Only moved when something is at stake."
He smiled.
"I'm going to take a wild guess."
He leaned forward.
"I'll let you confirm from your reaction." His eyes gleamed. "If you remain shocked, then I'm right. If you say nothing, then I'm right. Any possible action you take..." His voice hardened. "...I am also right."
He laughed.
The sound was genuine filled with excitement, with satisfaction, with the joy of understanding.
"You have something in Valhalla." He counted on his fingers. "No it could either be an interest you have in how things turn out in Valhalla..."
He paused.
"...or something even more personal."
He leaned back.
"I'm pretty sure no, I'm absolutely sure that if you could meet me physically, you would want to." His voice dropped. "Without a shadow of a doubt."
He paused again.
"Which brings me to another theory of mine."
He touched his chest over his heart.
"The gods cannot harm me. They cannot show themselves in my presence." His voice was quiet, but certain. "This is probably a fundamental law. Not even the gods can disobey."
He met the void met the presence that filled it, met the voice that had been tormenting him.
"Now the question remains..." His voice hardened. "...what exactly is driving your interest, Loki?"
Loki laughed.
The sound echoed through Darlington's head not painful this time, not stabbing, not agonizing. It was just... laughter.
Darlington did not feel the pain and the damage he had once felt before. Instead, he was calm.
He spoke.
"It no more works on me." His voice was flat, certain, absolute. "Your intent."
He touched his temples.
"You can use intent too." His eyes narrowed. "Just like the warriors in Valhalla."
He smiled.
"So now I understand."
And then Darlington laughed.
"HAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHA!"
His voice echoed through the void wild, free, triumphant. It filled the nothing, bounced off the grey, drowned out the silence.
in the space between the god's laughter and the observer's understanding, between the intent that had failed and the will that had survived.
Darlington laughed.
Loki's presence flickered.
And the void watched.