The Story of the God Narfi

In the time before Loki’s heart turned fully to malice, when mischief was his game rather than cruelty, he had a family that he loved with surprising tenderness. His wife was Sigyn the Faithful, whose loyalty would prove deeper than the roots of Yggdrasil itself. And they had children—two sons who knew nothing of their father’s growing darkness, who saw only the parent who told them clever stories and taught them to laugh at the world’s absurdities.

The elder son was Vali, strong and swift. But it is of the younger that this tale speaks—Narfi, sometimes called Nari, whose name meant “narrow” or “corpse,” though none who knew him would think such dark meanings suited his bright spirit.

Narfi was gentle where his father was cunning, kind where Loki was clever, trusting where the Trickster was suspicious. He had his mother’s steady heart and his own special gift for seeing good in everyone, even when others saw only flaws.

“Father,” he would say when Loki returned from one of his adventures among the gods, “tell me about Asgard. Are Uncle Odin and Uncle Thor as wonderful as the stories say?”

Loki would ruffle his son’s dark hair and smile—one of his few genuine smiles in those latter days. “More wonderful than stories, little one. Thor’s hammer could split mountains, yet he’s gentle with children. And Odin, for all his wisdom, still delights in a well-told joke.”

“Will I meet them someday?” Narfi would ask, eyes bright with hope.

“Perhaps,” Loki would say, though shadows were already gathering in his mind. “When you’re older, perhaps.”

But time was running short for such innocent dreams. Loki’s tricks had grown crueler, his jokes sharper-edged. The gods’ patience with him wore thin as ice in spring thaw. And then came the deed that broke all bonds—the death of Baldr the Bright, brought about by Loki’s guile and malice.

When the gods discovered Loki’s role in Baldr’s death, their fury was terrible to behold. No longer was he their troublesome but tolerated brother. Now he was their enemy, deserving of the harshest punishment they could devise.

They hunted him across the Nine Realms like wolves pursuing a lone elk. Loki hid where he could, changed his shape when he must, but even his cunning could not save him forever. In the end, they found him and dragged him to a place where justice—or perhaps revenge—would be served.

But the gods’ anger was not satisfied with simply punishing Loki alone. They wanted him to suffer as deeply as possible, to understand the pain of loss that he had inflicted on others. And so they turned their eyes toward his innocent family.

Sigyn they did not harm—her loyalty and love were too pure to punish, and perhaps some among the gods felt pity for her faithful heart. But the children… the children were another matter.

They brought Narfi and his brother to that terrible place, two boys who had done no wrong save being born to the wrong father. Narfi looked around at the stern faces of the gods he had dreamed of meeting, his young heart breaking not from fear but from disappointment.

“Uncle Odin?” he said softly, recognizing the All-Father from his father’s descriptions. “I thought you would be kinder.”

But the gods’ hearts were hardened by grief and anger. Through dark magic, they transformed Vali into a wolf, his mind consumed by bestial rage. The transformed brother turned upon Narfi, and in moments the gentle boy was gone, leaving only his grief-stricken father to witness the horror.

With Narfi’s entrails, the gods bound Loki to a stone deep beneath the earth. Sigyn took her place beside her husband, holding a bowl to catch the venom that dripped from the serpent placed above him. And there they remain until Ragnarok comes to break all bonds.

But this tale is not only of ending—it is also of love that endures beyond death. For Narfi’s spirit, freed from the pain of that terrible day, found peace in the understanding that love, once given, can never truly be destroyed.

In the quiet moments when Sigyn weeps for her lost son, she sometimes feels a gentle presence—a touch like a child’s hand on her shoulder, a whisper like her boy’s voice saying, “Don’t be sad, Mother. I understand.”

And even Loki, writhing in his torment, is sustained by the memory of his son’s goodness. For Narfi had possessed something that his father, for all his cleverness, had never truly understood—the ability to love without condition, to trust without reservation, to see hope where others saw only darkness.

The skalds say that when Ragnarok comes and the world burns, when all bonds are broken and all debts paid, Narfi will be among those who return. Not for vengeance—for that was never in his nature—but to help build the new world that will rise from the ashes of the old.

In that green and peaceful land, where sorrow is forgotten and love reigns eternal, Narfi will be reunited with his family. But more than that, he will meet at last the gods he dreamed of knowing—not as they were in their anger and grief, but as they truly are beneath the weight of fate and responsibility.

For innocence, once destroyed, can be reborn. Love, once given, can never be truly lost. And gentleness, though it may seem weak in times of darkness, carries within it the seeds of every new beginning.

The story of Narfi is a reminder that even in the darkest tales, love endures. That innocence, though it may pay a terrible price, leaves behind a light that no darkness can extinguish. And that sometimes the gentlest hearts carry the greatest strength—not the strength to destroy, but the strength to forgive, to hope, and to love again.