Loki's Lesson: Magic Is No Substitute

“You will learn that magic is no substitute for hard work!”

Frigga stood with her arms folded across her chest, trying so very hard to keep the stern look on her face as she lectured her adolescent son. He had been developing his magic for some time, but she had caught him lying lazily on his bed, using his magic to tidy his room. He needed a lesson, but she was finding it hard to keep a straight face as she meted out his ‘punishment’.

“But, Mother! This is so undignified! I would never carry out such a menial task as this anyway! Why are you……?”

“Loki Odinson!” Frigga raised her voice and put on an angry face, “Dare you question your Mother? Your Queen?!”

Loki bent his head in shame, “……. No, Mother…..”

“Then get to it! Only by carrying out the tasks of those who serve us do we truly appreciate their dedication and loyalty to us.”

“May I at least change out of my best clothing? Please?” He gestured at the leather and metal Royal garb that so handsomely encased his fine physique.

“Yes, my son. And….. I have a gift to protect your hands.” This was almost the final straw and Frigga ached from the effort of trying not to laugh as she handed a beautifully decorated gift box to her son.

Loki, who had magically changed into his casual attire of black leather pants and a green shirt, cautiously took the box, glancing half-suspiciously at his mother, who still had a determined look on her face. He took the lid off the box to reveal green tissue paper. What could it be? To protect his hands……… He removed the tissue from the box and stared in disbelief at the contents. He looked up with a pained expression, expecting Frigga to burst into laughter and excuse him from this task; for her to tell him it was all a joke. However, it was not to be.

“Come along, Loki!” She said and pointed to the bathroom. “I want you to make a good job of it.”

And so, Loki spent the next quarter of what seemed like a very long hour on his knees in front of the throne.

Except it was, in this sense of the word, his toilet.

And he cleaned it.

In a pair of Midgardian rubber gloves to protect his delicate Princely hands. Frigga, who had an even more refined sense of mischief than her son, had decided they should be customised for him to make the lesson stick in his mind.

It took every single ounce of willpower for her to not laugh until she cried as she directed Loki in the art of making that porcelain ‘throne’ sparkle, as he scrubbed and bleached and wiped it wearing…….

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