Chapter Text
There were soldiers in the palace and they didn't listen to Father. They were strangers, and there swords were shorter and wider. Some had long, skinny weapons with blades at the end. Their armor was garish and gold, not the silver and cobalt of the palace guards. Syn knew the guards, all of their faces, because they meant safety, no matter what was frightening her. Now they were laying on the ground, there was lots of blood, and nothing was safe.
Her mother pressed her into a cupboard built into the wall. It was supposed to hold linens, but Syn had used it for hide-and-seek often. She fit perfectly and she could peer out of the crack in the panel to watch people come and go.
And so, she had a perfect view of one of the golden soldiers slicing her mother with his sword, then stabbing her through the chest. Her mother crumpled to the ground, blood soaking her beautiful gown.
There was a shout from the other end of the hallway and the soldier whirled around. Just in time for her brother to strike him with a sword of his own. It was long and silver, taken from one of the guards. Boe was older than her, and had started weapons training after his last birthday, but the sword was longer than he was tall and he could barely lift it. The golden soldier struck at him a few times, disarming him quickly. The next blow struck Boe's arm, cutting it down to the bone. He screamed in a way she had never heard her brother scream and the air around him flamed hot. The sword melted a little, forcing the soldier to drop it.
For a moment, Syn thought that might be it. Maybe the soldier would run away, leave Boe to bleed and she could drag him into her hiding spot and heal his arm. She was as new at healing as he was at fighting, but she could do a little. She could stop the bleeding, save the use to the arm. She could do that.
To her dismay, the golden soldier got over his surprise and crouched to pick up the long sword that Boe and brought it up, ready to skewer a little boy he'd already bloodied.
Unwilling to watch the last member of her family be cut down, Syn burst out of the cabinet and threw herself forward. She hit the sword a breath before it touched her brother, knocking it away from him even as it slid along the length of her arm, leaving a wound from the knob of her wrist to the edge of her collarbone. It burned and bled, but wasn't as deep as her brother's and so she ignored it.
For a few heartbeats, the golden soldier stared down at her, confused and surprised at the little girl that had, for all intents and purposes, appeared out of nowhere. Then he seemed to realize she was the missing princess and lifted the sword again, likely pleased he was getting two royal family members for one.
Syn's magical training had, up until this point, been only in healing. She was a princess and healing was a genteel and in-demand skill that was deemed appropriate for a her. But she was also the sister of a rough-and-tumble little boy that she sometimes needed to be a little rough-and-tumble with. And so she was well aware she was capable of much more that just healing.
She felt Boe's hand press against her back, right between her shoulders where her magic was already starting to flare to life. She felt a burn, then the hot lava flood of his magic pouring into her. She wrapped her golden magic around it, pulled the power into her, then called it to her will. The soldier started to bring the sword down, but she brought her hands up and created a wall of magic to protect them. The sword hit it, shattering as if it was made of glass.
Shocked for the third time in as many minutes, the golden soldier dropped the useless hilt of the sword and stared at her. Years later, Syn had to wonder what had gone through his mind, looking at the little girl, barely out of nursery, who had wielded magic few adults in his realm could have managed. At the time, she didn't care. All she knew was this was the man who had killed her mother, had tried to kill her and her brother. She was scared, and hurt, and wanted to get her and her brother somewhere safe.
So she pulled her hands back, gathered the magic, then thrust them forward, throwing the wall of magic at the man. It sent him flying, following him all the way to the end of the hallway and crushing him into it, the way one of the guards might have once crushed a bug that frightened the little princess.
They were too far away to really see what had happened. But there was enough blood that Syn was content to believe her mother's killer was dead. So she turned to check on her brother. He had lost a lot of blood and was very pale, slumped on the ground. That was bad, because even the best healers couldn't replace lost blood.
Syn covered the wound with her hands and pressed magic into her brother. It healed quickly and she made sure the muscle underneath knitted properly as well, so that the arm would still work. With that done, and content no more blood would be lost, she slung his good arm over her shoulders, pulled him to his feet and started walking the other way down the hall, to a different secret door she knew about.
*
One Thousand Years Later
Syn stepped from her tent, buckling her quiver across her chest. The camp was awake and preparing for the march, some of the soldier breaking their fast, some checking their weapons, others tending the horses. The sun was just peaking over the horizon, bathing the plain with rose-gold light. It was late spring, and it had been warm for over two weeks, so the camp was dusty, not muddy. They had chosen this time of year on purpose, for that reason. There was an old saying that armies marched on their stomachs, which was true enough, but beyond a full stomach, a high level of morale was important. Fighting in mud was tiring and being dirty was unpleasant. Spring meant longer days and possibly more alert guards, but it also meant happier soldiers.
She settled her quiver and reached back into her tent to gather he bow and staff. Slinging the bow over her shoulder, she used the staff like a walking stick, she waded into the crowd of soldiers to look for her own food.
Before she could find so much as a proper cup of tea, she caught the unmistakable sound of her brother and their general, Colm, bickering and paused to listen to see if she needed to intervene. After a moment she confirmed the conversation had serious inflections and not those of a flirt-fight. One was probably not supposed to fall in love with the leader of your coup, but Syn's brother had never been one to do what he was supposed to do.
She grabbed a butter apple off the supply table and bit into it as she followed their voices to the command tent, where the two also slept. After a perfunctory slap on the canvas to warn them she was coming in, she pushed the flap aside and stepped in. "Please be dressed."
Mercifully, they were, at least for the most part. Her brother had his tunic and pants on, but hadn't finished fastening his top armor. Colm wore metal armor in battle, so had less layers so hadn't gotten through as much of his morning routine before whatever argument they were having had started. Which meant his shirt was unlaced, but she didn't mind that a bit. He might very much belong to her brother, but he was still quite nice to look at and all three of them knew it.
They both turned to look at her as she entered. "Tell your brother he's a hot headed bastard," Colm ordered her conversationally.
"Tell our general his cynicism could make him to overthink a latrine trip," Boe retorted, with slightly more emotion in his voice.
Syn looked at her brother. "You're extremely hot-headed but I'm fair certain Mother and Father were married when you were conceived and certainly when you were born." She took another bite of apple before looking to Colm. "You are both cynical and a bit of an over thinker but I really don't really want to think about your latrine trips."
"I appreciate that," he replied, tone dry as the dust outside the tent.
"What's the problem, boys?" she asked. "It's a lovely day to overthrow an illegitimate puppet ruler and here you are spatting."
"Colm wants to throw out our plan. You know, the one we careful constructed over months and have fine tuned for the last two years in preparation for this very day?" Boe gave his lover an irritated look and Syn felt the temperature in the tent rise slightly.
That — that was actually a good reason to be fighting. It sort of surprised her. Boe, spirits bless him, was a hot head and Colm refused to put up with nonsense. They bumped heads almost as often as they bumped other body parts.
She looked at Colm expectantly. "Explain," she prompted before taking another bite of apple.
He sighed and started lacing up his shirt, as if he'd just realized it was open. "The back lawn of the palace is larger than you two estimated. Bigger than this field. If they have half decent snipers we'll be picked off easily. I think you two should hang back and let me lead the first wave. Clear the way and see what the resistance looks like before your blond heads stick themselves out."
It made some sense, she supposed. The hardest part of their plan had always been getting into the palace itself. The Alfan palace, to the credit of her ancestors, was extremely difficult to invade. The front faced the capital city, meaning you'd have to march through the streets to reach the gates. They had briefly discussed it as an option, since it might mean they picked up more fighters among the people of the city. While they had support of a handful of influential nobles, the vast majority of their army was from the common people, eager to have the rightful prince and princess back on the throne. Their spies in the city had confirmed the urban working class were as supportive of their return as their country cousins. So there was definitely recruitment to be done in the streets of the capital.
In the end, Syn had put her foot down and required they find a different way. The risk of civilian casualties and unnecessary property damage was too high. Their fight was with Asgard and the puppet they had set on the Alfan throne, not the people of the city. Destroying half of it on their way to victory wasn't going to look good, or win hearts.
After a lot of long nights of planning they had decided to come in from the back, across the back lawn that had once been used for parties and festivals. It butted up against the royal wood, which was more than dense enough to hide their numbers until it was too late. Being out in the open while they crossed the lawn had never sat right with Colm, who was well aware how high the risk of being picked off was. Boe and Syn were aware of it as well, of course, and had done everything they could not to stand out among their troops. They both wore armor of the same quality and style as those in their regiments and certainly neither of them was stupid enough to wear anything resembling a crown. Boe's mop of curls might make him slightly more noticeable than the average swordsman, but only if you knew the prince of Alfheim had blond curls, which they doubted the Asgardians did.
And so, for the entire time they had been seriously planning their rebellion, the plan had been to cross the back lawn, with Boe at the head of the swordsmen and Syn leading the archers and magic users. They both lead from the front, refusing to hide from the fight. Anything they were willing to send their subjects to do, they would do themselves. So now, to have Colm tell them they needed to change the plans and hang back, it didn't sit well. It also wasn't like him at all.
She tilted her head, studying Colm, the long plait of her hair swinging behind her. He was very determinedly not looking at her, finishing the laces on his shirt and bending to tighten his boots. "What's going on?" she asked finally.
"I told you," he said. "The lawn is larger than expected. An abundance of caution is a good idea."
She continued to watch him and he continued to not meet her gaze. "Colm? What else is going on."
He sighed deeply. It was amusing, really. He could get away with hiding things from Boe, because he knew how to rile him up. If you distracted Boe with his temper he'd easily overlook the signs that something else was going on. It had not taken Colm long to realize he couldn't get away with the same thing with Syn. She had spent her life standing firmly beside and slightly behind Boe, in the darkness of his shadow. She let her bluster and keep everyone's eyes on him, so she could watch and learn and plan. She saw everything he missed and he fought the fights she didn't want to pick. It worked for them and had for ages.
But it meant she knew there was something other than the size of the open space that was bothering their general and he knew it and he knew she wouldn't let it go now that she'd dug her teeth into it. "We had people watching the palace," he said finally, looking down at the floor of the tent. "The Bifrost came down an hour ago."
Syn and Boe exchanged a glance. "Do we know who was on it?" Boe asked.
Colm shook his head. "It came down in the courtyard behind the walls. No idea who or how many. It was just the one flare. Lasted less than half a minute."
"All right," Syn said, letting out a slow breath. "A small contingent at worst. Not a full army. We knew it was a possibility."
"I'm worried it's less than that," Colm admitted.
Her brow furrowed, but Boe understood immediately. "You think it was Thor."
Colm nodded. "If they know we're coming, they know you two are leading the charge. Odin knows the importance of optics. He'll want a Prince to challenge a Prince."
Syn was certain there was nothing Boe wanted more than to face off against Thor Odinsson. Fighting and killing the son of the man who had killed their parents had a nice symmetry to it. But Boe wasn't stupid. Thor was a lifelong warrior and with Mjolnir he was near unbeatable one on one. Watching Boe get struck down while they were this close to victory could unravel their rebellion right at the finish line. She thought the troops would follow her alone, they showed her equal respect and she had proven she was willing to fight for them. But it would be a morale blow that would be almost impossible to recover from.
"Right," Boe said, pacing the tent. "These are two different problems. If it's reinforcements — a battalion of soldiers or archers — that's one strategy. If it's Thor, possibly with his personal warriors, that's entirely different."
"Aye," Colm agreed. "But there's no way to know which it is. Not until we get too close to change tactics." Boe nodded, still pacing.
Syn took her last bite of apple and turned, tossing the core out the tent flap into the dirt. Then she turned back to the boys, crossing her arms. "Then we plan of both."
Boe stopped walking and they both looked at her expectantly. "Pretend it's both," she said. "Thor came, possibly with his warriors and with a battalion. The Bifrost was open for half a minute, that's enough time for several dozen to come through. If Odin is taking us seriously, which this indicates he is, he's not going to half-ass his support. He can't afford to lose against what he sees as a couple children and some peasants. So let's work on the assumption that Thor, his warriors, and some einherjar are readying for us. And we plan for that."
"Well my first instinct is to send you both back to Lakefire before this all blows over," Colm muttered. "But I know the odds of that are slim."
"Extremely," Boe confirmed. "Right. The einherjar are a problem of numbers, but otherwise I trust our troops to be able to handle them. The Asgardian guards here have the same training, which we've planned for, there just may be more than expected. We pull the initial melee fighters back a bit and let the magic users and archers take point. Thin the numbers as much as they can before the army gets into melee range."
Colm was nodding. They had long depended on Asgard's soldiers' lack of magic to be an advantage. They didn't wield it and didn't really know how to fight against it. Boe's magic, though violent, wasn't always useful in combat. Fire was easy to lose control of and using it made him hot enough to melt metal. He preferred to use is sword and only use his magic as a last resort. Syn, however, blended her magic and mundane weapons seamlessly in a fight. While she always tried to hold back some power to use for healing at the end of the battle, she had no problem using it alongside her bow and staff. She could shield and knock-back, wrap her magic around an opponent to immobilize them. It was her example they used when training their soldiers with magic. And so they had entire battalions full of fighters as comfortable fighting empty-handed as they were with weapons, something unheard of in Asgard.
"I still think Thor is going to go for you," Colm said, nodding to Boe. "He's here to make a point."
"How do we know he knows who I am?" Boe replied. "I was a child last time anyone on Asgard saw me."
"You look enough like Father that it Odin showed him a picture he'll know," Syn said. "Plus he's been on enough battlefields to recognize who's giving orders. And Colm's too old to be the lost Prince."
"You're correct but I feel I should be insulted."
She tossed a smile at Colm. "I know you're young at heart, dear."
Boe crossed his arms. "If you're about to suggest I go back to Lakefire I feel I should remind you I have no problem hitting a girl when the girl is my sister."
Her smile widened. "I never would. There are other ways to keep you off the field and still in the battle." She waited a moment, expecting one of them to catch her meaning. Neither did, both watching her in confusion. She sighed, shaking her head. "The tunnels," she said. "The ones we used to sneak out of the palace."
"I thought we agreed they were too small," Boe said, still looking confused.
She had brought up the secret tunnels that lead in, out, and throughout the palace early in their planning, but it had been rightfully dismissed by Colm once she'd described the tunnels in detail. They had been designed by some paranoid ancestor as an escape route in case of invasion, which, to his credit, had saved her and Boe when such an invasion happened. They were, however, barely large enough for two adults to walk abreast, which made them insufficient for their own invasion. The situation had changed now, and it was worth reassessing.
"They're too small to march an army through," she said. "But if we leave the majority of the army on the lawn and sneak in with a collection of fighters, we could end the battle before it starts."
Colm tilted his head back, studying the ceiling of the tent. "Take out the Steward and any guards. Claim the battlements from any archers."
"We didn't think a double pronged assault was worth it when it was just the Steward and his guards," she continued. "But now? Thor's going to be on the battlefield, not hiding in the palace. We keep out of his sight. Weaken his hold behind his back. He can throw his hammer around all he wants, we'll have the upper hand."
The three of them exchanged looks a moment, then Colm nodded sharply. "I'll pass the word the the battalion leaders and cull the group that will go with you. We should be able to move out as expected." He leaned over, kissed Boe fiercely, then headed out of the tent.
Boe grinned at her. "Here we go.”
*
Loki had a certain amount of sympathy for disgruntled citizens starting a coup. He had sort of, almost, started one himself.
His brother had been banished for a hotheaded mistake, and his father fell into the Odinsleep. Loki found himself temporarily King, and it would have been so easy to make a few things happen to let him keep it permanently. He was angry and hurt and utterly reeling over the upending of his entire identity, and he came a hairsbreadth from doing something he’d have never forgiven himself for. As sure as he had been—and still still was—that he’d be a better ruler than Odin, or Thor, in the end it just hadn’t been worth killing his brother.
Perhaps that made him weak and unworthy. He wasn’t going to try and pick up that hammer. Even if it had been his doing—how long his conscience took to kick in and how close he got—that allowed Thor to earn the hammer back in the end. The experience definitely made him understand the rebelling peasants on Alfheim who were trying to overthrow the Steward Odin had supervising the government.
He still went with his brother to help quell it, though.
“Perhaps they’ll be open to negotiation,” Loki said as they all walked towards the bifrost gate. “Offer them a new Steward.”
“Perhaps one that was not sent there as a punishment for hassling the wrong woman at court?” Volstagg offered.
Thor lifted a hand in Heimdal’s direction in greeting as they approached. “I thought that was just a rumor?”
“Because men like that are nice to you,” Sif said. “Smile at the Prince, grope the lower level court ladies when he’s not looking.” All of the men stopped walking, and Thor turned fully around. Sif looked at them all in askance, then sighed. “Hassle is an understatement. He was on the list all the court women know of men not to be alone with.”
“They don’t know the list exists,” Loki said. He knew it existed, because he long made is his business to know everything that happens in the palace. Thor frowned, but then went to talk to Heimdall about opening the bifrost to Alfheim.
“Did he ever hassle you?” Fandrall asked Sif while they stood at the gate giving their weapons a final check.
She rolled her eyes. “As he is yet breathing and in possession of all his appendages, you can be assured he has not. Can’t say I’d be sorry if he tragically lost a limb in the battle though.”
The bifrost lit up with a rainbow of light. “After we deal with the uprising,” Thor said, “I’ll let you punch him in the face.”
Volstagg laughed “I think you should let her kick him in the—”
The bifrost sucked Loki in and he didn’t hear the rest.
The Steward started simpering at them as soon as he greeted them. He was so grateful they had come. Ever so pleased Odin had seen fit to send his sons. To aid him. Normally, Loki appreciated someone who knew the importance of kissing up, but the man had no more art to this than he did to his interaction with women. He was growing more and more in favor of letting Sif have her way with him.
"Our runners say the attack will come soon," the Steward said, leading them into the palace's throne room. "The guards are all on alert and the palace is on lock down.”
“I’d like to review your fortifications,” Thor said.
"Of course." He gestured to one of the gold-armored guards lined on the wall. "Take the prince to the battlements. The general is seeing to things up there.”
They got a long winded tour of the palace walls, and more of the Stewards whining about the rebellion. It was approaching pathetic.
Then, in an almost off-handed way, the Steward said, “I don’t understand why those children couldn’t have handled it in a more peaceful way.”
They stopped, staring at him a moment. "What children?" Thor said finally.
The Steward froze, looking down the hallway so as not to look at any of them. "I… well, what I meant to say… that is—"
"You said it was a peasant uprising," Thor added, "Are there children in the rebel army?"
"No, no. I shouldn't think there are actual children.”
“So then whose children are you talking about?” Loki asked.
He was silent a long moment and Loki was slightly concerned one of them was going to have to start posturing, when he finally said, "There are rumors that the children of the last king might be involved in the rebellion.”
“The children of the last king are dead,” Thor said.
Sometimes his brother was slow on the uptake. Loki found himself chuckling at the absurdity of the whole thing. Because suddenly everything made sense. “But they’re not,” he said to the Steward. “Right?”
The man stood before them like a scolded child, his hands fidgeting and twisting around each other. Loki's hands were often busy. He liked to fidget with things. But it was not a habit of nerves and he was more than capable of being utterly still when he wished. The Steward seemed incapable of staying still. As if he thought a moving target would be harder for them to hit.
"Well you see," he said finally. "As I said, there are rumors…"
"And what are these rumors?" Sif asked, fiddling with the pommel of her sword in an extremely obvious manner. Now that was on purpose.
"It's said that the children of the king grew up in the countryside and are a part of the rebellion. Well, I say a part. They may have done some of the recruiting."
“So,” Loki said, drawing out the o. “This isn’t so much a peasant rebellion as it is the a long lost heir coming to claim his throne. Correct?”
"That is… that is likely correct. Yes.”
When requesting aid, the Steward had told them that he’d had a large unit of soldiers made up of Alfans working who’d helped guard the castle, but they’d deserted and joined the rebellion, recruited by a former member who was a former convict. During the battlements tour he’d confessed the entire unit had been conscripted as a form of punishment. They were all some kind of convict. The Steward’s lies went down several layers and he was scrambling.
Loki also found it telling that in an entire generation the Steward could never muster enough good will among the populace to recruit troops he didn’t have to force. “I am going to assume that he was the one recruited all your deserters?”
“No, that was true. Well…they hired a mercenary to help them raise an army, best I can tell. Before that we could have handled it peacefully!”
“I enjoy how this went from peasants with sticks to a Prince with an army of mercenaries,” Fandral said conversationally.
"Will we have a chance to meet this prince?" Volstagg asked. "I'd like to shake the boy's hand.”
The doors to the throne room burst open, and one of the Steward’s lieutenants came in. “Sir! The army is attacking from the rear of the palace!”
Loki actually laughed. All of the Steward's plans had been designed on the assumption the rebels would come from the front, through the city. The back of the palace was a wide grass area, and given they were expecting a "small untrained force" it seemed far too dangerous for them to approach that way. Clearly, that had been wrong too.
"Please," the Steward said, turning to Thor. "They are still a rebellion threatening your Father's rule. They chose violence. You have to do something.”
Thor made eye contact with Loki a moment, then said, “The answer to violence isn’t always more violence.”
“Go,” Loki said. “I’ll deal with this one.” He gestured at the Steward.
“Loki! Absolutely not,” Sif said, sounding very annoyed.
“The fairer sex are always the voice of reason,” the Steward said.
“She wants to stab you herself,” Loki drawled.
The man visibly paled, which Loki hoped Sif enjoyed as much as he did.
"No one's killing him," Thor said patiently, and the Steward relaxed. Until he added, "Yet. I'm going to go try to talk to the prince. Loki, you and Hogun stay here with the Steward and make sure he's ready to continue our conversation when I get back.”
They left to go out back. Sif pointed her sword at him as she went by, just for emphasis.
“Have a seat,” Loki said, gesturing in the direction of the throne. “Actually, never mind. Sit on one of the benches.”
He obeyed, looking rather miserable that the whole thing had gone so poorly. Hogun took a spot to one side, where he could watch the whole room. Loki chose to wander the room as if he hadn't a care in the realms. This really had become much more interesting than it had seemed when Odin had told them about it this morning.