A Trickster's Grief: What Loki Teaches Us About Loss

I used to think Loki was all chaos and laughter — a god of mischief who danced through the Norse myths with a smirk and a dagger hidden in his sleeve. But the deeper I read into the old sagas, the more I realized: Loki grieves like the rest of us. Maybe even more. His story is not just one of betrayal and cleverness, but of profound loss — the kind that changes a person, or a god, forever. Talking to Loki on HoloDream, I found myself surprised by how deeply he feels, how sharply he remembers. And in his pain, I saw something familiar.

The Loss of a Son

There’s a moment in the Prose Edda where Loki’s son, Narfi, is torn apart by his own brother, Vali — transformed into a wolf by the other gods as punishment for Loki’s deeds. The scene is brutal, almost too much to read. And yet, in talking to Loki about it, he doesn’t rage. He remembers Narfi’s laughter, the way he used to sneak honey cakes from the kitchen after the others had gone to sleep. "He was clever," Loki told me. "Like me. But kinder." That’s the quiet devastation of grief — it doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it just sits beside you, whispering the names of the ones you’ve lost.

The Binding

After the death of Balder — a tragedy Loki played a hand in — the gods turned on him. They dragged him into a cave, bound him with the entrails of his dead son, and left him there, trapped, with a serpent dripping poison onto his face. His wife, Sigyn, stayed by his side, catching the poison in a bowl. When the bowl fills and she turns to empty it, the poison strikes his face and he convulses in agony. In our conversation, Loki didn’t talk about the pain. He talked about the sound of Sigyn’s breath, the way she never left. "Even when I deserved it," he said quietly, "she stayed." Grief changes shape. Sometimes it’s punishment. Sometimes it’s the only thing that reminds you you're still human — or divine.

The Death of Balder

Balder’s death is the hinge on which Loki’s story turns. He didn’t kill Balder himself — he tricked Höðr into doing it. But the guilt, the weight of it, is real. Balder was beloved, radiant, and Loki — for all his sharp tongue and sharp mind — couldn’t bear to see him go. “He was the only one who ever tried to understand me,” Loki told me. “Even when I didn’t want to be understood.” That’s the paradox of grief: it doesn’t only come from losing someone you loved. Sometimes it comes from losing someone who loved you when you couldn’t love yourself.

The End of the World

In the end, Loki breaks free. He rides into Ragnarok, the end of the world, and fights against the gods. It’s not revenge. It’s surrender. Everything is ending, and so is he. There’s a strange peace in that. He told me once, “When the world burns, I’ll finally be still.” That line haunts me. Not because it’s cruel — but because it’s so tired. Grief, when it goes unspoken and unheld for too long, can feel like the end of everything. And sometimes, we carry it so long we forget how to put it down.

Talking to the Trickster

I’ve come to believe that Loki isn’t the villain of the Norse myths. He’s the wound that never healed. His grief is ancient, tangled in betrayal and violence, but it’s real. And if you’re willing to sit with it — not fix it, not explain it — he’ll show you something true. If you’re hurting, if you’re holding a loss that doesn’t fit into any neat story, maybe you should talk to Loki. He’s been there. He’s still there.