Chapter Text
Asgard feeds the strength of its children, of its parents, of its own. The rule of the house of Odin and his father, Bor, and his father before him, Buri, is tied to the very Earth of the old and eroding Realm.
It made sense that it would have taken care of its own. Hadn’t they taken care of her in return? Kept her from crumbling to pieces and cultivated her soil, dressed her up in gold and jewels and composed poems in her honour.
Thunder had crackled in Thor’s veins ever since he was a child. A primal sort of magical gift, one that a young child couldn’t be trusted alone with. He was never taught to hone his craft or to feed it further - only to harness, to control, to wield with precision - for in time it would grow to fit him whether he wished for it or not. He was the son of the earth, and son of Odin, and that made him a god.
Loki always felt like he was standing on foreign ground. He felt the magic of Yggdrasill clearly, and it spoke to those who listened. It was a sharp and shrill call in the swirling colours of Bifröst and in the texture of Asgardian wood. But on Asgard it never called out to him in particular. He was a guest waiting in a doorway, hoping to gain his host’s trust. Over the years it got easier. He learned to persuade and flatter, and he worked to earn his pay.
The magic that coursed through Asgard was the same that flowed through Odin’s veins, it was his lifeforce. Strength like that, when fostered through thousands of years and thousands more yet, grew taxing as Odin himself grew old. He slept to regain his strength, a deep slumber once every winter. It was always when Thor, too, grew tired, and when the worst winter storms blew over Asgard. They brought over gusts of frosty air and snowflakes from the sea.
Somehow it was always on those few days when Loki felt a surge of power. It charged the air and ran up through the ground, straight into his palms and his head and his heart. The call of Yggdrasill was of a different tune then, a more distant one, the leaves of a faraway branch. On those days Loki heard a deep and soothing rhythm in the shapes of crystallised snow that fell on his long sleeves, and he knew that the force of Odin and Asgard itself drowned it the rest of the year.
It called out to him, and only him, but it was still the song of a stranger. He already had a foot wedged in the doorway and the attention of his host - he already felt the warmth of her house when the winter air suddenly beckoned him back outside.
In the end, he always chose the fireplace. And soon enough it melted away the chill that he heard when he reached out to the dark winter nights. He watched Thor and his hammer when sunshine returned, and strove to match the force of his thunder. It was difficult when Thor, even untrained in true magical practice as he was, always seemed to find the force of the earth in his every breath. Loki had to fight for it like a street cat.
Loki had been envious of that power for the better part of his life. But he had learned, and that jealousy had at last turned into bitter acceptance. It was never his for taking.
Then came pride, a strange and sudden feeling. Watching Thor be freed from the binding crutch that Mjölnir had been was a moment of warmth. Seeing him become thunder, a thing of sheer force his brother, was elating, exhilarating even.
His brother. The force of Asgard itself.
Loki was proud, and rightfully so.
‘Now I know why he never thought much of my magic. It wasn’t tied to that earth like yours and his,’ Loki said. ‘And Hela’s, I suppose.’ His eyes were downcast, no longer raking through the vast star-dotted space outside. Thor turned to look at him, worry and alarm clear in his hesitant frown.
‘Loki, don’t say that. No, alright. It was never about -’
‘Well, I did always say that I have more skill. Yours is just… Odin’s hand-me-down.’
Even when Thor’s palm collided with the back of his head, Loki laughed.