tiny angst

Ice is Nice, Part III: Well, I Suppose That Was Predictable

Sigyn has got the hang of skating forwards, in a circle.  That’s wonderful, my sweet!  We’ll have you skating backwards and doing triple putzes, twizzlers, and alpaca spins in no time at all!

Uh oh. Ever one to share her good fortune, Sigyn has telephoned a few friends.  We are probably now to be invaded by all sorts of people whose company I could cheerfully do without.  Sigh. All I wanted was an afternoon alone with my dearest.

Yes, here they come.  Yelp and Benno are first to arrive.  Yelp seems quite excited!


म यो असल बरफ को अनुमोदन! बस जस्तै हामी घर फिर्ता छ।


Benno is less enthused.

Oh, hooray.  This just keeps getting better.  Sigyn’s friend Muffy is all right, I suppose, but look who’s here now.

“Greetings, brother!  I am eager to join in this festival of winter sports!”

“You’re not my brother, Thor.  And does this look like a ski slope to you?”


What an idiot.   Honestly.  That man would bring a fluffy cat to a taffy pull.

And now that insane racoon is here!  At least Sigyn is kind enough to talk to him so I don’t have to.


“Rocket, where’s Groot?”


“Well, it’s like this, ya see?  Turns out Sapling Groot’s only hardy down to about 27 °F, USDA Climate zone 9B.  I’ve got him in the cold frame until things warm up.”


How is this my life?

>|: [

The Pen is Mightier Than…Nothing, Apparently

So, the candy was a bust, with no one happy but Yelp.  My Anti-Steve campaign hasn’t borne fruit yet.  Maybe it’s time to use my words.  Hmm. That might work.  I’m Silvertongue, but I’m not bad on paper, either. I will write Sigyn a letter.  I’ll be able to get all the words right and she’ll be sure to understand.

Paper?  Check.  Non-stripey-starry pen?  Check.


Odin’s Eyepatch!  That makes me sound so… needy.


Well…  I’m sorry we’re on the outs.  And I’m sorry I tumped over that thrice-blasted apple cake.  But I’m not sorry to be fighting for the woman I love.


And I’m sorry I’m so wrought up that I mis-wrote her very name.   Unnnnngh.


Please… what?  Tell Steve to go chase himself?  Promise not to ever, ever leave me?  Forgive me for the candy debacle and the ruined cake?  Grrrrr.  This won’t do.


And that’s even worse.  “Purple,” Loki?  Is that the best you can do?!  What do you hope to rhyme that with, huh?  “Burple”?  Yeah, that’s gonna win her back.

Grrrrr.  Oh!  I know what’s wrong!  How could I write anything properly with the wrong color ink?  A green pen–that’s what I need!  I shall fetch one and try again.




I give up.


>|: [

Why Is This So HARD?

Argh. Dammit all to Hel.  Everything is stinky beyond measure, and I am in SUCH a bad mood.

I hate fighting with Sigyn. Well, that’s not right.  We’re not exactly fighting.  You have to be talking to be fighting.  No, we’re doing some sort of relationship rondo:  She explains, I lose my temper, she goes teary and quiet, I say something I regret later.  D.C. al coda…

It’s all Steve’s fault.  Mister Perfect Baker Smiley Man.  Faugh!  Why did he have to show up around here? I thought Sigyn and I had something wonderful going, but what if he sweeps her off her feet?

I don’t know how to make apple cake.

Double arrgh!  I do not know whether to be worried or jealous or angry–or some of each.  I do not know whether to beg or apologize or go punch that All-American right in his star-spangled jerkface.

How do I make things right?  What should I do?  Perhaps it is time to do a little research.

. . . . .


Candy!  Apparently it is a  Midgardian custom to offer sweetmeats as a token of love and/or remorse.  I can do that!  The human female happens to have a very cute little box of candy on her desk.  Someone gave it to her, but she hasn’t eaten it, so her loss.  The tag says “wedding,” though.  I know!  I will tell her it is to remind her of our lovely wedding.  Now I must just go fetch her…

. . . .

Look, Sigyn.  Isn’t this lovely?


It’s…uh, because you’re such a blessing in my life.  Go on, open it!




It’s…um…full of all sorts of foreign sweets!  Do you like them?  Go on, try one!


नमस्कार! तपाईं वेनिला क्यान्डी प्रयास गरेका छन् गर्नुपर्छ। यो स्वादिष्ट थियो।

Triple arrrgh.

>|: [


All the preparations are done.  Well, mostly.  Don’t look too closely at the corners, because the human female missed some bits of sweeping, and there will be paperwork and bills and yardwork for the days after Yule (the human female pushed a dead tree over and now has to cut it up), but by and large, the humans are ready for their big holiday.  Time to pause, and rest, and consider.

There’s still so much I don’t understand about Midgard, and about my place in it.  And I suspect that, as a Jotun, I’m missing out on some of the significance of this holiday.  There’s another aspect to it, something beyond gift wrapping and extra calories.

I think Sigyn has it, whatever it is.  She has gone to Midnight Mass…


…while I’m here alone, shaking packages and hoping Fisi doesn’t short out the tree lights and burn the house down.


“Peace.”  It’s a wonderful idea, and I know I should want it, at least for Sigyn, if not for myself.  I guess it’s just not in my nature.

It’s a tough time of year to be a pagan deity…

>|: [

A soup quandary*

On the one hand, it’s always amusing when a tweak of mine means the human female ruins dinner.

On the other hand, this assemblage looks as if it could turn into something I might actually want to eat.


On the one hand, I have done rotten produce before and I don’t like to repeat myself, but I could certainly arrange a little freezer burn on the beef ribs…

On the other hand, I sort of want to see how she’s going to pull off using Chinese noodles and Italian tomato paste.

What to do, what to do?

>|: [


*Soup Quandary is a great band name.

New Year. Bah.

Midgardians make a huge fuss about flipping the calendar page from the last month to the first. They indulge in a wallowing orgy of navel-gazing, bemoaning all their faults and failures and the myriad disappointments of the outgoing year. They make lists of resolutions and naively believe that a “new year” will somehow solve all their problems and they will be magically be slimmer, smarter, more energetic, and more attractive to the opposite sex.

As if.

To top it off, this is somehow to be ushered in by the quaffing of copious amounts of alcohol and the setting off of fireworks.

The human female, the male, and the female’s mother may have their regrets and resolutions, but they are very, very boring and will likely not make it until midnight.


Still, I have been in this realm for almost exactly one year. (Where does the time go?!) I suppose it couldn’t hurt to look back at 2014 and see how I am progressing toward my conquest of Midgard. I have made a list of my accomplishments.


I bought a horse and I met (and maybe married) Sigyn.

Sigyn is wonderful, but that’s it. I’ve no palace, no army, no global throne. I’ve made no progress at all. I honestly thought I would be running this realm by now.

I feel like such a failure. Is there really any point in continuing this? Should I just forget Midgard and try someplace else? Or give up altogether and take up, I don’t know, beekeeping or something? Does anyone care? What should I do…?

(If there’s anyone reading this, leave a comment.)

New Year. Bah.

>|: (

The cold, wet walk that never ends…

Augh! This walk just keeps going. Sigyn has started looking at all the berries and exclaiming about the colors.

We saw one of these beautyberry bushes back in the summer. I will grudgingly concede that the fruit is indeed a very vivid color.


Sigyn wants to climb everything. My cloak is sodden and I just want to go home. (But I seem to be caught on something.)

I know Sigyn has had us in the holly before. (She seems to gravitate to red things for some reason.) But look–wet berries, wet leaves, wet Loki. Sweetling, please can we be done now?


Oh, very well. One last plant. This vine is one I have encountered before. It and I treat each other with wary respect. There is a botanical truce. I could blast it into compost, but it has truly vicious prickles…


…which Sigyn seems not to mind. Sigh. By all means, let us indulge in some foliar gymnastics.

The human female says the pulp in the berries is stretchy and the plant is sometimes called “Snotberry.” Sigyn wants to pull one open and see, but since they also stain your fingers, I think she probably shouldn’t.

Oh, great. Now the human female is blathering on about local dyeplants and she and Sigyn are brainstorming a dyeing session and discussing the merits of solar versus simmer dyeing and the toxic properties of various mordants vis-a-vis their effects on vegetable dye sources and various plant and animal fibers and I’m never going to get home, am I?

>|: [

Keeping fit

Ugh. The little mishap with the firecracker has put me a little behind in my campaign of mischief. I was able to re-attach my hand (bless Sigyn for her quick thinking in retrieving it and keeping it on ice,) but it has become clear that I shall have to start taking better care of myself–if for no other reason than to avoid distressing Sigyn! I shall begin with some resistance band exercises.


>|: [

My beloved sleeps

I am nearly too weary to tell the tale of how we came here. Where in the nine realms are we? Or are we somewhere beyond the realms? I do not know…

My beloved sleeps. I can scarce fathom it, but our fates are entwined now, for good or ill.

After that she-beast Gunnehilde tore her away from me, I was for a while cast down in spirit. Then I became angry. How dare anyone mistreat sweet Sigyn? I vowed revenge.

I engaged all the vast powers of my mind and all my magics, seeking to locate where she was being held. At last I had a vision of her locked away in a cheerless room. Summoning all my art, I forged a portal through the void from myself to her. Gunnehilde must have some powers of her own, for I was resisted by a wall of magic. Undaunted, I battled on and at last managed to breach the wards, take her hand, and step back into my portal, slamming it shut behind us. Knowing that I and my magic could be traced if I returned to my known haunts on Midgard, with the last of my failing strength I flung us out and away. Buffeted, we hurtled through fire and lightning, through darkness and nothing.

We landed here, but I do not know where “here” is. It appears to be a transport hub of some sort. It may be that we can seek passage on one of these flying craft. My magic is spent–I cannot carry us anywhere. In truth, I do not care where we go, so long as we are safe.

We are both weary beyond words, battered in body and spirit. I found us something to eat. Its name means “sustaining banquet” in one of the Old Languages, but it appears to be nothing more than a cold, sweetened dairy product. No matter. She is too tired to eat and barely speaks.

I, Loki, who answer to no man and have always done whatever pleased me, now wonder if I have done the right thing. I am unused to questioning my motives. Was it noble of me, or selfish? Will she thank me for rescuing her from an unwanted marriage, or hate me for taking her away from her sister and the life she knew? She rests now, with her head in my lap. What a strange thing it is, to be trusted even a little. Sleep, my love. I will not fail you.