Author's Note: For Keane, who always writes birthday stories and never receives any: here is your birthday story only half a decade late. Thanks to David and MJ; without their help, I would have doubted this story into non-existence. I left the reader as gender neutral/ambiguous as possible. We love Loki, or we wouldn't be here. At least this way, maybe more folks can find themselves in this story, as well.
The thing about praying to a god, or, as you soon come to discover, a God, in this day and age is that you don't expect them to actually answer. Not in words you hear with your ears, at least. Sure, signs and omens and things that you could interpret as an answer. But never anything like a direct reply.
And certainly nothing quite so tangible as an actual manifestation.
Your practical (i.e. cynical) side knows that speaking with a so-called deity is an exercise in futility. After all, Loki doesn't exist; he is literally mythology. Therefore, what is the point in appealing to him?
On the other hand, he could exist. You don't know one way or the other. And if he doesn't exist, then what's the harm in trying? It's your time to waste. What the hell, right?
So, one lonely, cold winter evening, you call to him. Nothing so dramatic as a supplication, nor as messy or elaborate as an incantation or ritual. That's never been your style, although you did briefly consider putting some flourish into it. You figure Loki would be the type to appreciate the gesture.
But he's not real, so it doesn't really matter, right?
Truth be told, you feel a little silly calling to a deity you don't really believe in, but you're alone in your home, as always. It's not like there's anyone here to judge. It's really more of a meditation exercise, focusing on the aspects of yourself that align with the qualities you admire in the many manifestations of Loki, aspects you wish to bring forth in yourself.
You wish to be cleverer, more determined. You've always admired The Trickster's cunning and strategy; to appeal to this facet of Loki emphasizes your own desire to play the long game. He is fluid and adaptive, literally changing himself to suit his situation or whim, and god knows you could do with a bit more flexibility.
And, of course, his unmatched Silver Tongue.
And so you call him. You speak aloud your wishes, your desires to bring out or strengthen those aspects within you that he best embodies. You try not to put too much hope into your words, knowing you'll feel that much more ridiculous when nothing happens. Best not to try too hard only to be disappointed in the end; that's a lesson you've learned already.
You are, therefore, shocked into blind silence when the room plunges into frigid, icy blackness just at the close of your prepared speech. A wind whips around your legs, licks across the back of your neck, tugs at your clothes, and a chilled tremor rolls up your spine.
This is impossible.
"Oh, ye of little faith…"
No…
"Oh, yes. Why ever not, oh devoted petitioner?"
The silken words ghost over the outer edge of your ear as the tiny hairs on the back of your neck rise, and your fingers involuntarily clench. Running counter to the frozen air around you, a warmth blossoms behind your solar plexus, spreading outwards in every direction.
"You came."
The reply is light, amused, and a new, strange buoyancy begins to build within you.
"So it would seem. You expected otherwise; I might enquire as to the rationale of placing a call you don't expect to be answered. Do I sense a touch of desperation?"
But there's no cut to his words. Elation brings an unexpected and welcome cleverness to your tongue, another of his gifts, and you find the perfect reply with ease.
"Desperation for touch, more like."
You can sense his presence shifting around you, though darkness still cloaks your vision, and his words come from in front of you now. You think you hear a hint of a grin as he speaks.
"So, do you find yourself a believer now that you have proof? Or do you remain skeptical of My Glory? You know, I've punished mortals for lesser offenses than simply doubting Me. Perhaps I should school you in a proper belief system."
"I...would accept such an education," you find yourself admitting. His presence alone thrills you into the very marrow of your bones, and you find yourself not only able but even willing to believe anything he might tell you. Experience, however, tamps down on your elation before giddiness can make a fool of your delight.
"And how could I, benevolent God that I am, turn away such a willing disciple? Tell me, what is it you wish to learn from Me? I have eons of wisdom at My disposal; how might I be of service?"
A cool, silken finger strokes down your cheek, and you reflexively reach up. To your continued astonishment, your hand closes over another, long-fingered and strong, so very solid and real. You take a moment to let the reality of this unexpected situation sink in before casting aside your concerns and embracing your fortune.
"I would ask that you begin by showing me how to properly worship you, how to show my newfound devotion to your glory."
"And why, oh doubtful creature, should I shower such beneficence upon you? Why teach one who has, until blessed with My presence, refused to believe in even the possibility of My existence? Such doubt is unbecoming in a follower."
A spark in your mind ignites an idea, a theory you feel must be tested. Just as you doubted Loki's actuality, so does he now doubt your reverence. When he appeared to you, disbelief was shaken to the core, destroyed. If you are to follow this chain of logic, then what Loki desires, needs, is an act of utter devotion, of faith. He needs to hear, to be shown, that you do believe, that you do wish to please him. He needs what all gods of every faith have desired since the dawn of time.
Loki desires your praise.
As this realization comes to you, the darkness begins to lighten, slowly at first. Though the room remains dim, you are gradually able to make out indistinct forms, structures that might be furniture, and you wonder if you've even left your own house. And there, looming over you, distinct and spectacular despite the gloom, stands Loki, God of Mischief, Odinson, Trickster, Rightful King of Jotunheim. Your eyes widen as you take in the sight of him, and only that fact that you continue to clutch his hand against your face keeps your grounded and aware that this is, in fact, your new reality.
And then you just can't help yourself.
"You are Magnificent."
The God is startled into a quick, sharp bark of laughter, and the light sparkling in his eyes gives wings to your hope.
"You are amusing, I'll give you that. Perhaps I may find you worthy of My attention after all. Should you wish to fully confess, that I might absolve you of your sins against Me?"
You speak quickly, unwilling to lose neither your tenuous grasp on this most rare and impossible of opportunities nor your firm grip on the God's appendage.
"I doubted. I called before, and I was not worthy enough to hear Your answer. I doubted myself, as so many others do, but I also doubted Your very existence. I was base and unworthy of You, a failure in my Devotion, and I see now how wrong I was."
"And how do I know this doubt will not return to your heart? I do not deign to appear every time I am called upon, as I find mortals to be fickle, disloyal creatures. What, pray, makes you any different that I should so bless you with a second chance at My favor?"
You smile even as you feel the truth of the rebuke, for you are already blessed simply with the joy of His attentions.
"I can offer no proof of my worthiness, as only You may make such a judgment. I ask only the chance to prove my devotion to You, should You see fit to come again to such a lowly, doubtful creature as myself. Please, Loki, allow me the opportunity to show how deeply my desire to please You runs, and I swear on my life You will not feel a moment's regret."
"Awfully sure of your abilities, aren't you?"
And, once again, inspiration strikes true.
"Only in Your eyes am I sure of anything. Only in Your presence can I even begin to grasp at true knowledge. Only with Your permission may I continue this, my most unworthy of existence. Only with Your-"
"Enough!"
He tugs suddenly on your joined hands until you are flush against him. His eyes shine faintly as the air takes on a golden glow, as if lit from afar by a roaring fire. This close, you can smell the cold, clean scent of him, leather and musk and something green and sharp, almost like pine. His hair, black as pitch, falls almost to his collarbone, and your free hand brushes against the feather-soft tips.
Heat rushes throughout your body, chasing off the chill of the mid-winter night. Your pulse quickens, and a faint tremor begins in the tips of your fingers and toes. His Presence nearly staggers you, and you clench down on every ounce of self-control so as to not humiliate yourself before Him.
His eyes follow your fingertips' tentative exploration for a moment, flash over your clasped hands, then return to your flushed face. A smirk twitches at the corner of his lips, and he brings his face closer to yours. You hear a soft, slow inhale, and realize that he is quite aware of every effect his proximity has on you.
"You damn Me with faint praise, mortal. Surely you can do better than that."
"Faint praise? I'm sure I managed at least a moderate level of praise. Shall I try harder?"
"I'm not entirely sure you're showing the appropriate level obeisance demanded by My glory." And yet, his amusement grows as he gazes down upon you. "As My devotee, you must learn that you have but one task in life. We should begin your instruction directly so that you may assume your proper position before me."
"And what position might that be, my Lord?"
His eyelids drop, his nostrils flare with a sharp breath, and you feel a shudder run through Him where you press together. His fingers clench on yours, painfully strong, and then a dizziness sweeps over you as rush of wind, a breath from the very heart of winter, blasts around you. When you regain your bearings, you have to blink rapidly to clear your sight.
Loki reclines before you, Gloriously bare, surrounded by the glow of a thousand candles. You kneel before him in a similar state, and the abrupt shift sends your senses reeling. You have no idea where you are, some sumptuous chamber out of a fantasy novel, surely, full of draped, rich fabrics and mountains of cushions; but as your gaze returns to the exposed God before you, your priorities align with a sharp snap of clarity.
"While there are many positions that I find pleasing," Loki purrs, leaning forward to cup your jaw in his hand, "I believe you'll find this to be one of My personal favorites. Now, oh Devoted one, show Me just how clever your tongue can be."