It depends on how everything begins. Usually, something that begins badly, ends the same way. I'm the living proof of this claim. My life began at a frozen, god forsaked kingdom. From the very beginning I was a disgrace. A pitiful semblance of a frost giant, I was. Laufey, the man to whom I was born a son, saw a small, insignificant being, lying on the bloodied mattress of stone and ice, something that could very well cause his downfall. Week giants are giants not worth living.

So he cast me out. He left me in a cave in Jotunheim, alone and unprotected, to die in the snow, either by the cold, or the teeth of some wild beast. I remember. My earliest memories are of that cave. I remember spending days in there, without any contact or nourishment. Luckily for me, no wild beasts entered the cave in my short stay there. Short because, about a week or so after I was abandoned, a man entered the cave, with the smell of blood and the air of victory following him around.

I didn't cry when I saw him. I didn't cry when he lifted me up with both hands and stared at me. After a while, I realized he wasn't of my kin, so I let me skin change color and texture to become more familiar to him. To please him. To diminish the possibility of him crushing me under his boot. When he moved to leave, holding me protectively aigainst his chest, that's when I knew I wouldn't be coming back. It felt like waking up from a bad dream, with the help of the one eyed stranger. His eye socket was still bleeding, red in contrast to the eternal white of Jotunheim.

And for the first time since my birth, I slept soundly.