Chapter 1
Mobius sighed as the last of his students filed out of the dimly lit classroom, their chatter fading down the corridor. The projector whirred to a halt, casting flickering shadows on the faded posters of Norse gods that adorned the walls. He rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of another exhausting day settle heavily on his shoulders. His worn tweed jacket, once a symbol of his academic pride, now felt like a shroud of his burdens.
The classroom stood in stark contrast to his passion for Nordic history and mythology. Rows of mismatched desks, a barely functional whiteboard, and aging equipment were constant reminders of the university’s financial struggles – struggles that mirrored his own. As a tenured professor at this small Scandinavian university, he had become accustomed to making do with less. But lately, it was wearing him down, each day blending into the next with a monotony that sapped his spirit.
Mobius’ career had once seemed destined for greatness. Graduating top of his class at Harvard, he was full of ambition and dreams of uncovering new historical insights that would revolutionize the field. He wanted to be the next Indiana Jones, but without the graverobbing. But a series of setbacks – failed grants, a contentious divorce and funeral that left him emotionally and financially drained, and the loss of a close colleague – had gradually eroded his confidence and enthusiasm.
Just as he began gathering his notes, the door creaked open, and his student research assistant, Erik, poked his head in. Erik was a bright, eager young man with a perpetual glint of excitement in his eyes, a sharp contrast to Mobius’ weary demeanor. He liked how enthusiastic the kid was, though, it reminded him of...well, himself, back when he'd first started.
“Professor Mobius, you’ve got to see this,” Erik said, holding up a sheaf of papers. “It’s about the new runestone we found last week.”
Mobius gestured for him to come in, curiosity momentarily overriding his fatigue. “What have you got for me, Erik?”
Erik bounded over to his desk, spreading out the papers with the enthusiasm of a puppy. “It’s a preliminary translation. Nothing groundbreaking yet, but it’s interesting. Some references to a deity we haven’t seen mentioned in other stones from the same period.”
Mobius leaned in, scanning the neat rows of runic text and Erik’s notes beside them. The ancient symbols stirred a flicker of the old excitement within him. “Hmmm,” he murmured, tapping a finger on the desk. “This could be useful. I’ll take a closer look tonight.”
Erik beamed, clearly pleased. “Thanks, Professor. I knew you’d be interested.”
“Of course,” Mobius replied, managing a tired smile. “Keep up the good work, Erik. We’ll discuss it more tomorrow.”
As Erik left, Mobius packed his bag, the weight of the papers adding to his already heavy load. The drive home was a blur of darkening skies and thoughts that refused to quiet down. He couldn’t help but dwell on how lonely his life had become. At his age, living alone in a modest flat far from family and old friends, he sometimes wondered how much longer he could keep going like this. His job, once a source of great pride and joy, now felt like a constant uphill battle. Financial constraints, administrative pressures, and the relentless march of time had all taken their toll. The university, struggling to stay afloat, offered little solace. Yet, amidst all this, there were moments – like Erik’s enthusiasm – that reminded him why he had fallen in love with anthropology and Nordic history, and even teaching, in the first place.
Pulling into his driveway, Mobius sat for a moment in the car, staring at his reflection in the rearview mirror. The lines on his face seemed deeper, the gray in his hair more pronounced. His eyes, once bright with curiosity and passion, now appeared tired and worn. With a sigh, he grabbed his bag and headed inside. The familiar creak of the front door and the stillness of the flat greeted him. He set his bag down on the kitchen table and poured himself a glass of wine, hoping it would help ease the tension. He took a moment to glance at the photos on the wall – images of a younger, more hopeful Mobius alongside colleagues at archaeological digs, a picture from his wedding day, and one of him holding his niece for the first time. They were reminders of a life that felt distant and out of reach.
As he sipped his wine, he thought about the translations waiting for him. Work, at least, was a distraction from loneliness. And tonight, he needed that distraction more than ever. Mobius settled into his armchair, the ancient runes calling to him from the pages. He allowed himself to get lost in the symbols and their possible meanings, seeking solace in the mysteries of the past, hoping they could temporarily fill the void of his present.
He flipped open Erik’s notes, the faint scent of old paper and ink wafting up. As he sipped his wine, his eyes scanned the runes, trying to make sense of the ancient symbols. At first glance, they seemed straightforward enough, but something nagged at the back of his mind.
“Let’s see here,” he muttered to himself, leaning closer to the dim lamp. “These aren’t the usual hymns or prayers… not a funeral marker either. So, what are you?”
He traced a finger over the intricate carvings, noting the unusual phrasing and symbols. They were not like any he had seen before. There was a rhythm, a cadence to the words that felt different, almost… mystical. Mobius furrowed his brow, taking another sip of wine, the rich liquid warming his throat.
What was he missing here..?
Hours passed in a blur of scribbled notes and muttered theories. The moonlight filtering through the window shifted as the night deepened, but Mobius hardly noticed. His focus was entirely on the runes before him. As he translated, piece by piece, a clearer picture began to form.
“Incantations…?” he whispered, a thrill running down his spine. “These are incantations… for someone called Loptr.”
He paused, the name echoing in his mind. Loptr… Loptr… why did that sound so familiar? Then it clicked, like a puzzle piece snapping into place.
“Loki,” he breathed, sitting up straighter. “Loptr is another name for Loki.”
The realization hit him like a bolt of lightning. If these translations were accurate, this could be the first archaeological find involving the Norse god Loki, aside from the Prose Edda. An exhilarating wave of motivation surged through him, sweeping away the fatigue and doubt that had plagued him for so long.
“Holy Odin’s beard,” he exclaimed, practically bouncing out of his chair. “This could be it! My career isn’t dead after all!”
Excitement bubbled up within him, and he made a beeline for the kitchen. In the back of a cupboard, he retrieved a bottle of special whiskey, saved for occasions that never seemed to come. Tonight, though, was different. Tonight warranted a celebration.
“To you, Loki,” Mobius toasted, pouring a generous measure into a glass. “May you be as mischievous in death as you were in life.”
He chuckled at his own words, a warm, good-natured laugh that filled the empty flat. Settling back down with his whiskey, he dove into the translations with renewed vigor. The hours slipped by unnoticed as he meticulously worked through the runes, translating each incantation with care.
“Alright, you tricky devil, what secrets have you left for me?” he said aloud, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he typed up his notes. “Can’t be just a prank, can it?”
His mind buzzed with possibilities, the thrill of discovery propelling him forward. He made little jokes to himself, light-hearted quips about Loki’s antics and the absurdity of finding such a treasure in his hands. It felt like the old days, when every new piece of information was a potential breakthrough, and the world was full of undiscovered wonders. It was as if suddenly, Mobius had hope again. Momentum. A drive to push forward, and push forward he did.
As the night turned into early morning, the first light of dawn began to creep through the windows. Mobius glanced at the clock, noting with surprise that it was nearly sunrise. He knew he should go to bed, but the allure of the runes was too strong. Just a little longer, he thought. He couldn’t resist the urge to recite one of the incantations aloud.
He picked up the translated sheet, his voice steady but tinged with excitement. As he began to speak the ancient words, he felt a strange sensation, as if the very air around him was listening, thrumming, almost pulsating around him. His heart pounded in his chest, anticipation mixing with a hint of fear and wondud.
“Ek er Loptr,” he began, his voice filling the quiet room. “Sá er Loki, brennandi af eldi, framsýn af fjöllum, slægur með vinda. Koma til mín, heilagr kraftr, megin til rísar.”
The room seemed to hum with energy as he finished the incantation, the words hanging in the air like a promise waiting to be fulfilled. Mobius stood still, his breath coming in short, exhilarated gasps. This was only the beginning, and he knew, with some childish hope in him, that whatever came next, it would be nothing short of extraordinary. So Mobius stood there, the silence of the room settling back in after his recitation. He chuckled to himself, a rational academic to the core, not truly expecting anything to happen (at least, that's what he told himself.) But the thrill of discovery still buzzed through him, a childlike wonder that he hadn't felt in years.
"Alright, Loki, I gave it a shot," he said aloud, smiling. "No need to set the place on fire or anything."
Just as he was about to sit back down, a sudden gust of wind whipped through the room, scattering his carefully arranged papers. They fluttered about like agitated birds, swirling around him in a chaotic dance.
"What the—" Mobius started, glancing around wildly. His heart raced as he scanned the room, half expecting to see something supernatural. But then his eyes landed on the open window, the curtains billowing as the wind poured in.
"Of course," he muttered, feeling a mix of relief and slight disappointment. "Should've known."
He hurried over and shut the window, the sudden gale stopping as abruptly as it had started. Mobius sighed, leaning against the window frame for a moment, his pulse gradually calming.
He gathered the scattered papers, chuckling as he did so. "You really had me going there for a second. Nice touch with the wind."
As he downed the last of his whiskey, he couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of disappointment that nothing truly mystical had happened. But the excitement of the find still burned brightly within him. He poured another measure into his glass, and then, with a whimsical smile, poured a second glass and set it on the table. He took a sip, savoring the rich flavor of the whiskey. The act of pouring a glass for Loki felt like a playful nod to the myths he loved so much, giving an offering to the Gods, desoite his skepticism. Deep down, a small part of him clung to that childlike belief in magic and the impossible.
Mobius sighed, feeling the weight of the day finally catch up with him. He knew he should head to bed, but the thrill of what he’d found kept his mind buzzing. He stood for a moment, looking at the papers on the table, the runes seeming to glow softly in the dim light.
"Hey, Loki," he muttered, almost to himself. "If you are real, can you help me out here? Not just with this work, but...I'm tired of being alone."
Mobius chuckled softly, feeling a bit foolish for talking to an empty room. It was just wishful thinking, the kind of childish fantasy he usually dismissed. Yet, in this quiet moment, he couldn't shake the yearning for some sign that magic existed, that he wasn't completely alone in his pursuits. A sign of something larger at play.
For hope.
"You know," he said, addressing the empty room, "if you are out there somewhere, I wouldn’t mind a little sign. Just a nudge to keep the old heart racing."
He laughed softly at himself, shaking his head. "Listen to me, talking to a god like he’s an old friend…”
With a final sigh, he made his way to bed. The flat was quiet, the only sound the creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet. As he climbed under the covers, he felt the excitement of the night still thrumming through his veins. The potential of his discovery filled him with a sense of purpose and renewed energy.
Before he drifted off to sleep, he glanced at the clock. It was well past midnight, the early hours of a new day. He closed his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips, and whispered one last thought to the empty room.
"Goodnight, Loki. Here’s to whatever tomorrow brings."
And with that, Mobius let himself drift into sleep, the ancient runes and the possibilities they held dancing through his dreams.
__________________________________
The next morning, Mobius hurried across the campus, his mind still hazy from the night’s strange dreams. Shadows had danced around him, and a pair of strange, alluring green eyes had watched him, filled with an enigmatic intensity that left him feeling both exhilarated and unnerved. The vividness of the dreams lingered, clinging to the edges of his consciousness as he rushed from his car to his classroom.
He glanced at his watch, cursing under his breath. “Of all the days to sleep in,” he muttered, his unfortunate Midwestern accent thick with irritation. He quickened his pace, feeling the autumn chill nipping at his cheeks. The campus was coming to life around him, students milling about, heading to their morning classes.
“Morning, Professor Mobius!” called out a bright-faced student, waving cheerfully.
“Morning,” he replied, forcing a smile despite his frazzled state. “Sorry, can’t chat, running late!”
He darted through the crowd, narrowly avoiding a collision with a group of freshmen. His mind raced, the excitement of the previous night’s discovery still fresh, mingling with the anxiety of being late. He ruminated over the dreams again, the intensity of those green eyes making him shiver.
‘You’re an academic,’ he chided himself, ‘not a schoolboy with a crush.’
As he rounded a corner, he greeted another student absentmindedly, “Morning, Anna.” But his focus was so scattered that he didn’t see the tall stranger until he walked straight into him.
“Whoa, I am so sorry!” Mobius stammered, looking up to meet the eyes of the man he had just bumped into. The stranger was breathtakingly handsome, with shoulder-length dark hair slicked back and dressed in dark, stylish clothes that seemed out of place in their small town. There was something almost ethereal about him, an aura that made Mobius’ heart skip a beat.
The man’s eyes, a mesmerizing green, locked onto his with an amused twinkle. “No need to fret, no damage done,” the man said in a formal, almost musical tone. His English accent was smooth and refined, putting Mobius’ Midwestern drawl to shame.
“Again, I’m really sorry,” Mobius repeated, feeling flustered and out of sorts. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
The stranger offered a charming smile. “I’m… Alistair,” he introduced himself, extending a hand. “And you must be in quite a hurry.”
Mobius shook his hand, feeling the warmth and strength of his grip. “I’m Mobius. Professor Mobius, actually. And yes, I am running a bit late.”
Alistair’s eyes twinkled with something like amusement. “A pleasure to meet you, Professor. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your duties.”
Mobius nodded, trying not to stammer as he replied, “Thank you. It’s just… today’s a bit hectic.”
Alistair took a step back, allowing Mobius room to pass. But just as Mobius was about to hurry off, Alistair spoke again, his voice laced with a teasing edge. “Professor, would you do me the honor of joining me for lunch later? There’s a charming little place nearby that I’m quite fond of.”
Mobius’ mind raced, his thoughts a jumble of confusion and fascination. Those green eyes, so like the ones in his dream, seemed to pierce right through him. All he could do was nod, unable to find his voice.
“Wonderful,” Alistair said with a chuckle. “Shall we say one o’clock? I’m sure you know the place, right down the road from here. The Nordic Nook Café.”
“Y-yes, I know of it. That sounds perfect,” Mobius managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Until then, Professor Mobius,” Alistair said, giving a small, elegant bow before walking away, leaving Mobius standing there, heart pounding in his chest.
As he resumed his hurried pace toward his classroom, Mobius couldn’t shake the image of Alistair’s green eyes and the strange, almost otherworldly aura that surrounded him. His thoughts raced, filled with a mixture of excitement, curiosity, and a hint of apprehension. He found himself thinking about the man’s handsomeness, his poise, and that voice—so refined, so different from anyone else in this small town.
“What have you gotten yourself into, Mobius?” he muttered, feeling a thrill of anticipation. The day ahead promised not only the usual academic challenges but also the mystery of a lunch date with the enigmatic Alistair. And deep down, beneath the rational facade, Mobius couldn’t help but feel a spark of that childlike wonder once more.