The creation of a single moment did not always mean it would be remembered nor that it would mean anything the course of that particular time. However, the laws of the universe did not work on a whim and thus, all that was ever decided and all that was to be or not to be, planted the seeds of change in the vastness of space and made the ending of several things a simple technicality only to be reborn and destroyed in a continuous cycle. The creation of the life had been one that did not particularly bother the cycle of the cosmos, it simply adapted and followed on the same course as it had always done. However, life always brings a sort of organized chaos to the natural order and so the beginnings of the incarnations of life began to form.
Through out the canvas it had been allowed, life had birthed a variety of beings that sought to understand the meaning of their existence and could manipulate the vary essence of nature. The gods they would be called by the first mortals, and so they would assume such roles. In time, many gods died and others were born, but none like the future God of Mischief. He was born a tiny whelp in comparison to his kinsmen, left to die out in the frozen tundra that characterized his home world, Jötunheim. The son of Laufey, he would be adopted by the Alfather, Odin son of Bor, unknowingly setting the stage for the events of the future that would wreak the Realm Eternal and the very roots of Yggdrasil.
To deny the knowledge one's own lineage, to fill the mind full on fearful monsters and loathsome fiends that crawl in the dark and dank corners of the universe can only breed hate and misunderstanding of the nature of those creatures. To deny the worth of one's merits and achievements in a course of a thousand and more years, can only serve to make the sadness and loneliness fester and putrefy into a black mass of anger and resentment. And yet for all his knowledge, and power the Alfather could not foresee the folly of his callous and cold decision to use his son as a tool to form peace between the worlds.
The young god would be the literal black sheep of Asgard, jet black hair, a tall lanky build, did not suit the gold and blue of the æsir. His gift of magic would further push the boundaries between himself and the rest of them, always judging and distrusting his tricks and intelligence. It did not do them well to deny the change, to accept their Prince, for the universe and its laws must be obey or the consequences would destroy the foundations of the vary plane they sought to defend from the enemy. The seeds of evil are not born but are planted into the soul. A mortal being would become corrupt from a childhood, or even life, full of resentment and the constant battling to prove that one's existence is there and will not leave, but a god must endure a thousand years worth of denial, of the existence of one's talents, powers all that makes the individual unique among the monotony of gold and light. It was the drive to achieve perfection that would spawn the monster, man, god, man that would ignite the twilight of the gods.
A/N: I wrote this for my very dear friend, who takes great joy in mythology, both historical and fanmade! I just hope you all like it as well