I’m not your brother. I never was.
And so my children weren’t your blood. Not your nephews, not your niece. I understand it now, how you could fear them when I could not. I understand the look of pride on your face when you came to tell me that the frightful serpent was gone, that you had cast him out. I understand why you never came to my children’s defence. Why should you? They weren’t like you.
How could I expect you to love them? To love Jormungand, my most bright and beautiful creation, my heir dripping in venom and coated in scales? Or Fenrir, who flooded the realms in blood. I understand where the difference lies between you and him - his victims were warm blooded, where yours were all cold. Hel must have terrified you. Her condition was a weakness by birth, as her body failed and her skin turned black. How relieved you must be to know that the blood in her veins was never yours. And Sleipnir… When Sleipnir was born I thought he would save me. I should have known better by then. I should never have expected you to love my kin when they were never yours.
Like calls to like, and only we were the monsters.