Work Text:
And royal blood means nothing without blessing.
--
Loki learns quickly that Asgard’s golden throne was never meant for him. For all his father’s talk, his strength - and gods, his strength- is in quick words, and dog-eared pages, and he carries the knives his mother taught him how to use.
--
Morgana is a princess, a princess, nothing more, and she smiles with Gwen by her side, at the daughters of visiting noble men, and they coo over the silk of her dresses, and say how lucky, how lucky she is, to be as a daughter to the king, and then turn to swoon at Arthur.
--
When they first started to train, Loki beats Thor every time.
--
Arthur pouts in the dust at her feet.
--
Thor is banished, and Loki’s throne is his own by any right.
--
Morgana has the blood, but no heirship. Not that is matters, when Arthur is a fool, and Uther is a liar. She will take it, with a blade and the glow in her eyes, and see these mortal men try and stop her.
--
His robes are finer than ever, and his helm is heavy, and shines.
He is not a king.
--
Gone are the silks, the rich, embroidered dresses that made her a jewel. She wears rough layers, that fall past her hips in tatters to her knees, shielded by leather and mail. The sword on her hip alters her stance.
She is not a sorceress. She is a witch . She is a priestess. She is a queen.
--
Loki may be a god, but even gods have peers, and his do not love him, they do not choose him. He falls.
--
She will face them, and she will fail, because there is no dragon on her side, destiny loves gold, you see, and the glint of her irises is nothing compared to Arthur, who was spun by magic in a barren womb.
She fails, but does not die, because Arthur loved her once, and Merlin remembers her trembling hands, and so she does not die, flung into stone and branches and roots, and she does not hate them, she cannot, not for the bruises she left on Arthur’s ribs with swordplay, not for the blind trust in Merlin’s grin.
She will wake, she will be free, and in the end, she will take Arthur’s body in her arms, watched by Emrys’ soft, red-rimmed eyes, and carry him home.
--
Asgard exists, constantly, in and out of Midgard’s time. They live and die and fall a thousand times. Between that, Loki finds Morgana. Her bones are dust, but she has magic, and she lives. Ethereal, it is too easy to recognise one as the other. They smile. They join hands.
In and out of space and time, they flit, and they watch. They know what must feed them, so they whisper into the minds of their own, tell them the stories. The details change - Morgana fluctuates in age, as does Loki, and the Liesmith’s hair will flame, but always darken again, because destiny does not love them, for they are not golden men.
Destiny does not love them, but who cares for that? Both become creatures of myth, Morgana as close to a god as a once-mortal could become, when their artists craft them so. The same stories feed their brothers, their fathers, their enemies, but all elements are needed, and when the stories are told so well, the awe of their mortal kin, who are as unloved by their mundane powers as Morgana and Loki, flares them into greater power, and their silver shines ever bright.
--
They recognise him. No-one but they could have guessed it, but Jack Benjamin is theirs. Is it less fair, perhaps, when he was set from birth for the throne? No matter - Destiny or God, it does not matter, because he is dark and beautiful and cunning and unloved.
But he gets the furthest, until David arrives, wreathed in butterflies and always, always fucking gold. When Jack’s heart breaks, half-drunk on the steps of his father’s palace, Loki and Morgana flank him, and reach unfelt to cup his jaw.
--
They curl, intangible in black and white, around their princeling, because time and space are mutable, and childhood is the only time of peace for their kind. Loki lies still. Morgana twines Jack in her arms, strokes his hair, and whispers, don’t worry, my love, you’ll be with us soon.
The world will give them no crown.
Instead, they take their hearts.
--
Morgana is a princess, a princess, nothing more, and she smiles with Gwen by her side, at the daughters of visiting noble men, and they coo over the silk of her dresses, and say how lucky, how lucky she is, to be as a daughter to the king, and then turn to swoon at Arthur.
--
When they first started to train, Loki beats Thor every time.
--
Arthur pouts in the dust at her feet.
--
Thor is banished, and Loki’s throne is his own by any right.
--
Morgana has the blood, but no heirship. Not that is matters, when Arthur is a fool, and Uther is a liar. She will take it, with a blade and the glow in her eyes, and see these mortal men try and stop her.
--
His robes are finer than ever, and his helm is heavy, and shines.
He is not a king.
--
Gone are the silks, the rich, embroidered dresses that made her a jewel. She wears rough layers, that fall past her hips in tatters to her knees, shielded by leather and mail. The sword on her hip alters her stance.
She is not a sorceress. She is a witch . She is a priestess. She is a queen.
--
Loki may be a god, but even gods have peers, and his do not love him, they do not choose him. He falls.
--
She will face them, and she will fail, because there is no dragon on her side, destiny loves gold, you see, and the glint of her irises is nothing compared to Arthur, who was spun by magic in a barren womb.
She fails, but does not die, because Arthur loved her once, and Merlin remembers her trembling hands, and so she does not die, flung into stone and branches and roots, and she does not hate them, she cannot, not for the bruises she left on Arthur’s ribs with swordplay, not for the blind trust in Merlin’s grin.
She will wake, she will be free, and in the end, she will take Arthur’s body in her arms, watched by Emrys’ soft, red-rimmed eyes, and carry him home.
--
Asgard exists, constantly, in and out of Midgard’s time. They live and die and fall a thousand times. Between that, Loki finds Morgana. Her bones are dust, but she has magic, and she lives. Ethereal, it is too easy to recognise one as the other. They smile. They join hands.
In and out of space and time, they flit, and they watch. They know what must feed them, so they whisper into the minds of their own, tell them the stories. The details change - Morgana fluctuates in age, as does Loki, and the Liesmith’s hair will flame, but always darken again, because destiny does not love them, for they are not golden men.
Destiny does not love them, but who cares for that? Both become creatures of myth, Morgana as close to a god as a once-mortal could become, when their artists craft them so. The same stories feed their brothers, their fathers, their enemies, but all elements are needed, and when the stories are told so well, the awe of their mortal kin, who are as unloved by their mundane powers as Morgana and Loki, flares them into greater power, and their silver shines ever bright.
--
They recognise him. No-one but they could have guessed it, but Jack Benjamin is theirs. Is it less fair, perhaps, when he was set from birth for the throne? No matter - Destiny or God, it does not matter, because he is dark and beautiful and cunning and unloved.
But he gets the furthest, until David arrives, wreathed in butterflies and always, always fucking gold. When Jack’s heart breaks, half-drunk on the steps of his father’s palace, Loki and Morgana flank him, and reach unfelt to cup his jaw.
--
They curl, intangible in black and white, around their princeling, because time and space are mutable, and childhood is the only time of peace for their kind. Loki lies still. Morgana twines Jack in her arms, strokes his hair, and whispers, don’t worry, my love, you’ll be with us soon.
The world will give them no crown.
Instead, they take their hearts.