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“And these can be used for helping anyone in childbirth. Set the bark between their teeth and it will release a powerful anaesthetic that should help ease their labour.” Loki hands the strip of bark to his wide-eyed students, and contains the desire to laugh a little at their dumbstruck expressions.
Angrboda speaks, of course. She always does, but when she looks at Loki her dark eyes are shining with something like wonder. “I had no idea that the Iron Wood could be…so full of life.”
Loki’s lips do quirk at that, and he stoops, sifting through the undergrowth to find the soft, spongy tendril of new growth. He gestures and his students crouch, staring at the silvery thing pushing its way up through the frost-hard soil. “Iron Wood it may be, and not easy, but this is a forest.” He looks up at the stark, dark shadows of the trees from which the forest got its name. “To the trees and things that live here, this is a city. Bursting with life, and citizens each with a different role to play.”
“What does this one do?” This time it’s Skadi. She’s normally shy, but apparently this time her curiosity has won out. She’s looking at the small plant Loki has cradled gently between his fingers. Loki gives her a wry smile.
“Not much yet, but when it’s older this little sprout will be a deadly poison.” The children look shocked, and again Loki resists the urge to laugh. Instead he lets the plant slip from his fingers, brushing off his hands and standing up. “Of course, even poison has a role to play. It balances power between flora and fauna: protecting the forest from anything greedy or foolish enough to try and graze here. Should this hemlock reach its majority, it’ll be a mighty warrior for the trees.”
His students look sceptical, and one of them hands him the bark, which Loki slips into the pouches slung about his belt. One of the others: a young one choosing to live as male for the moment, opens his mouth to speak. But then there is the ringing, explosive blast of a ram’s horn, and the bellowing of foreign voices.
Aesir.
Loki wants to be sick, but he doesn’t have time for that luxury now. Already the voices are heading closer. They’re mostly men if he hasn’t missed his guess, and he represses a shudder at that. The trees vibrate with the cacophony of their approach: armour and weapons ringing through the previously quiet space. Loki looks at his students: their rich skin is ashen with fear, and Skadi is already shaking. After what happened to her mother…It’s hard to be surprised. Loki cannot allow them to hesitate now.
He flings his arm forward, and the frightened children flinch and disappear, making soft sounds of surprise as they stare at the spaces where they had once been. Invisibility was a simple charm, but difficult to maintain over so many. There were eight children in his class. Eight people to protect. Loki doesn’t give himself time to think about it, whispering urgently. He doesn’t need to see his students to know where they are, over the months that they’ve been in his care their souls have becomes as familiar to him as his mother’s.
The warriors are getting closer: branches snap and scream in their wake. They’re laughing. Bastards.
“You cannot be seen. Go quietly, but quickly. Head back to the village and warn the others. Raise the gates.”
Loki gestures to the path behind them: it was easy enough, and clear to any Jotun. This was meant to be a school trip, after all. Not that the Aesir were likely to be able to distinguish it from any of the other winding ways of the forest. Loki thanked the gods for small mercies and the ignorance of Asgardian brutes. Some of the children were already heading back down the path, not making much sound, and certainly not more than the warriors half a mile behind them.
Others hesitated. It’s Angrboda who speaks, because of course she does. “What about you, teacher?”
Loki smiles in her direction and hopes that it isn’t too much of a rictus in his anger and his fear. “I’ll be fine.”
Angrboda still doesn’t move. He can feel the doubt and fear rolling around her soul like a physical force. Loki tries another smile, this one a little softer, and teasing. “Do you not trust me to outwit a handful of Asgardian brutes? Come, Angrboda, you’ll hurt my feelings.” This prompts a shocked laugh and finally, finally, she turns, running with Skadi into the heart of the forest. Loki can only hope that the warriors behind them are all there are.
He doesn’t have time to think about that now. As soon as the children are a hundred metres or so away, he drops to the forest floor, pressing his hands to the frostbitten earth. Such a shield would be almost impossible with his magic alone, though he expects he could do it if he had no other choice. But for now the most expedient thing is to save as much of his power as he can for the fighting to come, and whatever might happen after. Loki’s stomach rolls. They all knew what Aesir did to the Jotun. He’d healed the survivors often enough.
Pushing aside the memories, the pain and the anger and the fear, Loki lets his consciousness widen, moving to the trees on either side of him. “Sisters. Can you hear me?”
He feels the trees of the forest respond: a soft, cool, silver wave that on any other day would have been met with nothing but joy. Now all he can feel is relief. He projects to the trees what he plans to do, and then hesitates. “Will you lend me your power?”
If their response before was a wave then this is a tsunami, infused with an old, brilliant anger that’s slow to rise and slower to fade. Loki finds himself nearly overwhelmed, and knows that if any were to see him now he’d be burning with the light of their seiðr. It is this, more than anything else that makes him afraid. There was so little that angered the trees, they lived so much longer than so many of the races in all nine realms. For them to respond so suddenly, and with such feeling…The crimes of the Aesir would have to have been great indeed. Great and incredibly cruel. Loki shuts his eyes and fights to keep back their emotions: those of the trees and his own. Instead he takes what they give him and redirects it.
In a soft pop like pressure breaking in his ears, with a stink like ozone, an invisible shield bisects the forest, keeping the warriors from the children. The casting is difficult, like lifting an impossibly heavy weight, and when it’s done Loki wants to sleep for a month. But he cannot afford to do that now: the warriors are nearly upon him, their noise and their stink violent in the cool of the forest.
With an effort, Loki stands. Sending forth a handful of doubles is enough to have him swaying on his feet, when on any other day it would have been barely a breath of his resources. He gives himself a moment to check on his students: they’re reaching the edge of his awareness, faint lights in the back of his mind that should be two miles away already. They’ve gone fast, and Loki grants himself the luxury of pride. After all, he does not know whether he will survive whatever happens next.
There are five warriors in all. Had he not been so concerned with protecting the children, Loki flatters himself that he might have been able to fend them off. It’s unlikely now. He certainly will not outrun them, and has no intention of doing so, in case they grow bored with the chase and seek other prey elsewhere. Something deep and vicious and dark in his soul wants to kill them: to rip them limb from limb and send their mangled corpses back to Asgard. It would be a prelude to the justice that was long overdue on behalf of his fallen siblings, Jotun who had far too long been hunted and degraded and mutilated by these monsters.
But Loki could not have that, he knew even as the warriors came closer that he would not be able to defeat them. He contented himself with the grim resolution to injure as many as possible before they brought him down.
All five of the warriors are men: one, to the left and already chasing one of his doubles, is huge with long red hair. Another, further off, is dark and lithe and knocking an arrow to his bow as he watches another double. To the right, a blonde with a beer belly brings his axe up to the barrier and shouts in fury when it bounces back with a shower of silver sparks. At the back, there are two more, both with long brown hair and carrying swords. They’re grinning with the mad bloodlust of berserkers.
Loki wonders at the fact that none of them have yet noticed the similarity between his doubles, and is briefly, bitterly thankful for the Aesir attitude that all in his race looked the same. It would make his illusion all the more effective, and keep them off the children and the village for that much longer. The Blonde shouts to his compatriots that there is a shield, and the Archer responds that they do not have a user of seiðr with them. Loki is mildly surprised at the fact that they reveal such a tactical weakness so easily, especially in the likely presence of a witch like himself.
Then again, he knows the Aesir have not bothered to avail themselves of the Jotun tongue, so he supposes that the fools would assume that his people would not do the same. A memory comes unbidden to his mind, from his childhood, when the war with the Aesir had not been long ended. An exhausted elder of his village had entered his classroom, explaining that few of the Aesir understood their tongue. At that point, it was assumed that their brutality was simply a result of their inability to understand them. If only the Jotun could return to such naivety.
Loki’s teacher had sighed, and told them that he would take them through the basics of the Asgardian tongue. But first, they would need to learn a handful of phrases. Things to say in case of an emergency, worth memorising even if they knew nothing else.
“I do not understand you.”
“Please, have mercy.”
“I am a child.”
Loki wants to shut his eyes, thinking of being young and clever and repeating these words until he could not forget them if he wanted to. He wants to make these people burn: the instinct is violent and vicious and furious, and he feels the trees whisper their warning. The Iron Wood was patient, but it would not forgive an ally who turned so easily. Loki reigns in his temper and slips his daggers from his sleeves.
Big and Red apprehends one of his illusions further off, grabbing it by the hair and slamming it into a nearby tree trunk. Loki controls his distaste. It doesn’t hurt him, of course, it wouldn’t be a particularly clever illusion if it did. But he can still feel the man’s phantom hands on his skin. If he survives this, he’s going to want to bathe for a week.
But Loki does not expect to survive.
The Archer shoots one of Loki’s illusions in the chest, and it disappears in a handful of shadows. The Berserkers have joined the Blonde in striking the shield, and Big and Red is attempting to undress the double that he’s caught. Loki tries to control his distress. It was beyond unnerving to see his would be rapist attacking an illusion that wore his face. He expects that if he lives it will haunt him for the rest of his life.
But he doesn’t have time to be frightened. He knew this was coming. He knew what to expect. It had happened so many times before to so many of his people. The only surprise was that they hadn’t caught him already in his travels. Time’s up he thinks, bleakly. Then he twists his wrist, and two more of his doubles leap forward, tapping the Berserkers and the bBonde on the shoulders and jumping back, laughing.
The Blonde and Berserkers whirl, striking out. One of the Berserkers successfully decapitates a double, which melts into shadow, and shouts to his compatriots. “What are these? Tricks? Damn filthy jotun.”
Loki grits his teeth. The blonde is giving chase to the surviving double in that part of the clearing, and the Archer has his eye on him now. Loki starts walking, slowly, careful to keep himself between the trees. He holds one dagger loosely in his hand, ready to throw it. It will simply be a question of who shoots first. He could slow the arrow, but it’s a waste of seiðr. He’ll accept the wound if it means taking one of them down.
Almost as soon as Loki’s made the decision, the Archer lets his arrow fly. Loki steps into its path, flinging his dagger with pinpoint accuracy. It lodges in the man’s jugular, and a spray of blood stains the trees as his arrow punches through Loki’s light leather tunic and into his shoulder. Of course he wasn’t wearing armour. He was teaching. He only thanked his own paranoia for keeping his knives.
“Sigmund!” One of the berserkers shouts, staring with horror at his fallen brother. Good, Loki thinks, as the Big Red one finally hits his double too hard and it disappears in front of his naked cock. The blonde catches the last remaining double, slamming its head into the dirt as he tackles it, and the thing melts away.
No more distractions, then. Loki looks carefully around the clearing. The arrow in his shoulder is a mass of pain, but he doesn’t have time to deal with it now. Instead he forces himself to keep standing, watching his enemies warily. One of the berserkers is on his knees beside the archer, Sigmund, trying to stop the bleeding. There’s no point: Loki had felt the creature’s soul leave his body nearly as soon as his knife had struck. He can only hope an eternity of death and battle in Valhalla is as miserable as it sounds.
Big Red makes himself decent and turns, furious, whilst the Blonde and remaining Berserker close in. “You!”
“A slow death is too good for it.” The Berserker’s voice is strange: caught between anger and grief and delight, mad with battle. The Blonde grunts his agreement. They’re getting closer now, like a pack of wolves. Loki tries not to shudder, and checks one more time on his students. Their lights have faded from his mind. They must have reached the edge of the forest. They were safe.
He cannot afford to be relieved. Instead, he hurls his two remaining daggers at the berserker on his feet, and the least well protected of the three. His shoulder is on fire, and he does so without much strength or accuracy. The monster just laughs, easily avoiding one. The other slices into his cheek, and he spits blood but doesn’t flinch. Loki clenches his jaw, slipping two more knives from his boots. Blood from his shoulder trickles down his arm, dripping over his fingers. He’d known that this was going to happen, but he’d be damned if he didn’t go down fighting. He may not be able to kill them, but by the gods he would maim them before they were through with him.
His seiðr responds to his fury, dragging on his soul and his energy as it sinks into the earth, making it crack and shake. This gives the warriors a moment’s pause, but not much. Big Red actually laughs. “It’s just for show, my shieldbrothers. Look at it, it’s exhausted.”
“Maybe it has friends. Maybe it’s protecting something?” It’s the Blonde, and Loki doesn’t think, he throws a dagger spitting fire like venom at the man’s face. The dagger misses, but the fire doesn’t, and the man screams, clutching at his eyes. Loki smiles in grim satisfaction. The Berserker’s eyes go wide, staring at his brother as he staggers.
“Bjarke!” Then the Berserker looks at him. Loki has a moment to think oh, shit. Then the two remaining Aesir are charging at him. He tries to run: he knows he’ll fail, but he’d rather try than wait for them to capture him. He barely makes it twenty metres before their hands are on him, and they’re throwing him to the ground and beating him bloody. As he hits the ground the wood of the arrow snaps, and Loki screams despite himself, feeling the point of the thing bury itself deeper into his body. The Aesir do not relent. Loki chokes on dirt and does what he can to twist and writhe away from them, wishing he had the power left to shapeshift and turn into a snake, something that could give these brutes the slow, burning death they so richly deserved.
Instead, their boots sink into his belly and his legs and his back, leaving him breathless and choking as they pummel him into the earth. One kick hits his torso hard, and he screams as his ribs crunch under the Aesir’s boot. And then they’re laughing, and kicking him again and again, pressing down hard on his shifting bones. Loki cannot speak, he can only flinch, trying desperately to twist away from them as he chokes, gasping for breath through the pain.
Consciousness comes in and out of his awareness as the pain only grows: Loki’s nose is broken, and his lip has split. He spits blood into the dirt, choking on it and trying not to think of the slow grind in his ribs as the cracked bones shift. He can hardly feel his shoulder any more, and he doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. He’s drunk on his pain, and his thoughts evade his grasp as he chokes on his own bile. Then they’re dragging him up by his hair, and he’s swearing at them in every language he knows the moment he can speak again. His words are lisping and slurred, thanks to his bruised mouth and what he suspects is more than one broken tooth. Still, when he hits a handful of Aesir curses, they pause for a moment, surprised, before slamming his head into the nearest tree. Loki sees stars and feels the skin on his forehead tear, dripping blood into his eyes, already wet with tears.
Then their hands are tearing at his clothes, great dirty paws pulling at his legs and chest and crotch. Loki growls, and a wave of his seiðr flickers outwards, shoving them back with a burst of green light. They respond by shoving a knife through his hand, pinning him to the tree. Loki screams and screams and screams. He does not know when he loses consciousness or how much time passes, or what happens when he does.
When he wakes he’s bare, and shuddering, barely able to stand. The pain of his bruises and broken bones and even his shoulder is almost forgotten for the agony in his hand, and the cold is all but irrelevant. Still, determined, he defies them. He wonders, wildly, whether this is something like the death-rages their people sung about, those moments of clarity in agony before their inevitable demise. He doesn’t care, he promises curses and misfortune and death for each of the Aesir and everyone they love. He can feel the trees around him pouring their power into his words, not that it stops the brutes, blind as they are to the magic of the realms.
Big Red leans forward, and his breath is too hot and too close over Loki’s ear, spit hitting his cheek as he speaks. “It’s feisty, isn’t it? We will not be defeated by you, little creature. By the end of this night you’ll be as tame as any beast conquered by the mighty Aesir.” He laughs, pressing a clumsy, ugly kiss to Loki’s cheek. “Good as any whore.” He presses his half hard cock to Loki’s bare ass to demonstrate his point, and his mail shirt scratches and tears at Loki’s skin. Loki wants to sob.
Instead, he turns and spits blood in the man’s face. When he speaks, he does so in perfect Asgardian. “I am not a beast, or a whore, and I will not be tamed.”
For a moment, Big Red is stunned. Then he looks at the Berserker, and both of them start to laugh, loud and angry and mad. Loki tries to breathe, and presses his forehead to the wood of the tree, and waits for what they will do to him. He wishes only for a quick death when it’s over.
He doesn’t have to wait long: one of them grabs his free wrist, lashing it awkwardly to the arm above his head. When Loki’s elbow sticks out, the berserker just pushes it hard, dislocating his shoulder. Loki blacks out screaming. When he comes to again, the other: Big Red, is already undressing. Apparently his mutilation was a cause for arousal. Loki wants to be sick, again, and concentrates instead on sending his mind elsewhere: somewhere different and far away.
The trees respond immediately, and he sinks into the cold silver bath of their collective consciousness with a relief that reaches his bones. He can still feel the hands on him: roughly grabbing his hips, poking at his arse and fondling his genitals. But it’s as if it’s happening to somebody else. It’s more mercy than Loki had expected, the first time he’d heard the Aesir’s horn.
One of the men pushes him open, leaving bruises on his skin. He shoves a finger half wet with oil but still far too dry inside of Loki. Loki hears himself keening as if from a great distance. The Aesir’s touch is too hot, it burns, and Loki’s body fights to reject the intrusion. He’s barely aware of himself as he twists, trying to get away from him. But the man just thumps him, hard, over his broken ribs. Loki gasps, half blind for the pain. The man starts to spread him, pushing in another finger too soon and too deep. Slowly, he starts to massage his entrance, knuckles curling inside of him and twisting as he begins to fuck Loki with his fingers. Detached, Loki notices himself tearing around his rapist’s touch. The pain is unbearable. Far, far too soon a third finger pushes inside of him, rough and too quick and not enough to prepare him. Loki is weeping, somewhere, his voice wet and hoarse and wild with pain. He thinks he must be shaking, but he can hardly register that above the burning ache of the man’s fingers, stretching him open until he tears, pressing into him in a vicious mockery of love-making. He barely feels it. He knows what comes next. Hot breath hits his neck, pressing clumsy kisses in a hideous imitation of love onto his shoulder, biting too hard and licking at the sensitive ridges of his Marking.
Loki shudders, barely able to stay on his feet. The man’s hands, too hot and too coarse, press around his hips. If Loki lives, there’ll be bruises there for days yet. It is the least of his concerns. Bile rises in his throat, and he spits it onto the earth. It burns in his mouth. He feels the man’s cock: fat and hard and wet with precum, pushing at his arse. He grits his teeth and tries to brace himself and thinks, no one can brace themselves for this.
Then, suddenly, there’s thunder.
Both the warriors stop in their assault, and Loki sobs in his relief, shaken from the refuge of the trees by the shock of it. His arse and hand and shoulders and body are a wall of pain and he is struggling to stand. His knees buckle, and he manages only to stay upright in his desperation to avoid further damaging his hand. Cold sweat lies like a film over his body, sticky against his drying blood. He would rather burn than this.
The warriors are not apparently paying him any attention. He wonders if they’ve become interested in their fallen brethren. The taste of lightning is in the air, and Loki is vaguely surprised. They were not due a storm today.
“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?”
Loki thinks, a little giddily, that he has never heard an Aesir so angry. He only hopes that means that this new one will kill him, quickly, for whatever perceived slight they saw fit to blame on the Jotun. He doesn’t say anything: he can’t, his voice is hoarse with screaming and his mouth tastes of blood and bile.
But it’s Big Red who responds, stammering and nervous. “M-my Prince, w-we were just…”
“Stop your stammering, Erik, and cover yourself.” The fury in the prince’s voice – Thor, Loki’s mind supplies – is as cold as any Loki has ever heard. He comes closer, and Loki shivers, his body deciding that now is the appropriate time to remind him of exactly how cold it is. The other warrior, the Berserker, steps forward.
“My prince, we apprehended this Jotun witch as it tried to escape us. It killed Sigmund and blinded Bjarke, both good men.” Finally, the prince stops coming closer. Loki drifts in and out of consciousness on tides of fire.
“Geir, isn’t it?” Thor’s voice is almost casual.
“Y-yes, my prince.” Geir sounds surprised. Loki supposes that makes sense: he can’t imagine that warriors who worked closely with the royalty of Asgard would have time to harass his people so.
“Did he perpetrate these attacks unprompted? Did he surprise you, perhaps, with some kind of trap? Or superior numbers?” Thor is still dangerously calm. Thunder rumbles overhead. Loki wonders why it isn’t raining.
“N-no, my prince.” Geir seems confused.
“What happened then?” Thor prompts when Geir fails to elaborate. Erik interjects.
“We saw it in the forest and gave chase, your highness. It tried to escape and we caught it.” Erik doesn’t say fair and square, but Loki thinks he can hear it in his voice.
“Is this Asgardian territory?” Thor does not sound like he needs an answer to this. “Did he do something to offend you? Some slight, some past injury?”
Again, the warriors seem confused. “N-no, your majesty. But…” Geir trails off.
“But what?” Again, Thor is patient as a schoolmaster. Were there not centuries of bloodshed between the Jotun and these monsters, Loki might have considered inviting him to teach a class.
“It’s our prerogative, your highness. As warriors of Asgard! We do not need to justify our action towards the Jotun. They are monsters, little more than beasts.” Erik sounds like a spoiled child after his parents have told him that he can stop playing with his favourite toy. Loki has heard and overheard these arguments a thousand times. And yet they still make him angry.
“Beasts that speak your tongue perfectly, and others besides.” It’s an effort to speak, but he knows his Asgardian is perfect. It has been since he was a teenager. The berserker, Geir, lifts his hand to strike him and Loki flinches. But Thor catches the man’s arm and shoves it down.
“You will do nothing else to this Jotun unless I command it, do you understand?” And now Thor sounds like a prince. In the distance, lightning flickers between the shadows of the trees. Neither Erik nor Geir seem happy, but both step back and bow their heads.
“Yes, your highness.”
Thor is already ignoring them. When he speaks to Loki his voice is soft, and gentle. Loki does not trust it. “Sir, you speak our tongue. I admit, this is a relief.” And then he slips into Jotnar. “My command of your language is clumsy, and I fear it will be a problem.”
Loki shuts his eyes and wants to weep. His body is an open wound, and here is a foreigner asking for patience with his ignorance. But that foreigner is a prince, and may yet save him from the night’s brutality. If he decides not to join in, instead. All at once, he wants to be sick again. He pushes down the urge, and spits on the dirt to clear his mouth. “We can speak in your tongue. I understand you.”
Thor sighs, and if Loki didn’t know he was an Asgardian Prince, he’d have called the reaction relief. “Thank you. What is your name?”
“Loki.” Thor waits, but Loki offers nothing else. He will not give these monsters the satisfaction of his identity. After a moment, Thor nods.
“What were you doing here?”
Loki wants to laugh: the urge bubbles in his chest, too bright and hysterical for the moment. “I was collecting medicine.” With an effort, he jerks his chin at his ruined and discarded clothes. “You can check, if you like.” Thunder rumbles overhead, louder than before, like the hammers of the gods themselves. Real gods, too, not Aesir pretenders.
Thor stoops, pushing the pile of clothes until he finds Loki’s belt. He opens a pouch and pulls out a handful of herbs. Then he looks at the warriors. “He tells the truth. Loki, what happened here?”
Loki takes a deep breath. He will not tell them about the children. He has no reason to trust this so-called prince. “I heard the warriors in the forest. I ran, they gave chase. I defended myself, they caught me.” He clears his throat. “They beat me, and did this. I don’t suppose I need to tell you what they planned to do next.” His tone is bitter with anger and humiliation. Lightning strikes, not far off.
When Thor speaks, his tone is grave. “No, you do not.” Then he turns to the warriors. “So you attacked an innocent Jotun, a healer, of all people. He tried to defend himself from your senseless attentions, and in recompense for his courage you planned to brutalise and rape him. Have I got that right?” There’s his anger again, cold and sharp as the bite of a sword.
Geir and Erik speak at once. Geir says, “It killed Sigmund! It blinded Bjarke! Your majesty, it is hardly innocent.”
Erik says, “It’s a witch! It used tricks and illusions to trap us! Doubles and an invisible shield! It would have killed us all!”
Now Loki does want to laugh. The thread by which he is holding onto his sanity keeps him from doing so, barely. Then, suddenly, white hot and blinding, a pillar of lightning strikes the earth, barely a foot away from him. It’s so hot it singes the hair on the back of his head. Both Erik and Geir fall silent. Thor tosses something heavy in his hands. “Are you finished?”
Neither Erik nor Geir say a word. Loki thinks he might have been impressed, were his emotional energies not taken up already by his pain and his anger. “Excellent.” Thor continues, calmly. “Do we rape and beat Aesir who break the law? Do we hunt innocent healers like animals? Do we murder people who are doing little more than protecting themselves, and possibly others besides?”
“But it’s not Aesir.” Erik protests. He’s barely finished his sentence before he’s flying through the forest, slamming into a tree and falling to the earth following a single mighty blow from Thor’s hammer. A magical object, Loki recalls, distantly. Mjolnir.
“Geir?” Thor asks, calmly, as if he had not just struck one of his own warriors. “Do you have anything to add?” There’s a shift of fabric as Geir shakes his head. “Good. Go back to Asgard. You will await trial for your crimes there. I have already sent your brother and Bjarke. Do not try to run, Heimdall will find you. And if you value your life, do not protest this decision. I will deal with you later.”
Again, Geir says nothing. Instead, he gets to his feet and scampers away. Thor stomps through the forest towards Erik, picking him up by his cloak. He’s too far off for Loki to hear what he says, but he imagines it’s something along similar lines. He’s surprised, to say the least. He had not imagined the Aesir capable of empathy with any of the other races, let alone a rudimentary sense of justice.
Of course, as Thor came closer, Loki reminded himself that that remained to be seen. Perhaps the prince just wanted him to himself. All that he wants is to lose consciousness: the darkness beckons, sweet and painless and free. But he cannot afford to do so. If he has a chance to live, then he has a responsibility to the village and his people to do exactly that. It is this sense of duty that keeps Loki from saying anything when Thor gets back. Instead he waits for what the prince plans to do with him, and tries to maintain his consciousness in spite of the pain.
Thor steps so close his breath falls on Loki’s skin, and Loki shudders, making Thor pause. “I will not hurt you, Loki. You have my word.” Loki thinks, bitterly, that the word of Aesir does not mean much. How many innocent Jotun had been promised clemency, mercy, even, if they only co-operated? How many had been returned to them, maimed and mutilated and half-mad, repeating the Aesir’s hollow words? Loki wants to be sick again.
Thor reaches up, and Loki keeps himself very still, trying not to think about his own helplessness. About how close this Aesir’s body is to his own. About everything he could do to him. Thor’s hand rests on the knife in Loki’s hand and Loki chokes, trying to stifle a whimper, as the movement sends pain shooting through his ruined hand and down to the arrow still lodged in his shoulder. Thor stops. “I am sorry.” He sounds sincere. He’s probably lying. “This will hurt.” Then he pulls, and Loki shouts in his pain and falls to his knees. His body throbs with the movement, especially his shoulders as his arms collapse, caught by their ties behind his back. Thor moves quickly, cutting him free. Loki is weeping, naked on the forest floor, mindless with pain even as Thor straightens his arms.
Thor says, gruffly, “Brace yourself.” He sets one hand on Loki’s shoulder, and wraps the other around his dislocated arm. Loki knows what’s coming next, but when Thor resets his shoulder he throws up anyway. Darkness blurs his vision as unconsciousness races ever closer, but Loki can’t give in to it. He doesn’t know what Thor will do to him, and he is naked and wounded in front of a heavily armed Aesir. Weeping and shuddering, Loki gingerly wraps his arms around his chest and curls into a ball, trying to preserve some scrap of modesty.
For a moment, Thor is still. Then there’s a rustle of fabric, and he’s dropping his cloak over Loki’s body. The fabric is rough, but thick and warm. Loki stays very still, making no effort to try and draw the cloak closer, but none to shake it off either. Thor doesn’t touch him, instead sitting beside him on the forest floor. “You can rest now. It’s alright. I’ll keep you safe.”
Liar, Loki thinks. But then unconsciousness wins anyway, and he slips into the dark.
When Loki wakes, he keeps his eyes shut. This is mostly out of habit. Again, it had been drilled into him from a young age exactly what to do if he were ever captured by the marauders that plundered their realm. Feigning sleep could give you a tactical advantage, if you could use it to gather information about your assailants and your location. Considering the fragments of memories building into what had happened to him over the past thirty hour day, Loki would need all the advantage he could get.
One of the first things he noticed was that Thor had set his broke nose. Not only that: his body was at once warm and cool with poultices and bandages. The arrowhead in his shoulder was gone, and Thor must have stitched the wound. Lower down, around his hips and between his legs, is a mass of pain. Loki has no idea whether Thor had cleaned him, but he knows he is still torn. The more he thinks about it, the more he can feel the Aesir’s phantom hands inside of him. Loki pushes the thoughts away. He cannot grieve, not yet.
Instead he takes a deep breath, careful to keep it even with the sound of his sleeping, trying to categorise the herbs that he could taste and smell. This was Asgardian medicine. He supposed it was not surprising that the prince of warring society would know how to deal with first aid, although it still jarred against everything he knew about the Aesir. Asgardian medicine was decent, not as good as Jotnar, of course. But Loki had read that it was seen in their realm as ‘women’s work’. Another sign of their primitivism, really.
There’s a fire crackling, not far off, and judging by the occasional shift of fabric, Thor is awake. Loki listens long and hard for anything else, but all he hears are early birds and the creaking of the trees. They are alone. He is not sure whether that is a good thing. Tentatively, Loki reaches for his seiðr. It aches like a bruise, but already his power is coming back to him, pouring back into his body from the very air. Whether he will be able to perform any kind of casting through his pain is another question, but basic self-defence should not be beyond him.
He is still naked, though covered by Thor’s cloak, and some kind of winter coat besides. Giving himself a set of clothes is a moment’s thought, and the recovery of his dignity is worth the headache it brings on. Thor doesn’t move, which confirms Loki’s suspicion that he is not particularly sensitive to seiðr or its workings. Still, something at the back of his mind had caught onto the unnatural storm that had arrived with him, a storm that was gone now. Perhaps the prince was not entirely without power.
Of course, the fact he had been naked meant that he was also unarmed. Loki was creative enough to turn almost anything into a weapon, though he doubted a branch would do much against Thor’s hammer if he chose to use it. Still, Loki thought, with an acid kind of humour, it would make him feel better. Judging by the cold and the light behind his eyes, it was the grey time of early morning.
Deciding there was little else to be gained by feigning sleep for much longer, Loki shifted, ignoring the ache in his bones when he did so. Judging by the taping around his ribs, they were broken as he suspected, and his mouth twisted. If he lived through this, waiting for them to heal would be a pain. As soon as he moves, Thor startles, getting to his feet and coming closer, but stopping when he’s about a foot away from Loki’s head. In his hands is a pile of brown rags: Loki’s clothes, he realises.
Thor holds them up like a peace offering, looking more like a boy a fraction of his age than an adult prince of Asgard. “I…you were…I thought you may not like me to touch you any more than was necessary, in your condition.” Thor looks at the clothes in his hands. “They were…” His mouth twists. “Your garments were damaged by…” He pauses, searching for words. Loki suspects that they are not his strong point. “By those criminals.” Thor settles on, decisively. Then he shakes out Loki’s tunic. Rough, clumsy stitches barely hold the ripped front together. “I’ve tried to fix them as best I could.” Briefly, Loki wonders why a prince would have a sewing kit with him in a hostile realm. Then he recognises the thin, translucent glitter of the thread. This would be used for surgery, not haberdashery. A distant part of Loki wants to smile. It was certainly creative.
He did not yet know why, but this Aesir was obviously trying to be kind. That and the fact that he was a prince meant that it would not do to offend him, however badly Loki wanted to. So, with an effort, he sat up, letting Thor help him and telling himself that he didn’t need the help. He shuts his eyes, briefly, as the pain in his body makes him dizzy. Then he drops the cloak. Thor makes a soft sound of surprise: first at the action, and then again at seeing his clothes. “Thank you, your majesty, but that will not be necessary.”
Thor looks confused, and the part of Loki that had not been sexually assaulted wants to laugh at him. “But, you were…” Loki sighs, and shakes his head, and brings seiðr glittering over his fingertips.
“I am a witch, your majesty. This…” He gestures to his clothes. “Is an easy trick.”
“So you are not really clothed?” Again, Thor looks bewildered. This time Loki does laugh at him, more surprised than anything else. His throat hurts, and he’s not sure that he wants to be laughing, but it feels good to feel anything at all other than shell shock and anger and fear.
The moment he laughs, Thor grins, wide and golden and relieved. He reminds Loki somewhat of a Midgardian creature, a loyal thing with four legs that the people of that realm referred to as their friends. It takes an effort for Loki to remind himself that this man, if anything, is a wolf, and would sooner kill him than be his friend. He is Aesir, after all.
“No, I assure you that I am dressed, your highness.” He holds out his arm, and nods when Thor fails to touch it. After a long moment Thor does so: his big hands are stained with mud, and his touch is very light, as if he’s worried that he could break Loki by holding him too tightly. Loki pulls on his most charming smile and ignores the way it makes his bruised mouth ache. “These clothes are no illusion.”
Thor keeps smiling. “Then I think you are modest, Master Loki. Users of seiðr in Asgard are capable of minor illusions, but to create things from nothing is a trick, I think, of another order.” He’s right, and Loki is more than a little surprised that he should know as much. But Asgardian ignorance of seiðr is one of the few things that might keep him alive, so Loki decides to neither confirm nor deny the prince’s assumption.
Despite his new clothes, and the cloak still draped in his lap, it’s a cold morning. Even Jotun could get cold on Jotunheim, and Loki’s magic was still coming back to him. He shivers, and glances at the fire. Thor follows his glance, and gets to his feet, offering Loki his hands. “Come, you must be cold.” Loki takes Thor’s pink, warm hands in his and tries not think of other Aesir, and their touches, and his skin crawls.
Still, he gets stiffly to his feet, and ignores the pain that rolls through his body when he does so, following Thor to the fire. He tells himself that he isn’t limping, and prays that Thor wont say anything about it. “Cold, your majesty? I am a frost giant, a Jotun. We do not feel cold.” This is a test, more than anything, and Thor laughs good humouredly as he helps Loki sit beside the flames, drawing back as soon as Loki is settled.
“I believe that we both know that is not true, Master Loki. You can handle greater cold, as I can handle greater heat, but we both feel.” Again, it’s more than most of his compatriots know, or seem to know, about his people. Loki looks at Thor, considering, whilst Thor busies himself with propping a stick of meat over the fire.
“If you don’t mind my asking, your highness, what do you plan to do with me?” Loki keeps his tone as calm and non-confrontational as he can. But already his mind is racing: Thor must have a purpose for doing what he has done, for healing him and offering him such kindnesses. Loki had heard of Aesir that took a fancy to certain Jotun, treated them gently and then took them back to Asgard to be their slaves and pets and playthings. He had hoped the rumours were not true, that even the Aesir would grant them death before stealing their freedom. Or if they could not rely on their kindness, then at least on their hatred and ignorance: surely the Aesir would not deign to bring a ‘filthy Jotun’ into the shining halls of Asgard.
Now he began to worry that he’d been wrong. Thor sighs and stares at the fire. Everything about him is golden, and Loki resents him for it with every fibre of his being. Damn the Aesir, their wealth and their strength. They feasted while Jotunheim starved. One day, they would pay for it.
“This morning, or I suppose it was yesterday, we received an envoy from your people. He was a King who called himself Laufey. He had come to our court as a citizen of the nine realms, to protest the crimes of Asgard. Crimes perpetrated by Aesir, in blatant breach of our treaty. He was not armed, and had a small guard, and some of our warriors meant to kill him for his impudence.”
Again, Loki wants to laugh. It was not surprising that the Aesir would act in such a way, they could hardly grasp the concept of peace, or mercy. He knew Laufey, of course. He’d tried to discourage his father from visiting the realm of their enemies: it was a suicide mission at best, and at worst would have repercussions for all their people. The part of him still ringing with shock from his assault wonders, coldly, if this golden prince is about to tell him that his father has died, too. He wonders how he will keep on living.
Thor is watching him carefully. “Our warriors were stopped, of course.” He sighs. “The crimes of Asgard are great, and greater, it seems, every day. I do not know when we went so far astray.” Loki grits his teeth. Thor sits up. “But this is not how we had intended to rule. Your people have a right to live their lives in safety, free from harm and…degradation. Already, my father has ruled that any Aesir who have behaved in this way are war criminals. They will be brought to the courts for their behaviour, and punished. Laufey and his guard are our honoured guests, and free to leave whenever they wish. They have decided to stay, to attest to the many crimes perpetrated by my people against your own.”
“And me, your highness?” Loki speaks softly, digesting Thor’s words. He will not accept them yet: will not dare to hope until his father is before him once again, alive and uninjured. But if this is true…Loki has spent so many centuries thinking of hope as a distant, futile dream. Thor starts.
“What of you, Master Loki?” He turns the meat on the fire. The smell of roasting game fills the air, and Loki’s stomach rumbles. He had not realised how hungry he was, though he supposed he had not eaten since the previous morning. He had planned to have the children forage their next meal with him in the forest. Such an innocent activity seems like an impossible dream, now.
Loki speaks carefully. “I cannot imagine that at such a momentous time you would have had much cause to visit our region, your majesty. What brought you here?”
Thor nods, and offers Loki his flask. At Loki’s questioning look, he says, “it’s only water.” He takes a swig of it himself, then passes it back to Loki. Loki takes it carefully, letting his seiðr run over the thing to check for poisons or drugs before he takes a sip. Thor continues whilst he does so. “You may have heard of our watch keeper, Heimdall.”
Loki nods, of course he had. Even if he hadn’t been studying Asgard for centuries, trying desperately to find some sort of weakness, the tactical advantage Heimdall had granted the Aesir in their war with Jotunheim was infamous. Thor sighs and continues. “He came to the court, warning us that yet more warriors were…perpetrating their crimes against your people. My father, the King, sent me to stop them.”
“And here we are.” Loki muses, quietly, then remembers himself, hating the fear that rises in him when he glances up at Thor. “Your majesty.”
Thor nods, gravely. “Here we are.” He hesitates, and his caution is as naked on his face as it would be on any child. Amused, Loki sympathises with Asgard’s diplomatic future. An honest prince did not have to be a bad thing, but it would make life difficult for the Aesir. Then again, they had never seen fit to follow through on their politics before, preferring instead the violence of brute force. Centuries of hatred twist inside him. The only reason Loki resists the urge to strangle this prince with his bare hands is the hope that he speaks the truth about Laufey. However far fetched a fantasy, it was too precious a mercy to lose over one moment of mindless anger.
“May I ask….Did they….” Loki expects Thor to ask him about the more sordid details of his own assault. Instead, Thor says, tentatively, “Heimdall said there were children.”
All at once, Loki’s anger is back. He finds himself grateful for his drained magic, he expects that if it were back the earth itself would shake with his efforts to control himself. As it is, he clenches his fists until his knuckles are white and fights to regain some semblance of calm. Thor, watching his reaction, turns a faint shade of green. “I see.” There’s a distant rumble, and the distinct smell of ozone in the air. Loki wonders whether they’ll see another storm.
Loki’s anger starts to subside, slowly. When it has gone far enough for him to keep his voice even, he speaks. “They are safe.”
Thor’s relief is visible: his body relaxes, great shoulders slumping, and his fists uncurl. Something of the charge in the air dissipates. “Good.” Thor runs a hand over his face, and Loki is amazed to see that it is shaking a little. “That’s good.” He pauses, obviously thinking as he turns the meat. It’s nearly finished cooking. The smell is rich and thick in the air. Loki wonders exactly how much he’ll be allowed to eat.
Realisation passes across Thor’s features. “The shield they spoke of?”
Loki inclines his head. “And other tricks, your majesty.”
Thor nods again, drawing a knife and a bowl from his pack and carving the game from the stick into the bowl, piling it high with roasted meat. “They are lucky to have a such a dedicated guardian.” He says. He sounds impressed. Loki thinks: they are lucky to have such a dedicated prince. But Thor does not need to know the exact status of the Jotun with whom he sits. Not now, anyway.
When Thor has carved enough meat for the bowl to be nearly overflowing, he hands it to Loki. There isn’t much left over the fire, Thor had caught a large bird by the look of it, but it was still a bird. Loki takes the bowl in the hand not injured by the dagger. His arm, the one that had been dislocated, aches at even the slight weight. But he manages, and sets the bowl carefully in his lap. “Your majesty, this is…” Thor waves him off.
“You are gravely injured. Besides, my mother says that the working of seiðr demands a hearty appetite, and you must have exerted yourself greatly to protect the children.” Again, Thor looks grave. “I am deeply sorry that you had to.”
Again, Thor is right. Again, Loki does not feel the need to tell him as much. Instead, he picks carefully at the meat with his bare hands in the manner of the Aesir. And to think that they called Jotun beasts: their warriors did not even use basic cutlery. Still, the meat is rich and fatty and hot, and if Loki ignores the pain in his lips, it’s a blessing. Already he can feel something of himself starting to return, and with it, some healing, as his magic finds its way to his more severe injuries.
Loki is about halfway through the bowl when he realises that Thor had not actually answered his question from before. “So what now, your majesty?”
Thor chews thoughtfully on stick of meat in his hand before answering. “I will return you safely to wherever you came from. Yes, one of our warriors is dead, but as far as I can see you were acting in self-defence. Under the circumstances, it’s understandable, even worthy of praise. Especially considering the children in your care.” Thor pauses, and eats a little more food, looking at Loki appraisingly. “I would not blame you if you hesitated to show me exactly where your village lies. The Aesir have not given you much reason to trust us.” Thor’s expression darkens before it clears, like a storm in the night. “But I would prefer to know that you would live, and were safe with those who could care for you, before I return to Asgard.”
“Magnanimous of you.” Loki mutters, before he can help himself, and tacks on the, “your majesty,” as an afterthought. Thor does not apparently pick up on the sarcasm. Instead he looks pleased.
“Yes, I rather think so.” Loki resists the urge to roll his eyes. He tries to decide how he’s feeling about all of this, and realises that he has absolutely no idea. He feels like part of him still exists outside of his body, and he knows enough about both physical and mental trauma to expect that the repercussions of his attack will remain with him for decades yet. If he survived, and it was still difficult to imagine, despite the growing evidence to suggest that he would, Loki decided that he would visit the elves of Alfheim. They knew a great deal about both spiritual and mental healing. Perhaps they could help him recover fully.
Loki finishes eating, and suddenly a great weariness settles over his bones. He supposes this is only to be expected, even as he lists to the side. Thor catches him, gently, though he draws back when Loki flinches at his touch. Thor’s voice is barely a low rumble on the edges of his consciousness. “Come, Master Loki, you need rest. We will travel after you have slept.”
Loki tries to get to his feet, and Thor catches him. Then darkness swallows him. His last thought is surprise that he lasted as long as he did.
With Loki’s injuries, it takes them the better part of a day to get to the edge of the forest. When they arrive, there’s a party of Jotun warriors waiting for them. Of course. It’s been nearly three days since their prince went missing, and whilst he might have been spending his time teaching in a rural community, this was the kind of incident that made waves even in their now decimated society.
In the time since Thor had found, and, though Loki hated to admit it, saved him, his hand and shoulder have healed remarkably well. This is thanks to both his seiðr and what Thor called healing stones, an Asgardian mineral that rivalled anything Loki had seen in the nine realms. Had he been wholly himself, and had Thor not been who and what he was, Loki would have insisted on taking samples back to his study to thoroughly examine them. As it were, he was only grateful that it lessened the pain.
Loki suspected that Thor could not distinguish all of his bruises, that he was not equipped to see the darker shades on his already dark skin. Whether this was ignorance or some real biological limitation of the Aesir remained to be seen. Regardless of that, Loki’s warriors certainly knew, and more than one sucked in their breath when they saw him as he emerged from the trees. Loki briefly considered casting a glamour over himself: but then he remembered the innocent people who’d come limping home from the Aesir’s attacks, people who had felt ashamed and belittled. He would not validate those fears by hiding his own vulnerability. These were his people. He had been attacked, and he had survived. That was something to be proud of.
Loki is not surprised to see his warriors: and more besides, the better part of the village in front of its steep, icy walls, except for the children. Even then, Angrboda stands to one side, far too close to the front and likely in spite of her elders. Loki feels the first real smile he’s had in three days creep onto his lips, and he nods at her, raising his eyebrows as if to say see? I told you I would be fine.
Angrboda crosses her arms and frowns, the stubborn pride of a child, and Loki wants to laugh. He can read what she’s thinking in every line of her: but you did get hurt. He decides he’ll talk to her later, when things are smoothed over. Perhaps it will do something to calm her fears.
The older Jotun are less concerned and more confused. Loki doesn’t blame them: they know what people who survive an encounter with the Aesir look like. They know how they limp, and hide themselves, how they return naked and gravely injured and bleeding between their legs. Certainly, the Jotun who live never return with an Aesir in tow. The warriors lower neither their swords nor their shields, eyeing Thor warily. On the battlements, a group of archers who must have travelled from the capital stand ready with their arrows knocked.
Slowly, Thor lets go of Loki, setting both Mjolnir and his sword onto the earth. “I mean you no harm.”
One of the warriors, a brave man who went by Cade, raised his chin. “We do not want to hear from you, Aesir.” That isn’t exactly what that word means: over the centuries it’s come to be a deadly insult in Jotnar. But Loki doesn’t see any reason why he should tell Thor that. Cade looks at him. “My prince, are you well?”
This gets a reaction from Thor, who seems both surprised and horrified. Loki wants to laugh, again, and resists the urge. It would not be appropriate for such an occasion, and whilst he is looking forward to solitude with which to nurse his wounds, he does not want his people to think he has gone mad. Loki arches an eyebrow at him. “Obviously, the Aesir are less familiar with our politics than we are with yours, Prince Thor.”
Loki can feel his people’s relief when they hear his voice, even and calm as it is. Angrboda starts to smile, gap toothed and guileless. Again, Thor surprises him by falling to one knee and bowing his head. Loki blinks, and wishes that they didn’t have an audience. “What are you doing, your majesty?”
Thor speaks slowly, and his accent is terrible, but when he replies he does so in Jotnar. “I must apologise, Prince Loki. I had no idea of your station, and fear that I have gravely insulted you.”
It’s not too cold, but there’s a breeze in the air, and it pulls at Loki’s hair as he stares down at the Aesir. Part of him wonders whether he actually got away from Geir and Erik, or if this isn’t just a particularly confusing introduction to the Afterlife. Everything he knows about the Aesir, everything he knows about them, contradicts the broad-shouldered blonde kneeling in the dirt before him. A quick glance at the Jotun warriors and the assembled crowd reveals much the same thing.
Vaguely embarrassed, more on Thor’s behalf than his own, Loki frowns and shakes his head. “Get up. It does not suit you to kneel, your majesty.” Then he takes a deep breath. The last thing Loki wanted to do on any given day was coddle an Aesir. Certainly not after everything that had happened since he’d left this village three days ago. But there were politics to consider, and Loki was not a fool. So he raised his voice, and continued to speak in Jotnar. “You saved my life, Prince Thor, and my dignity, from those so-called warriors who you called criminals.”
This prompts a wave of murmuring from the crowd, who look at once angry, shocked and confused as they digest the implications of this statement. Thor just looks confused, and Loki, again resenting the need for patience, translates for him into Asgardian. Thor’s expression clears, and he speaks again in Jotnar. “They are criminals. All who have done these things are criminals. My father…” Thor glances at Loki, murmuring in Asgardian, and Loki provides a translation, “My father arrests them as we speak.”
Cade, who seems to have processed more quickly than the rest that in Loki’s statement was also an admission that he had nearly been raped, stares at Thor in what is mostly fury. “Why should we believe you? Why should we believe anything you have to say?”
Loki feels Thor’s anger rising, and with it the pressure in the air. He was right, then, about the storms: the Aesir was causing them, although how deliberate that was remained to be seen. He glances at Thor out of the corner of his eye, and raises his hands in an appeasing gesture. Cade was right to be angry, but it was still an unacceptable way to speak to royalty. Even Aesir royalty. “You should believe me. Believe what I have to say. This man, this Aesir Prince, saved my life. He says that King Odin has heard King Laufey’s delegation, and that they will return to us shortly. Until then, reserve your judgement.”
The crowd calms a little at that, and Thor does too, at Loki’s side. Loki feels, abruptly, painfully tired. He had never really had reason to consider exactly how exhausting being a victim of trauma and a representative of the state would be. He maintains his smile regardless, and tilts his head to the side. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d very much like to sit down. It has been a long three days.”
Both the village and the warriors respond immediately, with concern and soft, relieved laughter. Cade and his soldiers are slow to approach them, and they do not put down their swords, eyeing Thor warily. Aesir had a reputation for killing dozens in sudden, berserker rages, and they obviously did not trust Thor to release Loki without a fight. Loki decided to make it easier for them. He held up his good hand, and the soldiers stopped. Then he turned to Thor.
“Your majesty, I must ask you to wait outside of the village boundary. I know it is hardly a fitting welcome for one of your station, but I’m afraid that neither I nor my people have had any reason to trust the Aesir over the past…” Loki pauses, and decides he doesn’t give a damn about Asgardian sensibilities. “Over the past eight hundred years. All we have known from your people is rape, and torture and murder, of all from our greatest warriors to our most innocent children. Many of the people who live here are either survivors of such attacks, or friends and relatives of those survivors.” Thor looks distinctly green. Good, Loki thinks, grimly. “If you are concerned about these issues, as you claim to be,” Thor looks like he wants to interrupt here, but Loki doesn’t let him. “Then you might understand why it is too much to ask of my people to have them accommodate you on so little notice with so little in your favour.” He pauses. “Again, I apologise.” Saying the next words feels like pulling out a tooth with his bare hands, but he manages it. “And I am grateful to you, both for your aid and everything that happened after. Thank you.”
Thor takes a moment to digest that. Then he straightens. “Of course.” His voice is gruff, though Loki thinks that might be a more permanent thing than a reflection of his current emotional state. “Of course, I understand. And I am the one who is sorry. On behalf of Asgard. That such things have been allowed to happen, for so long…It is a grave failing indeed.” Thor pauses, looking thoughtful, and Loki nearly considers waving a hand in front of his face to bring him back. Then he focuses on Loki again. “As for yourself, your highness, you do not need to thank me.” Thor looks down at his hands. If everything Loki knew about the thunderer didn’t stand against it, he’d say the prince looked a little shy. “It is the least I could do.”
Loki nods. It was, but it’s good of him to admit it, at least. Then he turns to his warriors, and raises his voice. “Prince Thor will not be staying with us.” The relief of the crowd is almost palpable. He turns to Thor, and after a moment’s consideration, clasps his arm in a traditional Asgardian gesture of friendship, nodding his head. It’s a bow befitting a moment of gratitude between two princes. “Thank you, your majesty. Perhaps, on King Laufey’s return, and with a little more warning, we will be able to accommodate you in future.” It’s not much of an invitation, and will be easy enough to undo if Thor’s words prove false. But informal as it is, it’s the beginning of a conversation that for too long has gone unspoken between their realms.
Thor seems to realise as much, because he squeezes back – though Loki suspects he does so as gently as he can - and looks openly thrilled. “I will tell my father, Prince Loki.”
I rather thought you might, Loki thinks, drily. Then Thor nods at the assembled crowds, and starts to spin his hammer. Loki raises his eyebrows, lifting his arms to keep the warriors back, and with them raises his seiðr, constructing a rough shield over the assembled crowd as he waits for whatever Thor plans to do next. Then Thor leaps into the air and flies. Loki and his warriors watch him go and then, when he is but a speck in the clouds, Loki allows himself to laugh, long and hard and a little hysterical.
The man was a show-off, if nothing else.
Two years later, Loki still has nightmares, about knives thrown through the scar on his hand, and unwanted hands pressing into his naked body. But the nightmares are fading, with time, and Loki is no longer as horrified by intimacy as he once was. The elves of Alfheim, in their wisdom, have had no small part to play in this.
More remarkable is the fact that over these two years, at least as far as Loki and his father are aware, there has been not a single Aesir attack on the Jotuns. There have been a few near misses, but in all but one occasion, the Aesir themselves have stopped their rogue warriors well before any damage could be done. In the last, the Jotun exacted a vicious and bloody vengeance, and paid a hefty wergild to King Odin for the privilege. It is, all told, the beginning of an era of unprecedented peace, and Loki does not blame his people for their unwillingness to accept it quite yet.
Young Jotun are still taught their set phrases in schools. Women and children do not leave the cities alone, and only the King’s personal retinue has ever visited Asgard. Still, it’s a start. And going from near weekly attacks to almost none is a blessing that Loki never thought he would see in his lifetime: not without the total annihilation of their overlords, anyway.
Yet here he was, instead, fiddling with the cuffs of his ceremonial dress, preparing to receive a small delegation from Asgard that would include King Odin and Prince Thor themselves. The only reason Frigga wasn’t attending was so that she could remain as regent in Asgard. If Loki had told himself this five years ago, he’d have laughed in his own face. Indeed, that would have been the least he would do.
Laufey, of course, was even further along the path to reconciliation. He had lived before the war with Asgard, which was to most a blurry memory. He had known the Aesir before their depredations. He had seen how they’d reacted to the proclamation of his envoy. And of course, crucially, the Prince of Asgard had saved Laufey’s son from his would-be rapists. Laufey had wanted to invite Thor to his palace as a guest of honour from the moment he’d heard. It was only the advice of Loki and his counsellors: that it would be too much for the people, too soon – too much even for Loki, that Laufey had held back. Now that he finally had both the political and personal excuse however, Laufey was throwing the kind of feast that would be talked about in history books for millennia.
Despite himself, as he walked from his chambers towards the great hall, Loki couldn’t help letting the festivities infect his own mood. Charmed lights and flowers sprouted from the palace’s pillars: displays of craftsmanship and seiðr alike. Musicians from all across the realm played across the palace grounds, entertaining the hundreds of Jotun guests that had been invited to take part in the feast. The guests of honour were not, in fact, the Asgardians, but the living victims of the Aesir who had decided to accept King Laufey’s invitations. They were a risk: any one of them could be volatile enough to threaten the uneasy peace between the realms. But it was a calculated risk: Loki had vetted the victims personally, and placed small charms on their persons – with their consent – that would prevent them from harming the Aesir and vice versa.
The guests, many of whom were simple labourers and unused to such decadence, milled about the palace uneasily. They were guided by a handful of trusted nobles, again chosen by Loki personally. Whether he liked it or not, he’d become something of a symbol of resistance and healing from the Aesir’s brutality. It was a great burden, but then he was a prince. It was to be expected. Loki smiles at the survivors he recognises – taking the time to greet each group and exchange polite words of welcome with them and the nobles on his way to the halls.
The whole palace smells of cooking sweets and savoury meat, perfumes and flowers. Part of it is enchantment, but it’s also the concoctions worn by the noblemen and women who mill about the palace and its gardens. Perfume was a Dwarvish conceit, and the Jotun had taken to it enthusiastically. By the time Loki reaches the great hall itself, he already has a glass of mead in hand. He finishes it and sets it carefully in an alcove, mentally thanking whichever of the palace’s many staff would be working in the clean-up operation tomorrow.
Then he enters the hall. The decorations along the palace halls, corridors, balconies and gardens are pretty. Those inside the hall are regal: gold and silver, blue and red, they elegantly mix the colours of the Jotun and Aesir royal families. Floating chandeliers burn gold in the space between the guests and the vaulted ceiling, itself enchanted to reflect the stars and nebulae of Jotunheim’s skies. Long tables draped in red cloth boast plates piled high with Jotun delicacies, and no small number of Aesir dishes, either. Circus performers and magicians mill about the hall, entertaining the guests.
It is, Loki can accept, a masterpiece of diplomatic celebration. There was no way that their Asgardian guests could be insulted by the display. On the contrary, it put pressure on them to provide the same in future, and to consolidate their newly formed political alliance. Loki loved his father, and knew him to be more doting than he was himself, but that didn’t mean the King wasn’t a sly bastard when he wanted to be. They had that in common. Laufey appreciated the opportunity to celebrate his son’s rescuer, but he wouldn’t waste such an occasion on just that. Loki finds himself discreetly proud.
He takes his place to sit beside his father. Laufey himself is engaged deeply in conversation with Odin, and Loki bows to both of them before he sits. On his side is Thor, whose plate is already piled high with a hearty mix of both Aesir and Jotun food. The man looks genuinely happy to see him, offering him a toothy and guileless grin. “Loki!” Loki doesn’t need to turn to see Odin’s glare, and Thor corrects himself immediately, clearing his throat. “Prince Loki! It’s good to see you!”
Loki eyes the man warily. He is as bright and golden as Loki remembered, and does not seem to have changed much. They have not seen each other in person for two years. He had needed time to let the Aesir fade from his mind, and had avoided any chance of encounter. Still, about six months after his attack, he had received a letter from none other than the mighty Thor himself. It was written in Jotnar and full of spelling errors, with not much of political import. It was, in point of fact, a transparent attempt at friendship. Loki had let it sit in his study for a full month, before going through the letter with red ink, correcting Thor’s mistakes and sending him a brief reply in perfect Asgardian.
Not easily discouraged, Thor had replied quickly and with enthusiasm, thanking him for his aid and suggesting they become pen pals. He had offered, in place of any kind of grammatical instruction, a handful of Asgardian idioms and slang with which Loki was not familiar. After checking their veracity (Loki was a prankster, after all, and it would be naïve to ignore the possibility), Loki had replied again. Thus had begun a slow, sometimes painful, anecdotal exchange of information about their cultures. Over time, Loki had grown to…not like Thor, he couldn’t quite admit that yet. But he didn’t dislike him either. If he was being very honest with himself, and he rarely was, he’d been a little nervous about this feast.
No other royalty in the realms was around his age, except for some of the elven chiefs of Alfheim. For all their differences, Thor was one of the few people Loki could relate to. Of course, he was a political ally, and as such could not be trusted easily. But Loki found himself…wanting this friendship, for all that he riled against it. So when Thor grinned, and clapped him on the back, Loki decided to let it go.
“How are you my friend? It has been some weeks since your last letter, I had grown worried!” Vaguely, Loki considers the rest of that sentence, but a small and childish part of his mind is fixated on the beginning. How could Thor call him friend so easily? Did he not understand the personal and political implications of such a statement? They barely knew each other.
Loki realises that Thor is waiting patiently for a response, and clears his throat, grabbing a handful of grapes from the centre of the table. “We have been kept quite busy, I am afraid.” Loki gestures at the hall, and the festivities. And then, because he cannot help it, offers Thor a wry grin. “This does not in fact happen overnight.”
Thor throws back his head and laughs, a great Asgardian belly laugh. Loki looks at him the way he looks at other large, confusing animals, and waits for it to stop. It wasn’t that funny. “I see, of course!” He pauses, looking thoughtful. Loki resists the urge to tell him that the expression doesn’t suit him. Even if they are friends, they’re certainly not there yet. “It is pleasant, I must say, to have a peer not obligated to refer to me as ‘your majesty’ or ‘your highness’ all the time. Such protocol grows wearisome, don’t you think?”
Yes, Loki thinks. Instead he reaches for a goblet of wine, quietly thanking the servant who pours it, and ignores Thor’s look of approval. He doesn’t need Thor’s approval. He says, “Yes, although of course such titles serve their purpose.”
Thor snorts. “Yes, yes, I know, but you know what I mean. It is good to have a friend of a similar station.”
“You mean one not obligated to respect you?” The words are out before Loki can stop them, and this time he feels Laufey’s glare on him. For his part, Thor laughs, and slaps him on the back again. Loki thinks, a little mournfully, that he will likely have a bruise there by morning. He wants to be more angry about that than he is, and certainly not so…flattered.
“I knew you would understand! So, how fare your students? Has Skadi overcome her shyness at all? Is Angrboda pressing on with her advanced studies?” For just a second, Loki is too surprised to control his reaction. He knew Thor read his letters, of course, but he hadn’t really thought that the Prince of Asgard would care much for the minutiae of his daily life. Certainly not his responsibilities as a teacher. Again, Thor waits patiently for his reply.
Loki realises with a pleasant sense of relief that Thor is not treating him as a victim. There is no pity in his expression, and he is not overly gentle. He does not treat Loki as if he expects him to fall apart. His patience is just that, he’s being polite. If Loki allowed himself to hope, and he very rarely did so, he’d guess that Thor’s overtures of friendship were not only born from a sense of guilt over what had happened to him two years ago. Thor seemed sincerely interested in Loki as a person, regardless of his trauma.
He takes a sip of his wine and consciously, deliberately, relaxes. Thor may not be the most observant creature in the nine realms, but he’s a warrior, and Loki thinks he’ll notice that. Then he takes a deep breath and says, “Angrboda continues to surprise me. I suspect that by the time she reaches her majority, she will be one of the most powerful witches in the nine realms…”
So passes a pleasant evening – more pleasant than Loki had been expecting. Thor asks him polite and not unintelligent questions about his life and his studies, and laughs at his jokes and stories of his pranks. For his part, Thor is a loud and enthusiastic storyteller, regaling Loki with tales of his mishaps across the nine realms. More than once, he surprises a laugh out of Loki, and every time he does he seems delighted. As the night wears on, Loki finds himself wanting to meet these Warriors Three, and the Lady Sif.
He is especially interested in the Queen, a woman about whom he questions Thor carefully. Everyone knew that Frigga had been a Vanir Shieldmaiden, but he had not realised she knew so much of seiðr and the old ways. He was even more surprised that she had tried to teach her son what she knew. Thor explained a little bashfully that he had no talent for the art, and again Loki wondered about his strange affinity with lightning. He decided not to ask about it, at least not on this night. It would constitute tactical information, and he did not yet think such a line of inquiry would be welcome, even by one as generous as Thor.
The night is heading towards its end when Laufey clears his throat, standing and striking his staff on the wide flagstones of the hall. Immediately, silence falls, and Laufey raises his goblet high. “A toast, to our Asgardian guests, King Odin, and Prince Thor. May this night see a new era of peace between our realms.” The assembled guests toast, as does Loki. Laufey turns to he and Thor, and raises his goblet high. “And another toast, to the mighty Thor. We will long sing tales of your courage and your compassion.” Thor looks a little embarrassed, and Loki contains his amusement as he drinks. It may not have been a glorious battle, but Loki would concede that his actions had been heroic, in a sense. He’d drink to that.
Laufey sits, and Odin stands. Loki watches him carefully. The man is practically humming with seiðr, for one thing. For another, his good eye is sharp and frighteningly intelligent. It is not difficult to see in this man the conqueror of their realm, and Loki doubts he is the only person thinking as much. Odin raises his glass. “My thanks, to King Laufey and Prince Loki, for their grand reception and these joyous festivities. Asgard looks forward to a long and prosperous peace with our neighbour in Jotunheim. And, indeed, to repaying you in kind.” Then Odin turns. Loki feels his seiðr prickle over his skin, more in preparation than anything else, an old habit. But instead Odin says, quietly, “Hereward.” A tall, dark man carrying something covered by a cloth steps forward.
Loki forgets how to breathe. How had he not noticed it before? There must have been heavy seiðr cast over it, to conceal such a thing, especially to conceal it here. Next to him, Thor looks distinctly pleased with himself, and Loki resists the urge to let his jaw drop. Had he known all this time? Perhaps the Prince was not as guileless as Loki had thought.
Odin takes the box, the casket from Hereward, and turns to Laufey. Loki can feel the moment Laufey realises what is in his hands: he feels it in his father’s soul, an overwhelming shock of grief-pain-anger-relief-joy-hope, hope, hope. Loki’s chest aches with the force of it, and Odin draws the rough dark cloth from the casket’s lid. And there it is: the Casket of Ancient Winters, in all its glory. The assembled guests gasp. The seiðr users stagger, clutching their chests and raising their hands to their heads.
Because the casket is singing. It’s singing a song of joy, and hope, and redemption. Of peace and safety and healing. Of a home free from fear and famine. Loki can feel Thor looking at him, can feel tears dripping down his cheeks, but he doesn’t look away. Odin bows, deeply, to Laufey, and presents him with the casket. When he speaks, he does so solemnly. “This should never have been taken from you, King Laufey. I hope that you will take its return as a gesture of goodwill, and a sign of mutual peace for the millennia to come.”
Loki is sitting close enough to know that his father’s hands are shaking as he takes the Casket from Odin’s hands. The part of him that is dark and scarred and angry half expects it to be cursed, to kill his father where he stands. But that doesn’t happen. Instead there’s a burst of blinding blue-white light, and a wave of seiðr so powerful and so pure it knocks Loki breathless. Then the hall erupts: the guests springing to their feet, cheering and clapping and weeping and laughing. Giddy, Loki grins at his father, who looks as if he’s been handed his own new-born son. Laufey grins back at him, and holds up the Casket. Tentatively, Loki rests a hand on its casing, and the thing sings at his touch, wrapping him in its seiðr. Loki can feel himself starting to cry again, can see the tears on his father’s cheeks, and he doesn’t care.
Laufey clasps the back of his neck, and pulls him close, kissing his forehead. Loki struggles to contain the sobs rising inside him. Then Laufey lets him go and turns to Odin, holding out his arm for a traditional Jotun embrace which Odin accepts and returns, laughing and red faced. Loki turns, still dizzy, to Thor, who looks delighted but confused. He laughs at him, but Thor doesn’t look offended. Instead, he watches the people: embracing one another, dancing, laughing and weeping in the sheer euphoria of the thing.
“I had known that this was significant, but I had no idea how important it was to your people.” Thor looks briefly rueful. “I still have much to learn, it seems.”
Loki laughs again, bright and breathless. And then, because he is not immune to the night’s events, he reaches out and clasps Thor’s shoulder. “Consider yourself lucky, then, that you have me.” He waits for that to sink in, and his smile grows a little softer as he adds, quietly. “My friend.”
So ended eight hundred years of famine on Jotunheim. So began peace.