The Story of Loki's Children

In the wild lands of Jotunheim, beyond the reach of Asgard’s golden light, Loki the shapeshifter had taken a giantess named Angrboda as his wife. She was beautiful in the fierce way of the giants, with dark hair that flowed like a midnight river and eyes that held the wisdom of ancient forests.

Their love, though born of two different worlds, was deep and true. But their union would produce children unlike any the Nine Realms had ever seen—children whose very existence would shake the foundations of destiny itself.

“The child quickens,” Angrboda said one evening as she and Loki sat beneath the stars of Jotunheim. Her hand rested on her growing belly, and there was both joy and concern in her voice.

“What troubles you, my heart?” Loki asked, taking her hand in his.

“I have had dreams,” she whispered. “Visions of great power and great sorrow. Our children will be mighty beyond measure, but the gods will fear them.”

Loki’s expression darkened. He knew too well how fear could drive even wise beings to terrible choices. “Whatever comes,” he said firmly, “I will protect our family.”

The first child born to them was a daughter, and from the moment she drew breath, it was clear she was no ordinary being. Half of her body was beautiful beyond description—fair skin, bright eyes, and a smile that could warm the coldest heart. But the other half was the pale gray of death itself, with skin like ancient bone and an eye that held the wisdom of the grave.

“We shall call her Hel,” Angrboda said, cradling the strange and wondrous child. “For she bridges the worlds of life and death.”

The second child was born as a wolf pup, but even from birth, his size was extraordinary. He grew with impossible speed, and his eyes held an intelligence that was both beautiful and terrible. Within days, he was the size of a full-grown wolf, and still he continued to grow.

“Fenrir,” Loki named him, watching with pride and growing unease as his son played in the forests of Jotunheim, already larger than any natural beast.

The third child was perhaps the strangest of all. Born as a serpent, he slithered into the world with scales that gleamed like polished jade. But like his brother, he grew with supernatural speed, and soon he was longer than any snake that had ever existed.

“Jormungandr,” Angrboda whispered as she watched their serpent son coil around the great trees of the forest. “The Midgard Serpent, as the prophecies name him.”

Word of Loki’s extraordinary children reached Asgard, as all important news eventually did. The gods gathered in their great hall to discuss what should be done, for the völva—the wise seeresses—had spoken troubling prophecies about these three beings.

“The wolf child will grow until he devours Odin himself at Ragnarök,” intoned one seeress, her voice hollow with the weight of destiny.

“The serpent will encircle Midgard and poison the very sky with his breath,” declared another.

“And the half-dead daughter will rule over the dishonored dead, commanding armies of the fallen when the final battle comes,” finished a third.

The gods sat in heavy silence as these words echoed through their hall. Finally, Odin spoke, his single eye reflecting the weight of terrible knowledge.

“These children pose a threat to all the Nine Realms,” he said. “We cannot allow prophecy to unfold unchallenged.”

“But they are only children,” protested Frigg. “Surely we should not punish them for deeds they have not yet committed.”

“The prophecies are clear,” Odin replied grimly. “We must act before they grow too powerful to contain.”

And so the gods made a decision that would echo through all the ages. They would take Loki’s children from their parents and deal with each according to the threat they posed.

Thor and several other gods traveled to Jotunheim under the pretense of a diplomatic visit. Loki, still trusting in his friendship with the Æsir despite growing tensions, welcomed them into his home.

“Brother gods,” he said with genuine warmth, “come, meet my children. See how remarkable they are.”

But as the gods looked upon Fenrir, now the size of a great horse, Jormungandr, who had grown longer than a ship, and Hel, whose dual nature was both beautiful and unsettling, they felt only fear.

“Loki,” Thor said carefully, “the All-Father requests that your children come to Asgard. There are… questions about their nature that our wisest scholars wish to study.”

Angrboda stepped protectively in front of her children, her maternal instincts sensing the deception. “My children are not subjects for your study,” she said fiercely.

“It is not a request,” Thor replied, his hand moving unconsciously to Mjolnir’s handle.

The confrontation that followed was brief but decisive. Outnumbered and outmatched, Loki and Angrboda could only watch in anguish as their children were taken away.

In Asgard, Odin pronounced judgment on each child according to the threat they posed and the nature of their being.

For Hel, who ruled over death itself, he decreed: “You shall have dominion over the dishonored dead—those who die of sickness or old age rather than in glorious battle. Take your realm in Niflheim and rule there, far from the concerns of the living.”

Though this seemed like a punishment, Hel accepted her fate with dignity beyond her years. “If this is to be my realm,” she said in a voice that carried both the warmth of life and the chill of death, “then I shall rule it justly and well.”

She departed for the misty realm of Niflheim, where she built her great hall Éljudnir. There she would reign over the dead with wisdom and fairness, becoming a power unto herself that even the gods would one day need to treat with respect.

For Jormungandr, Odin’s solution was even more drastic. “You shall be cast into the great ocean that surrounds Midgard,” he declared. “There you may grow as large as you will, for the sea is vast.”

The great serpent was hurled into the waters around the mortal world, where he continued to grow until he could indeed encircle all of Midgard, grasping his own tail in his mouth. From the depths, he would watch and wait, his presence a constant reminder of the power that lay beneath the waves.

But it was for Fenrir that the gods’ fear was greatest, and their solution most cruel.

“The wolf cannot be killed,” Odin said, “for to slay a guest in Asgard would bring dishonor upon us all. But neither can he be allowed to roam free.”

At first, they tried to contain Fenrir through friendship and cunning. The gods played with him, fed him, and treated him as a beloved pet. Tyr, the god of war and justice, was especially kind to the great wolf, often feeding him by hand and playing games with him in the fields of Asgard.

“See how gentle he is,” Tyr would say as Fenrir playfully wrestled with him, careful never to use his full strength against his divine friend.

But Fenrir continued to grow, and with his growth came a strength that made even the gods nervous. His playful nips could now crack stone, and his howls shook the foundations of Asgard itself.

“We must bind him,” Odin finally declared. “For all our sakes.”

They brought chains to Fenrir, but presented the binding as a test of strength.

“Great Fenrir,” they said, “we have heard tales of your mighty power. Would you test yourself against these bonds, to see if the stories of your strength are true?”

Fenrir, still trusting in the gods’ friendship, agreed to the challenge. But when they brought the first set of chains—great iron links as thick as a man’s arm—he snapped them like spider’s silk with a casual flex of his muscles.

They brought stronger chains, forged with the finest dwarven craft. Again, Fenrir broke them effortlessly, laughing with delight at the game.

Growing desperate, the gods commissioned the dark elves to create a binding unlike any other. The result was Gleipnir—a cord that looked like silk but was made from the sound of a cat’s footfall, the beard of a woman, the roots of a mountain, the sinews of a bear, the breath of a fish, and the spittle of a bird—things that did not exist, woven together into something that did.

When the gods returned with this seemingly delicate ribbon, Fenrir’s keen intelligence sensed deception.

“This seems too slight to provide a worthy test,” he said, eyeing the silken cord suspiciously. “What glory is there in breaking such a thing?”

“If it is so easily broken,” replied Odin carefully, “then you have nothing to fear from it.”

“And yet,” Fenrir said slowly, “if this cord is made with magic, and I cannot break it, then you might leave me bound. I will consent to this test only if one of you places his hand in my mouth as a pledge of good faith.”

The gods looked at one another uncomfortably. None wished to risk their hand to such a pledge—none except Tyr, who had shown Fenrir the most kindness.

“I will stand pledge,” Tyr said quietly, extending his right hand toward Fenrir’s massive jaws.

With Tyr’s hand between his teeth, Fenrir allowed the gods to bind him with Gleipnir. But the moment the cord touched him, he knew he had been betrayed. He strained with all his supernatural strength, but the magical bonds only grew tighter.

Realizing the gods’ treachery, Fenrir bit down, severing Tyr’s hand at the wrist. The god of war accepted the loss without complaint, for he had known the price of his pledge.

“You have bound me through trickery and betrayal,” Fenrir growled, his eyes burning with rage and hurt. “But know this—when Ragnarök comes, I will remember this day. I will remember who showed me kindness and who showed me cruelty.”

The gods chained Gleipnir to a great stone and thrust a sword through Fenrir’s jaws to keep them open, preventing him from biting. Foam flowed from his mouth, forming the river Ván.

Thus were Loki’s children dealt with—not through justice or wisdom, but through fear of what might come to pass. Hel was banished to rule the dead, Jormungandr was cast into the sea, and Fenrir was bound through treachery.

When Loki learned of what had been done to his children, his grief and rage knew no bounds. The last ties that bound him to the gods through friendship and loyalty were severed that day, setting in motion events that would indeed lead to the very Ragnarök the gods had sought to prevent.

For in their fear of prophecy, the gods had ensured its fulfillment. By turning Loki from friend to enemy, by scattering his children to the far corners of the cosmos, they had planted the seeds of their own destruction.

Hel would indeed command armies of the dead, but only because she had been given dominion over death. Jormungandr would poison the sky, but only because he had been cast into the sea to grow in isolation and anger. And Fenrir would devour Odin, but only because betrayal had turned his love into hatred.

The story of Loki’s children became a reminder to all who heard it that fear and prejudice can become self-fulfilling prophecies, and that sometimes the very actions we take to prevent disaster serve only to ensure it comes to pass.

In the end, the three children would each play their prophesied roles in Ragnarök—not as villains driven by inherent evil, but as beings shaped by the choices others made about their fate, proving that destiny is often forged not by what we are, but by how we are treated.