The boys learned to revere Valhalla.

Stories of the iron-cased einherjar with their ankles up to tall, thin milkweed stalks; growing pounds of mead between their cheeks and in their bellies; swords hung on the walls, ever-slick with the neck blood of scaled beasts and ferocious men.

Even Loki, who has never believed in nonsense, much less glowing honey pots and salad bowls in some distant skyrealm, is not impervious to these visions.

But he’s done enough already to clamp the gates on himself. No divine sense of glory for him.

Oh, but he does feel glorious radiation from his translucent, insect-wing flesh, as he passes a hand along Thor’s inner thigh and the older shudders in pleasure.

Valhalla, I️ am here.