Loki and the Midgard Serpent: A Tale of Fear and Fate
Ah, want a story that mortals don’t know? Something that hasn’t yet been told in the cold halls of your precious mortal histories? Very well, I shall indulge you. Prepare yourself, for this is a tale that even the gods rarely speak of—the story of the Midgard Serpent, Jörmungandr, and how we almost didn't end up in this tangled web of fate.
Now, I know you’ve heard the tales of the mighty serpent. The creature that circles the earth, with eyes like pools of endless depth, body so vast that it loops around your whole world, a shadow of doom waiting to strike. You all love to talk about Ragnarok, don’t you? The inevitable end of the gods, the fire and fury that will tear Asgard and Midgard alike to pieces. But let me tell you, it was never meant to be this way.
Jörmungandr was not always the colossal serpent you imagine now. Oh no, once upon a time—long before Ragnarok was even a flicker in the Allfather’s mind—Jörmungandr was a mere hatchling. A tiny, squirming little thing, but already powerful in its own right. Born to Loki (that would be me, of course) and the giantess Angrboða, the creature was destined for great things. You see, I had a plan—one of my finer ones, if I do say so myself.
The gods, in their endless wisdom (or lack thereof), feared my children. Yes, my children. Let’s not forget that I, Loki, had offspring beyond just Thor, the golden boy of thunder. I had more. There was Jörmungandr, of course, and then Hel, the ruler of the underworld, and the wolf Fenrir—no small family, I assure you. The gods did not see my potential as a loving father. No, they saw only the trouble I could bring.
So they decided, in their infinite wisdom, to cast out my children. Jörmungandr, still a small, innocent creature at the time, was cast into the great ocean that encircles Midgard. "Let it grow there," Odin decreed, "Let it become so massive that it will be a threat to all." Foolish old fool. Did they truly think I wouldn’t notice?
Well, let me tell you something—Jörmungandr, despite its exile, did grow. It grew into a monstrous beast, an entity so great that it wrapped itself around Midgard. And while the gods thought they had sealed the serpent’s fate, they only strengthened it. They made it into a symbol of their own doom. But who could blame them? They feared what they did not understand, and that, my dear mortals, is the root of all conflict.
Now, what’s truly amusing about this whole ordeal is that none of them—the gods, the Aesir—could ever figure out what to do with Jörmungandr. Thor tried to kill it. He tried on many occasions, for you see, he never quite grasped the idea of subtlety. Strike first, ask questions later—that’s Thor’s motto. And strike he did, with Mjölnir, again and again. But every time he swung that hammer, the serpent simply laughed. It slithered through the waves, taunting Thor, and no matter how hard he tried, Jörmungandr seemed to grow stronger, and faster.
But that, of course, is the price of meddling with fate. You see, the serpent’s rise was as inevitable as Ragnarok itself. The gods thought they could control destiny, trap it within their palaces of gold. But in truth, they were only setting the stage for their own downfall. For Jörmungandr’s strength, like so many things, was born from the very attempts to control it. And once it became powerful enough to coil itself around the earth—once it touched every shore, every corner of your mortal world—it had completed its task.
Do you understand, mortals? It wasn’t me who destined Jörmungandr to encircle the world. It wasn’t even my idea to turn the serpent into such a vast creature. No, it was the gods’ own fears, their insecurities, that gave the serpent its strength. You see, you only make things stronger when you try to control them, to cage them, to make them fit into your perfect little boxes.
As for me, I watch from the shadows, laughing softly. For while the gods play their grand game of fate, I know the truth: that they, too, are but pawns in a greater scheme, one that even they cannot comprehend. The serpent? It was never truly a threat. Not until the gods decided it should be.
➡ The Takeaway
1. Fear gives power—when the gods feared Jörmungandr, they made it stronger, just as they did with every attempt to control fate.
2. Destiny cannot be avoided—you can try to alter it, but like a serpent, it will always find its way back to you.
3. Loki knows the game better than anyone—while the gods plan, I watch and wait, always three steps ahead.
And now, I shall take my leave. After all, you wouldn't want to anger the one who knows how things truly end... would you?
