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Chapter Text

The Allfather was learning. Loki couldn’t keep the furrow of frustration from his brow as he sagged back against his chains. Closing his eyes against all distractions he took the three breaths and centered all his concentration on the latch of his left manacle. Magic crept cautiously from his hand to the metallic sheaf, tendrils brushing down into the mechanisms. He tensed as the buzzing began. The tiny, scraping hisses of a thousand spiders scuttling inside his skull. He ignored the itch, coaxing magic into the workings.

Another steadying breath filled his lungs as he caressed the latch. Simple. It only required a light nudge. His brow creased as he moved to lift the latch. The spiders’ dance intensified, joined by the shrilling of nails upon glass. He retreated and the buzz lessened. Teeth clenched, Loki made a magical lunge for the lock. The noise returned, joined by the ghost of creeping insects on his skin. Wavering, the magic broke, running through his hands like water.

He gave a muffled snarl and hung limply against the chains. Beyond talent, magic was governed by concentration and will. And even Loki lacked the concentration to ignore the distractions of this cell. His cell. The Allfather had done well this time. Trying to drain or hamper Loki’s abilities would have been ultimately useless or driven him even further from sanity, and so the Allfather had found another solution to imprison his wayward “son,” one that kept him from being able to perform even a simple act of magic that he had mastered in childhood.

Physically restrained and unable to work his craft, Loki was far from helpless. He’d talked his way out of worse situations than this—and he’d been encumbered with Thor’s “help” at the time. Being muzzled like a mad dog was rather a problem though.

How long will you make me wait? he thought vehemently. Do get on with it. If you wait for remorse, you will wait for eternity. Months had passed since Loki’s trial before the throne of Asgard. How the court had whispered and stared. Murmurings of his madness and treason. He bared his teeth at the gasp of “monster.” They had no idea: what he was capable of, what was coming. But Loki knew what awaited him, the things he would do. All of this was merely an interlude. What the king of Asgard might decide to do with him mattered little. His fate did not show him snared forever in the punishments of Odin Allfather, and with that certainty everything else became merely a waiting game. And Loki had ever been the patient one.

If only it weren’t so sense-numbingly boring.

It had only taken a few days for him to memorize every stretch of his cell, analyze the restraints, count the links in his chains—one-hundred and thirty four—a further two weeks had been devoted to systematically testing the nature of Odin’s magics. Toward the end of the sixth month he’d dabbled with flinging everything he had against the cell’s defenses just to feel the stinging crack of a response, like worrying a loose tooth, not particularly pleasant, but something to do. He’d already stockpiled enough plans and counter plans to conquer the Earth and throw Asgard at his feet. One of them involved seducing that Jane Foster girl away from Thor—just because she was Thor’s. Which was petty, but he’d run out of other viable scenarios weeks before. He’d also composed no less than half a dozen speeches to deliver to the Black Widow at various stages in possible encounters. The Avengers occupied his thoughts not out of desire for revenge, but because he had nothing else to do but think, and they provided diversion. Pitiful, uninspired diversion, but it was better than counting his chains again—if only just.

There was only so much pleasure to be taken from mere imaginings, however, when one itched to put them in motion. Loki had always required something to occupy his time. He was patient because he could nurture a scheme along for hundreds of years, all the while laying the foundations for a dozen more. He never carried only a single plan at once. Even as a child he’d been in need of constant diversion—a new spell to learn, book to read, secret to unravel. And woe to the court if boredom came because then he would make his own excitement.

And, after so much time in a holding cell, with all avenues of interest drained, Loki was beginning to grow bored. He could not even look forward to daily feedings or routine. His golden cell kept him alive without the need for food or drink—or sleep. Loki blinked. As he thought back, he realized he hadn’t actually slept since before his fall. What need did one have of sleep with the scepter in their hands? And the void between worlds stretched the mind’s eye wide, forcing you to watch, driving images through—his thoughts slid away. What he saw in the darkness between Yggdrasil’s branches was best left undisturbed. Sleep was now an enemy.

The monotony of it all drove him inward, dulling his senses. And then came the voice.

“You are burdened with glorious purpose.”

Loki’s head snapped up as the familiar words whispered around the room. There had been no warning. He strained against the magics of the cell, trying to focus past the buzzing in his head. Where was it coming from? The harder he tried to form his will into power, the greater shrieking pierced his skull. The magic slid through his hands. The drilling behind his eyes subsided as he let his magic drop away.

“Such purpose.” The voice came again, dry and rasping.

A sudden presence at his back nearly drove Loki to the ends of his chains. Nails bit into palms as he felt searing, brittle fingers ghost along the edges of his muzzle. The latches clicked. It dropped dully to the ground, ringing against the burnished floors. His tongue darted over chapped lips, lingering at the raw edges where the charmed metal had bit into tender flesh.

He refused the urge to face the eyes boring into his back. Instead he casually pressed his thumb into the corner of his mouth and pulled it away bloody. For a moment he regarded the smear of red in annoyance before testing his voice. “What do you know of me?”

“Much, Laufeyson.”

He laughed bitterly. “You know nothing if you call me by that name.”

"Odinson if you prefer.”

Loki stiffened, “I do not.” He didn’t know how, but he could feel a hard smile coil through his visitor.

“Very well. Noneson the fatherless, brotherless, motherless—I have seen your purpose.”

Loki couldn’t keep from jerking a glance over his shoulder. His visitor was like nothing he had expected. Vaguely Aesir in shape, it had no real body. Rough, jaggedly torn strips of crinkled, parchment-like material crisscrossed loosely around its core and curled down into vague approximations of arms and legs. There was no body, though. Through the sizable gaps in its “skin” he could see only a swirling mist of oily runes. There was no true face, only a pair of deep, coal burnished eyes that held his gaze.

“Ah, then my starring role in things to come interests you?” he asked with a coolness he did not feel under those eyes.

“Greatly,” the voice purred. Loki fought the urge to recoil as creaking fingers reached out and caressed his manacles. There was no sound as the chains merely fell away into nothingness.

Idly stretching cramped muscles, Loki searched through the archives of his thoughts for some idea of what he faced. This was no magic he was familiar with and the presence reeked of a musty power ancient in origin. Even when the Chitauri had fished him from the void, he had at least had a cursory knowledge of them. His visitor was a disturbingly unanswered question.

“And what kind of being takes such an interest in my destiny?”

“I consider myself a kind of…patron, if you will, of those who stand at the crux of history. You can imagine my delight at reading your wyrd in Urd’s Well.”

Delightful, thought Loki, only great skill keeping his derision from seeping into his glance, a seer. At Frigga’s knee he had learned much about those who sought to divine the path of coming days. It took ability and a deft hand to unravel the fractured shards of insight a typical seer received. Most could grant little more than slivered foreknowledge of what was to come, often twisting it grotesquely in the process. In Loki’s experience even a clear vision gained you nothing. Knowing the future did little more than shackle you to the inevitable, slaughtering hope on the altar of knowledge. And woe to those who tried to change their fate.

He shuddered. Having his psyche torn open and full knowledge of his fate seared into his mind while he fell had been far worse than any torment the Chitauri could offer.

A crackling like dry leaves drew his attention as his visitor shifted . “I see little hope of your destiny within these walls,” said the voice.

“Ah, but if it truly is destiny, these walls will ultimately matter little,” he said quietly, with just a hint of a smile. He didn’t need foresight to know where this was headed. “You call yourself a patron?”

The runes at the thing’s core curled together, sharpening with bitterness. “I see the turn of fate, the great and terrible deeds that will be and have been. But I myself have no appointed role.” Tattered hands extended like grasping talons. “All this power and I have no fate but to be and watch.”

The need to be seen—that was something Loki knew all too well. He cocked his head to the side. “And how does one obtain your patronage?” He didn’t miss the predatory edge the black eyes took.

“Merely be…pivotal. The thing pressed forward, its presence causing Loki’s gut to clench unpleasantly. “And accept my offer of aid.”

“You have helped others?” He affected casualness as he put space between him and the unsettling aura surrounding his guest. He picked idly at the cuff of his simple tunic.

“How do you think Odysseus conjured up the idea for that wooden horse of his?”

Loki raised an eyebrow in surprise. Few knew that there had actually been a real man behind the Midgardian epic—moreover, there had been a horse. “And in return for your aid in accomplishing our destinies?”

“Merely a mention. Call me a muse, premonition, presence—I do not care. But mention me. Look across the realms, stretching throughout time and you’ll see evidence of me, woven like a thread through the greater tapestry.” The thing seemed to smile, “it is a small price.”

And what of the price I do not yet see?

“Accept my aid and do not pay my toll, however—well, Yggdrasil said nothing of Odysseus having such trials on his journey home.”

Such threats no longer phased Loki. He merely nodded and continued to stretch his limbs, reveling in the simple freedom of walking. While adjusting his tunic, he reached surreptitiously for his magic. The feeling of an itch he couldn’t scratch intensified and he let the power drop.

The thing slid forward, almost eager. “This is no place for one such as you.”

Indeed not. He pivoted on his heel, a conspiratory grin stretched across his face. “Nor to talk of destiny.”

Again he felt that predatory smile as the creature moved behind him, hand-like shreds resting on his shoulders. The raw, alien magic made his own power burn where the husk rested, but he clenched down on the urge to flinch away.

“You are a prize,” murmured the voice in his ear.

Magic workings coiled around him, weaving crystalline intricacies of power. A part of him longed to slow the process so that he might study it and gain a clearer understanding of how this enchantment worked. He took in what he could and stored the knowledge away for later use. Then they were moving.

Loki knew the instant they cleared the cell walls. The incessant buzzing vanished and he could finally bend his mind fully to his magic. He smiled. He had no intention of being used a second time. Let someone else grow the legend of his mysterious visitor. Odin’s cells stood empty, and that was all that mattered—even if this wasn’t one of the scenarios he had envisioned would result in his freedom.

His guide slid through the fabric of the world tree with an ease that surprised him. They slipped around gnarls and flowed between tight-knit roots that had always confounded him. His conviction wavered for an instant. There were few who could world-walk the way he did and Loki was no mean sorcerer—but even he kept to the shadows, gliding over the surface of the world tree. His guide, however, dove into the tree’s core, melding into it like water that pulsed through the very wood of its branches. What power allowed such knowledge?

Coward, he thought. His magic pulsed through him as they crested the apex of one of the limbs. A realm glimmered just outside his ken. Alfheim. It had the scent of the light elves about it. One of Loki’s own well-worn shadow paths lay just alongside the branch. With a twist of magic, he jumped. His guide’s presence fell away and he was thrown somewhat violently from Yggdrasil’s veins. A less experienced sorcerer would have tumbled into the nothingness. But Loki snatched at his own path, snarling the shadows about him, angling into them like a diver from a high cliff. He plunged headlong toward the realm itself, the shadows slipping away as Alfheim’s green burst upon his senses.

A sudden, wrenching howl of wrathful power tore through his flesh and latched into his essence, everything that made him alive and himself beyond the basic dictates of biology. Alfheim hurtled away as his guide ripped him from his path, his body lurching painfully after his soul. Panic clawed at him as he realized they were too far from Yggdrasil and only the great gnawing void stretched before them. Falling again, falling for centuries, endless cold. Alone, so utterly alone.

But they weren’t falling. They were flying, flung through the void as his guide catapulted them from one branch to another. For the briefest of instants, Loki was a child again, scrambling through the limbs in Idunn’s orchard, angling for a particularly glittering fruit. Adept though he was at climbing, he couldn’t reach the limb and the gap was too far to jump. Urged on by Thor’s taunts from the base of the tree, and his own stubborn pride, he launched himself from the safety of his perch. For a glorious moment he knew true freedom. His hand grasped for the other branch, only for the bark to rasp through his clutching fingers. There was no freedom in falling.

Loki latched onto the presence, unable to do anything but blindly will them to safety. He felt an unpleasant jerk, not unlike knocking the wind from his lungs when he was a boy. His liberator caught hold of another branch and used their momentum to hurtle into another realm.

The speed of their entry flung Loki scraping across the ground in a tumbling mass of limbs. For an instant there was only darkness as his eyes adjusted and his organs finally caught up with the rest of him. Unpleasant. His encounter with the green beast had been worse, but he still took a moment before trying to move.

“Treachery!” hissed the voice. Loki could vaguely make out a tattered figure with eyes of pitch. “I, who would help you!”

Staggering to his feet, he absently brushed back his hair, taking in his surroundings at a glance. Blacktopped road crumbling into weeds on either side, thick trees overgrowing strips of rusty thorned-wire, and snatches of folded pasture criss-crossed with livestock trails. He took a sniff of the air and sighed in distaste. “Midgard.”

He suddenly found himself shoved backwards against one of the twisted oaks, slamming hard into the knobbled bark. His patron’s swirling runes seethed with rage, bearing down on him.

“Is this how you repay your debts, Asgardian? Would you prefer to rot under Odin’s stare?”

“I am a god, what do I owe you or anyone else,” he asked, flicking his gaze upwards in disdain. “I am Loki. I serve no one’s ends but my own.”

The contemplative silence surprised him. He had expected more anger or tiresome threats.

“Is it any wonder that you stand alone,” said the voice quietly, almost gently. “If you ever hope to grasp your destiny, you will walk in my paths, Loki Son of None.” A chill danced across Loki’s skin as the shadow-filled husk drew near him, voice still soft but promising dark things. “You will rue your defiance.”

A mad smile split Loki’s features. “You are nothing but words. I do not fear you.”

The voice chuckled deeply. “You of all people should know the power of words, Liesmith.”

Loki chose that moment to strike, a dagger of sparking green energy slicing through the apparition. As the ragged edges wove back together, Loki reached out for Yggdrasil, sliding through world fabric and shaking the dust of Midgard from his feet. As he stepped into the light of another realm, he started. He was back on the road with his patron, sooty runes fading from the air in front of him.

“That was an error. You owe me a debt, little godling. One which you cannot shirk so easily. Your destiny will be my greatest legacy.” The voice hummed with anticipation. “But it seems you are unwilling.”

Drawing himself up, Loki gestured sharply, a sneer across his face. “I command, I am not commanded.”

The voice sighed. Not in weariness or frustration, merely the sigh of someone dealing with an intractable child. Loki bristled at the condescension.

“Then it is a contest of wills. You will accept my aid, Asgardian. Until that time, you have merely exchanged one kind of cell for another,” said the voice as it gestured to the world around them. “And Odin has no idea of how to build a prison.” The thing slid forward. Its shredded skin tore away from its arm to leave a coiling nest of runes vaguely shaped like a hand. “I, however…”

It lashed out. Needle tipped fingers dug into Loki’s sternum, disappearing through flesh and bone. A muffled shriek hissed through his teeth as the creature flicked its wrist and started to draw the spectral talons up his throat. Something gave in an awful tearing sensation as he arched away. The pain was physical, but whatever the phantasmal talons had torn away wasn’t. His voice rasped as the husk paused, its hand resting almost caressingly underneath his chin. A terrible gash of a smile opened across its face. It knocked back Loki’s head and jerked its hand up and out, a thready silver mist trailing after it, hanging in limp shreds from the claws.

Staggering, Loki collapsed back against the tree, his breath coming in ragged snatches through his raw throat. He felt as if he had swallowed glass. He opened his mouth, but the question on his lips never came. A thousand tumbling words choked in his throat. All he could utter was a pained whine. Fists twisted in his tunic, he clenched his eyes shut against the rising bile and panic. An image of golden thread dripping red and a hidden childhood anguish flashed before him.

The figure watched impassively, the silvery swirl of his voice nestled in its palm. “What a prison I will make of you.”

He made it two steps before pain slammed him to the pavement, grinding pebbles into his hands and knees. A hundred thousand needles pierced his skin. Clutching for his magic, he thrust outward with a vicious shard of power. The smoky runes latched onto the shard, spiraling down into the wellspring of his magic, cascading through every fiber of his being. A scalpel slice at his very core shot tremors through him. His mouth gaped wide in a wordless plea. He buckled. Tears seeped down his cheeks to drop onto the dusty ground. He was unraveling, the thread of his magic picked out, stitch by stitch.

He was being unwritten.

Darkness crept upon the edges of his vision as he fought to focus on the being before him.

“Now, little princeling, you will know what a true prison feels like.”

What did…magic…my magic. He could barely force the words to form in his mind.

“You have no magic. Not anymore. You have no voice, no strength, no power. And until you embrace your destiny, you will remain so.” The glittering eyes narrowed. “Mortality does not suit you.”

Loki managed to lever himself upright, having to lean heavily against a fencepost. A rancid hollowness settled in his gut. He coughed against the bile that forced its way into the back of his throat. It was as if his lung had been carved out, or a piece of his heart. Worse. Magic had poured through every part of him—like blood, or air, or life itself. The specter had sliced away part of his soul. Like it was nothing.

The fog boiling through his mind confused every notion and glimmer of thought. Words tumbled over themselves, letters breaking away in panic as even meaning slithered through his grasp. He shuddered. Death…

“This is no death sentence, Asgardian. You will survive. With little pleasantness.” The voice sounded almost pleased. “Do not fear. I do not leave you unarmed.” A smile split the ragged face as burning fingers caressed his temple.

The ground rushed up to meet him as Loki dropped into the long grass, body wracked with tremors. He had the vague sensation of a hand brushing back his hair and a searing kiss being pressed against his forehead. It was almost tender.

“Accept my aid quickly, child, and all this will pass away,” whispered the voice as Loki’s mind and body finally gave in to the blissful embrace of unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

Even after wakefulness returned to him, Loki lay sprawled in the ditch, caught in a swirling nightmare of half consciousness. Time contracted about him, stretching each pinprick of existence into an age. He had no memory of it, but the taste in the back of his mouth told him at some point he had been sick. Slowly, his gnarled thoughts unwound, giving him at least the stability of conscious thought. He needed to move. To get to his feet. For a long while he stared at his arm, willing it to push himself upright.

Suddenly he was on his knees, confused as to how he had gotten there, the bridge between thought and action uncertain. He ordered himself to breathe. The shudder in his breath refused to calm as he hunched around the absence of his magic. Other wounds could be dealt with: a broken arm set, gash sutured, or leg splinted. How did one favor a wound that left the entire body raw and open, driving through flesh and into spirit?

He let out a breath and filled his lungs again.

It took many more breaths and the heavy aid of a fencepost, but Loki was finally standing on his feet. He blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his handicapped vision. The world appeared so much duller, the subtle energies so usually evident gone beneath the bland, dim exteriors. No wonder humans lived such meager spans—they probably couldn’t wait to get away from the rotting prisons of their own flesh and the lifeless world around them.

Move, he growled as he put one foot before the other. Thankfully his muscles remembered the motion, though it was rather more calculated and careful than he would like. He had a vague notion of heading for one of Midgard’s wretched little towns—if only to get away from the ditch grass that made his skin itch and the slightly condescending stare of the cow that had draped its head over the fence.

Staggering onto the crumbling gray expanse of road, he picked a direction and started walking. If he were honest it was more of a shamble. It helped to focus only on following the graying white line in front of him—when it didn’t disappear into encroaching grass or gravel. Despite the cool breeze among the newly greening trees, Loki felt sweat begin to run uncomfortably down his neck and his tunic clung to the small of his back.

The sun tracked overhead as he continued on, delirium clawing at him. Even if his mind had been clear he wouldn’t have had the words to describe the unnatural perversity of his vacant magic. His body rebelled against its loss, uncertain how to function without it. Continue on, he thought blearily. You are Loki.

As day faded behind the bounding hills, a sudden flicker of something brought Loki’s gaze up from the ground in front of him. Normally he wouldn’t have even noticed the caress of power that ghosted across his skin. He snapped his head up. Just off the road, weathered nubs of stone tilted precariously through the earth, many flattened into the mossy loam. The dry, dusty power of savage grave-rites clung like lichen to the forgotten stones. His steps lurched into the plot. He was like a man trapped in the desert, bone dry, his every thought about water, sucking his own blood just for the few droplets of liquid running down his throat. And this smear of magic pulsing from the graveyard was a muddy puddle. Loki didn’t care. The dry man in the desert didn’t care; on his hands and knees he would put his face to the puddle, lapping at it greedily, scrapping his face raw as he sucked at the damp rocks after every last drop of liquid was gone. And so in desperation, Loki drew in every putrid drop of stale magic the plot could offer.

The moon and stars passed unnoticed overhead as he collapsed among the graves, exhaustion dragging him into a mercifully empty sleep.

The coldness of the grey dawn woke him. A mangled groan forced its way through his lips as he painfully uncurled, easing each joint back into motion. He slicked dew-damp hair away from his face and scowled up at the low hanging clouds. He’d slept in the open before, but never had he felt as if every bone in his body had rusted shut overnight.

Cursing his body’s new limitations, he pitched himself upright, ignoring the nausea-like emptiness that still clawed at him. The bit of ditch-water magic he’d drained from the place was just enough to push him back from the embrace of madness. Now he could more fully appreciate the growing demands of his body. His stomach for instance was demanding irritably that he feed it. He smiled grimly. This would not be the first time he had courted the pangs of hunger—there was a reason Thor’s armor would dwarf him. Study and execution of schemes were always so much more important than giving in to the minor irritation of hunger.

Loki set himself upon the road again, steps sturdier than they had been the day before, though hardly strong. He eyed the roiling clouds above him. How he hated this realm.

Two hours later he finally reached the outlying sprawl of a human settlement. He ran a contemptuous eye over the place. A bit shabby, even by Midgard’s standards, the village seemed of moderate size, with gaping holes of decay eating at its edges. Little used tracks ran through a nest of neglect: shuttered stores, warehouses buckling under the advance of rust, and everywhere the scrawl of graffiti. Further in, the disuse melted into tree dotted lanes, respectable brick and stone establishments, and the hum of traffic. This was not a place for the gleaming skyscrapers of New York. Loki snarled. And in this unimpressive town the ants crawled about their daily lives concerned only with their tiny goals and ambitions, their petty triumphs and trials. And he would have to descend among them—as if he were one.

That was when the clouds finally decided to start up a chill, dismal drizzle. Loki hunched his shoulders against the rain and trudged into the town. Are you enjoying this, Heimdall? he thought as he snorted water from the end of his nose. He paused. With the tesseract returned, the Bifrost ought to have been repaired. He turned his face to the sky, as if he could peer through the steady drip of water and see the golden-eyed god. What keeps you from collecting your errant prince? He supposed he ought to thank his patron for that—without his magic he could not conceal himself from the Chitauri, much less the Keeper of the Bridge. The Chitauri. He wrenched his thoughts away from what would happen if they were to find him defenseless. At least in Odin’s dungeons he had been safe.

Suddenly he felt very exposed.

And with those cheering thoughts, he entered the Midgardian town of Greenville. For three miserable days he walked the streets, fighting for lucid moments, but spending much of it in a fog of hunger and magic deprivation. The lack of his voice hindered everything. He found little in the way of food, and sleep was chased, but rarely caught. The majority of the mortals ignored him, either overtly or surreptitiously. Others watched him like jackals from the dim glow of lonely streetlamps or under the half-rotted awnings of derelict stores. Through it all the rain continued.

The evening of the third day saw him perched upon the curb, leaning against a postal box, and taking some comfort in the warm, fetid air that steamed from beneath the street. Footsteps squelched through a puddle. The quick part of his brain, the part that wasn’t curled miserably in upon itself, registered the presence. He had trouble gauging human ages in their mayfly existence, but the boy seemed caught between the nursery and coming of age, the body confused as to whether it should actually begin the transition from boy to man. Something about the muddy brown eyes told Loki that the boy was younger than his confidence would let on. The child wasn’t particularly attractive—even by human standards—smallish, with a tangle of hair that wasn’t quite curly in a color that wasn’t quite blond. Everything about the boy was unremarkable. Skin not pale enough to be fair, nor dark enough to be bronzed. His generic features sat somewhat unevenly on his face, one eyebrow inquisitively set slightly above the other and the minimal twist of his jaw pulled his mouth to the side. A thin white slash of a scar flickered through the other eyebrow. Beyond his asymmetry only his eyes were worth mentioning—and that was because they were somewhat too large for his face.

“You are the saddest thing I’ve ever seen,” said the boy, hooking his fingers through his grimy belt loops and peering down at Loki.

There was a moment of confusion as Loki’s mind lagged behind comprehending the words. He let his head roll back so that he could glare up at the child. Why was he invading his misery? Wait, the boy had moved, what was he doing? Loki made to shout at the human to get his hands off as the child suddenly looped his hands under Loki’s arms. The words strangled in his throat, throwing him into a fit of coughing.

“Easy there, Sunshine,” said the boy as he finished hauling the much taller man to his feet.

Loki shoved himself away, stumbling limply against a lamppost.

The boy held up his hands and gave a crooked smile. “Not going to hurt you. Normally I’m not the Good Samaritan type, but you’ve been sitting out here—in the rain—looking like a kicked puppy for days now. And really, that’s gotta stop.” He paused to, unsuccessfully, try and slick his unruly hair out of his eyes. “Thing is, you’re attracting the wrong kind of attention to the neighborhood. Cop-like attention, and that’s no good. Come on, I’ve got a place out of the rain and some food. You’ll feel human again after you’ve eaten.”

A manic grin flashed across Loki’s face. Human. If only the child knew the vileness of being stripped down and shoved into a nearly human body. And how revolting it was to be pandered to by one of the little ants themselves. A loud gurgling sound splintered Loki’s thoughts as his hand weakly wrapped around his middle to try and quiet the noise.

The human had the gall to smile. “Thought so. Come on, I’ll get you fixed up.”  The boy turned and wandered away, waving over his shoulder for Loki to come with him.

He was already three steps into following before Loki’s hazy mind realized he had moved. Traitor flesh. A rational, but still hungry, part of him argued that it was pointless to spite his own body simply because his physical needs were now more pressing. He could not function in his current state. Loki was loath to admit it, but he was having to pay a great deal of attention to merely moving one tired limb after the other.

Thankfully the boy didn’t seem in a particular hurry. Before long, Loki found himself being escorted through a break in a ratty chainlink fence and ushered into the side door of an abandoned warehouse. Then he was sitting before a fire in a tin drum, with some kind of grain filled with mashed fruit in his hands. In his haste he almost swallowed part of the crinkly wrapper. Two more of the “bars” followed and then the boy made him wait.

“You wolf it down too fast and it will just come right back up.” He handed Loki a large bottle of water, wiping off the lid with the edge of his sleeve. “Sip on this first. And then you can have more.”

The warmth and the food were slowly burning away the fog in Loki’s mind and having a singular subject to focus on helped push the lingering hollowness of his loss from the forefront of his thoughts. He surreptitiously took in his surroundings. Dripping echoes from farther in the expanse told him the aging building was falling into disrepair and that it was large and relatively empty. He could see little beyond the age-grayed crates formed into a tall wall around them. A small gap in the boxes likely led into the main section of the warehouse. Loki doubted anyone much bigger than a child could fit through. That left only one entrance to the ramshackle grotto—the long hallway the child had led him in by.

The boy himself perched on the bottom step of a pyramid of boxes, watching him across the flames in the metal can. His veneer of ease scrapped thin under Loki’s trained eye, but beneath that ran a complex of knotted thoughts and emotions, the only one solid enough to pin down, a healthy wariness.

“You got a name?”

The question startled Loki. His hand went to his throat.

The boy cocked his head to the side like a dog. “You’re a mute?”

Grinding his teeth, Loki nodded.

“Born that way? Or did something happen?” he leaned forward, “I don’t see any scarring. So, either you’ve got an awesome plastic surgeon, or...”

Flaring his nostrils, Loki shook his head, gaze fierce.

The boy held up his hands, “Kay, so not born that way, but not an accident. What happened?”

Shall I just tell you then why I’m a mute? Surely that shouldn’t be a problem. He glared.

The child gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry, I deserved that. This is a new thing, though, right?” He saw Loki’s questioning look. “You’ve got a lot of anger—which says you’ve not come to terms with it.”  

Loki tipped his hand to that. The boy was sharp. Perhaps sharp enough to be of use.

“So, back to the question. Name?” he asked.

A hundred false lives flashed through Loki’s mind as he considered the question. On this earth, who would he be? A foreigner certainly, to excuse any fumbles he may make. He was a bookseller… or restorer, an only child, parents deceased, recently come on hard times. And the voice? Ah yes, the voice. A freak bout of illness that had ravaged his vocal chords.

Lie upon lie, Loki wove the life of this Luke Silver into some semblance of whole cloth. The muteness actually afforded him an advantage. Though Luke Silver’s life ran threadbare in large patches, lacking a voice would give him the needed time to work easily on his feet.

He crouched down and began to trace the letters in the dust, trying to disguise the princely flourish. A plain, blocky “L” stared back at him and he hesitated. He had been stripped of his magic, his strength, and even his voice—his name was all he had left. Dare he risk it? Few on this world would have known the Chitauri were headed by the madman from Germany, even fewer would know his name. The threadbare life of Luke Silver unraveled into scraps as he firmly drew out the final letters.

The boy peered at the letters in the dirt. “Loki, huh? That’s from the Norse pantheon right?”

Loki nodded.

“Don’t know much about them. Always been more of a Greco-Roman fan.” He sucked on his teeth. “Doubt you were born with a name like that, how’d you get saddled with it?”

Loki frowned and pointed at his throat.

“Right, right. Gah, this is hard. Loki…Loki…Trickster God, right?” Loki gave a half bow. “Well that bodes well. All the same, pleasure to meet you, Loki.”

It didn’t escape him that the boy did not extend his hand in the traditional Midgardian greeting. Now that Loki was recovering, the boy wasn’t going to let him get in physical proximity. He is aware I could overpower him, interesting.

“You can call me Book, by the way,” he scrunched up his face apologetically, “not that you’ll really be calling me anything. But you could think it instead of ‘that kid’ or ‘boy’.”

Loki hadn’t been particularly concerned with what to call the human, but perhaps the information would be useful. Book? His confusion must have shown on his face.

The boy—Book—smiled. “It’s my street name. Nobody uses my birth name—it’s awful! Like the nurses just ran their finger through a phone book and chose whatever names they landed on.”

Raising his eyebrows, Loki widened his eyes into a question.

He frowned, his mouth pulling to the side in thought, “Why did nurses choose my name?” Loki shook his head, “Or, why ‘Book’?” Loki nodded. A grin leapt across the boy’s face. “ ‘Cause I’m always reading. And every time someone asks me where I learned something I tell them I read it in a book. Sim always said that—“ a shadow flashed across the boy’s face, and his hands dropped into his lap. “Anyways, I’m a big reader.”

They descended into silence. As the initial sensations of warmth and food in an empty stomach wore away, other sensations forced their way back into Loki’s consciousness. He hunched against the raw emptiness inside him and wrenched his focus onto the questions that nagged at him. Who was his attacker and what did she ultimately want of him? Loki paused, it rather surprised him that he thought of his assailant as a “she.” A brittle voice and body of magic and shredded tatters had very little of the feminine about it. Her interest in his destiny troubled him—that she even knew of his fate laid cold hands against his spine.

There were simply too many unknowns—even for him—to work with. She wanted something of him beyond what she asked. And somehow she thought to get it by imprisoning him on Midgard in a mortal frame? He flexed his hands. That was power beyond even the Allfather. To be able to strip away—his thoughts veered from the subject. To understand, he must know who his “benefactor” was. A thought scratched at him. There was something about her eyes that he ought to know. Where had he seen such onyx eyes before?

A yawn snapped his thoughts back to the present.

“That’s it, I’m done. It’s not the Ritz, but you’re welcome to stay here tonight,” said Book. “Got some clean cardboard in the corner.” He caught the faint curl of distaste on Loki’s lips. “It’s better than pavement, Princess. Trust me, I know.” The boy clambered higher up on the pyramid of crates and slipped through a narrow gap between two of them.

Curious, Loki followed, peering down the slit. He couldn’t see the boy, but it appeared to open into a hollowed out den among the crates. Impressive. The place was insulated from the drafts of the greater warehouse, relatively obscured, and protected from all but those with the slightest of builds. Thin as he was, it would be a tight squeeze for him to fit down the tunnel—and he certainly couldn’t do it silently. For all Book’s naïve help of a strange man, he acted with the mind of a strategist.

There would be no killing the boy while he slept. Loki shook off the stray thought. Wasteful. Much as it galled him to take help from someone so beneath him, he was practical enough to take aid where he could find it.

Eyeing the gritty floor in disgust, Loki resigned himself to the pile of cardboard, his back to the wall of crates. He tried to stretch out on his side, but the position felt unnatural and uncomfortable. He twitched over onto his back, just able to see the sparks from the fire flicker off into the dark recesses of the ceiling. Growling to himself, he finally gave up and allowed himself to curl up tightly. Despite his length, Loki had never sprawled in sleep the way Thor did. His whole life he’d felt most comfortable taking up as little space as possible, protected. It was hardly the dignified rest of a god.

Right now he was beyond caring. Sleep came gently as he found the first comfort he’d had in days. As he gave in to the demands of his tired flesh, he thought he glimpsed a darker shape amongst the shadows. Enjoy the show, he thought blearily and closed his eyes.

Chapter Text

Morning slipped in through a slit in the warehouse’s sheet-metal wall. Loki sat hunched against the crates, watching the light’s progress across the floor. He ached, but the screaming wrongness of his amputated magic had fallen away to groaning numbness. With the numbness came near clarity.

His patron had underestimated him—a common, but fatal mistake. The only games he played were ones where he made the rules. Let Her wait until he knew her hand. Until then he was content to bide his time.

“Morning!” greeted the boy as he slithered out of his den, still wearing the same clothes as the night before.

Loki managed a cordial nod. He winced as the simple movement reminded him that while cardboard was an improvement on cold, wet ground, it was still a far cry from what he was used to. He’d also come to the conclusion that human bodies were much more ill-suited for such treatment than Asgardian ones. Not that he’d personally had much experience—in such situations it had been more comfortable to take on the form of some animal made for sleeping on the ground.

A smile of sympathy quirked across the boy’s face. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.” He hopped down off the box and poked idly at the fire. As Loki stood and stretched out his knotted muscles, the boy carefully edged around the barrel, always keeping the fire between them. His body language was casual and relaxed, but Loki could see the intent behind the carefully chosen movements. Keep something between him and the much bigger man. Loki remembered similar maneuvering as a child, attempting to avoid the flesh-purpling embraces and “friendly” slaps and punches in the arm showered upon him by most of Thor’s acquaintances and Thor himself at times. It was as if Asgardians were unable to show anything but martial affection. Thor received the same treatment, doubly so since he excelled at many pursuits Loki did not. Because nothing says “well done” like a concussive blow upside the back of your head. But Thor never shrank from such displays or seemed to sprout the bruises that Loki did with such ease. Eventually Loki had resigned himself to the fact that there was something wrong with him and learned to deal with near perpetual tender places. It was yet another reason on a long list that he took such care in hiding his flesh so that no tell-tale marks would show and make him the object of ridicule and laughter—or worse, pity.

Snapping fingers jerked his thoughts back to the dingy warehouse. His mind bounding off in meandering rabbit trails was a sure sign that he was far from peak performance. Though he may be silent and still, his mind rarely was, and the more exhausted he became the more difficulties he faced directing that activity.

The fingers snapped again. “You in there? Loki, hey, Loki,” Book dragged out the last letter of his name and waved his hand.

He snorted and shook his head, flinging away the rambling thoughts. What?!

“I asked if you’d like to get something to wear.”

Loki glanced down at his tunic and breeches. They weren’t the Midgardian fashion, but they were serviceable at least—though a bit stained from his night among the graves. He folded his arms across his chest.

A patient, knowing sigh, and the boy gave him an encouraging smile. “I’m not saying you’ve got to burn them—in fact that’d be a waste—but you’re going to attract way too much attention. Not that tall, vampire-pale guys with serious attitude problems aren’t noticeable, but you look like you escaped from a Ren Faire slumber party.” A contemplative crease burrowed between the boy’s brows. “Did you…”

Loki cut him off with a refined glare.

“Just theorizing. Look, I’ve fed you, housed you, now I’m offering to clothe you—this is the part where you’re supposed to be grateful.”

An impish grin sliced across Loki’s face as he gave a bow dripping with sarcasm.

“Or not,” snorted the boy. He shook his head, as if dealing with some unruly child that didn’t know better. Turning toward the long hall that led to the outdoors, he snatched up a bag and threw it over his shoulder. “Come or not, your choice. We can get breakfast after and you can dis my hospitality some more.” With that he disappeared into the darkened hall, his footsteps receding. A screech of metal and brief slice of light marked his exit.

The heavy mantel of silence peculiar to large, empty spaces settled over the warehouse. Near sneering incredulity flitted through Loki as he realized he meant to follow the boy. All those months alone made even an ant preferable company to the vapid silence. The mention of food also reminded his stomach that he hadn’t eaten since the night before and it began to complain forcefully that he do something about it. Never let it be said that Loki was above using whatever means necessary to achieve his goals, even if those means meant fraternizing with humans—again.

Book didn’t so much as flinch when he strolled up next to the boy, falling in step beside him. The boy spared a glance through his fringe of hair, shrewdly studying his silent shadow. Mercifully, he kept his thoughts to himself as the two began to leave the hollow shells of urban decay behind. It was still too early for most to be wandering the streets, but they still seemed to take a winding route of back alleys and fence holes. Realization sent a smile across Loki’s face. The boy was trying to confuse him so he couldn’t find his way back to the hideaway.

Before long, they were sidling up to the back of an industrial looking building with yellow headed weeds struggling through the pavement. A large, locked bin stood at the corner, bright blue against the sagging bricks and yellowed mortar.

“You keep watch,” whispered the boy as he knelt by the padlock on the front of the bin. “Cough real loud if you see anyone.” Sucking on his lip, Book focused on the lock, carefully inserting slender metal rods into the key hole. A few moments of jiggling and the lock popped free. He punched the air in triumph.

A fine trick, thought Loki as the boy edged backwards, gesturing at the now open bin.

“Open for business,” he said with a grin. “We could go to the Salvation Army store, but nothing beats getting first dibs. Even if it means stealing from the charity bin. And no need to avoid well-meaning prying.”

Lip curled in disgust, Loki hesitantly pawed through the used garments spilled at his feet. They appeared clean at least, though there was something humiliating about a prince digging through the cast off garments of such feeble creatures.

The pile of unacceptable clothes to his side grew as his jaw tightened in frustration. Why must these mortals be so small? And when he could find anything of length, it would have bagged about him like a sack—to say nothing of the quality of the garments. The boy kept pointing him toward thick woven pants of a deep blue—jeans, he called them.

“Can you just pick something already?” the boy flung back his head and groaned. “You’re worse than a girl.” He barely dodged away as a loafer sailed past his head.

It’s called taste. You’re unlikely to have encountered it before.  

“If you don’t pick something in the next five minutes, I’m leaving you here…I’m hungry.”

Loki ignored him and scrutinized his options. Finally, something that wasn’t completely reprehensible. Not the elegance he typically tried to exude when forced into Midgardian habit, but sufficient for his current needs. He gathered up his finds and turned to leave, giving Book a brief nod.

The boy glanced at the clothes in Loki’s hands. “Oh, no, no, no. You wear something that nice and people will notice.” He tugged at the suit sleeve, even as Loki tightened his grip. Book pursed his lips together and frowned. “You really are new street aren’t you? Let me paint you a picture: your scrawny self will be black and blue in some alley, probably bleeding, if you go strutting about like you weren’t down just like the rest of us.”

Loki looked down imperiously. And deftly jerked the jacket away.

“Look, I get it. You’re not used to all this.” Book gestured vaguely, taking in the charity bin and empty parking lot. “You’ve still got your pride. And you see a good set of clothes.”

Loki snorted. Barely adequate.

“But I’ll tell you what some meth-head or bottle pusher will see—green. It doesn’t matter that they won’t get much for it, but they can sell that nice suit of yours and there’s another day of chemical nirvana.”

Cocking his head to the side, Loki lazily considered the boy’s words. Then he gave a short laugh as a smile that looked too much like bared teeth split his features. He’d keep the suit.

Book threw up his hands and wheeled away. “Whatever, Princess. Your pride is going to get you killed.”

A vision of fire and darkness flared across Loki’s vision. Pride indeed. He would never attain his purpose without it. But eons stretched between his fall and the fading fabric in his hands.

“You’re cleaning that up, right?” asked the boy as he jabbed a finger at the strewn clothes.

Holding up his finds and blinking innocently, Loki gestured at himself. I must change.

“Oh, this is so not becoming a habit,” groused Book as he bent to gather up the scattered items of charity.

A sheltered doorway offered some privacy as Loki peeled off his garments, they were limp and stretched out with too many days hard use. He reveled in the touch of clean fabric—even rough peasant fare—though he wished his skin were equally clean. The trousers required some cinching up with a fraying belt, but at least they reached his ankles. Missing buttons caused the gray shirt’s cuffs to flop open. Growling, he rolled them up to just below his elbow. A vest with torn lining followed the shirt—at least it fit correctly, which was more than could be said for the light coat that slouched off his shoulders. The grey-green scarf looped idly around his neck was just for flair, too thin to actually be of much use against the cold.

With no mirror, Loki wasn’t entirely sure what he looked like—a fool most likely. Sighing, he wadded up his Asgardian clothes and left the privacy of the doorway.

Amusement flashed across the boy’s face as he caught sight of Loki. “You look like a homeless hipster.” Not giving him a chance to respond, the boy chucked a fraying canvas bag rather directly at his head.

Loki snatched it away from his face. Putting an edge of smugness into his smirk, he caught the boy’s gaze.

“That’s your street bag, k? You keep it with you at all times. Nothing important to you or irreplaceable gets put anywhere but that bag. And you guard it.” Seriousness flooded his tone. “This is life now. You’ve always got to be ready to move. Don’t count on whatever hole you found to be there when you get back.”

The woven fabric slid smoothly against his thumb as he idly fingered the strap. So this was to be his existence. Clothes that didn’t fit and a little brown bag. All hail the mighty conqueror.

“Time for food. Lucky for us, it’s Wednesday.” White teeth flashed in a broad grin. “That means Farmer’s Market! And the Mennonites always let me have any of their doughnuts that look like they came from a foreign country.”

Loki had no idea why they would want to eat a nut made of dough, but right now his stomach told him he’d be happy to eat just about anything. He couldn’t quite suppress the flash of memory that brought Frigga’s voice chiming through his head, chiding him for being finicky about his food. It hadn’t been so much about the food as having to share a table with Thor and his friends. The only one of them with any manners had been Hogun. Eating with the hounds would have been preferable.

Stomach growling again, Loki trailed behind the boy’s retreating figure. The “Farmer’s Market” as it turned out was a rather bustling collection of pieced together stalls and vehicles overflowing with early or imported produce, apparently overpriced craft projects, and the products of various livestock. Left to his own devices, Loki nonchalantly browsed through the stalls. Snatching up an over-wintered apple here or slice of bread there when he found himself unwatched. The repeated attempts at small talk that he rebuffed did nothing to keep attention from him, but if Loki couldn’t work under scrutiny by now, he didn’t deserve to be known as the God of Mischief.

Catching sight of his particular ant, at least he was fairly sure it was his, Loki joined the boy under the feeble shade of a newly budding tree.

“I grabbed you some things,” he said as he lifted the flap of his own bag, revealing a handful of radishes, a bag of nuts, two pastries, and a turnip.

With a flourish, Loki revealed his own spoils.

Blinking in surprise, a grin crept across the boy’s face. “Light fingers, nice.” An appraising glint flashed through his eyes as he looked his companion up and down.

Loki merely shrugged. Slight of hand may have been less versatile than magic, but he’d found it a useful skill—as well as a challenge. His cousin—his false cousin— Freya never did figure out how her necklace had found its way round Thor’s neck during the middle of a ball with no one seeing how it happened. Being Vanir, she would have known if there was magic at work so close to her person. Her utter puzzlement had been nearly as entertaining as Thor’s consternation and embarrassment as he found himself wearing some piece of jewelry from most of the ladies present by the end of the night.

The rest of the day passed with little event, the boy showing him a park washroom where he could awkwardly sponge off at the little sink. He wasn’t truly clean—his hair in particular feeling like it was beginning to plaster thickly to his skull—but it was an improvement. The shattered mirror offered him nothing but a thousand sharded splinters of himself, nothing clear enough to actually see what he looked like. A shadow in the ruined glass had him glance over his shoulder, but he was alone in the dim, concrete box.

Dinner came in the form of something Book called a hotdog but that appeared to be a curiously pink log of meat jammed into slightly soggy bread. Loki sincerely hoped it wasn’t actually dog. Especially since they’d paid for it rather than stealing. It had only taken the boy three tries before he managed to find someone willing to give them money. His whole face had softened and years had dropped away, making him look even younger as he’d approached the mark. The fact that it didn’t come off as an act was what impressed Loki.

The woman had been skeptical at first, wondering why Loki would be sending his “nephew” to ask for money. Her gaze had softened as Book quietly told her that his “uncle” had been very sick and couldn’t speak. She glanced up to find Loki turned slightly away, wearing the face of someone shamed by their inability to act and having to force a child to beg. Book had seen it too and got that appraising look again. The money was theirs after that performance.

As they walked the darkening streets, Loki could read hesitation in his ant’s movements. He hovered at the entrance to an alleyway. Loki wondered what he would choose; he knew the boy was trying to decide whether to ditch him or allow him to follow back to his den. Not that Loki wouldn’t be able to find it again on his own—eventually. The steadiness of a made decision settled across Book’s shoulders as he beckoned. Apparently, Loki had passed some sort of test.

Once back in the warehouse, Book uncovered the coals and set the fire to snapping against the chill. He still kept a strategic, yet casual distance. Loki in turn did his best not to appear to notice and project a general aura of harmlessness. He didn’t miss that there was something the boy wished to say.

“So, I’ve been thinking, and I’ve got a proposal. A mutually beneficial agreement.” He dropped onto one of the boxes, legs swinging over the side. “You clearly need someone to show you the ropes, and nobody knows about surviving on the streets better than me—not just surviving, thriving. Basically, I’ll be your Obi-wan.”

Loki blinked and cocked his head with a puzzled smile.

“Dude! Where are you from! I’m talking Star Wars here…no? How could you not…? Never mind. I’ll be your mentor.”

Loki lounged back against the wall in an attitude of amused ease, his head propped up on his elbow. He cocked an eyebrow, And?

The boy spread his hands, eyeing Loki cautiously. “You be my responsible adult when I need one.” He huffed air through his teeth. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not actually old enough to do anything without an adult’s permission, and unattached homeless kids have a tendency of getting snatched or thrown to the system.”

Something about the way he spat “system” perked Loki’s interest. He had no idea what this was, but clearly the means of dealing with children on Midgard was quite different than in the Realm Eternal.

Book was up and moving, thumb drumming against his thigh. “It’s easy, you just show up and, you know, be an adult—you’d be surprised how few people question it. They just accept things and move on.” He leaned against the wall as if Loki’s response made no difference in the world. “And you can split whenever you want.”

Anyone but the trickster might have bought the act. It was just a moment, the barest fluttering against the back of the boy’s eyes. But Loki saw it. Saw the piece of yearning that had slipped from the boy’s grasp and pressed itself to the murky glass of muddied eyes. Just an instant and then the emotion was dragged down again, bound with all the other hopes and needs that shouldn’t be seen. Too late, though. Loki had seen. Oh, he could use this.

There was one more dose of hope lurking beneath Book’s indifferent posturing. He hid it well and guarded it zealously. He had just enough light left in him to trust one more person, just one more time. He was no fool, though. Loki would grudgingly admit that—he wouldn’t have survived this long if he wasn’t quick. On some level Book knew he’d trust once more and that that person would raise him up or leave him hollow.

Loki would have to be cautious. The boy would be wary, he’d clearly been used and abandoned too many times. If Loki waited, if he were patient, the boy would open up to him. That briefest glimpse told the Trickster all he needed to know. Book wanted to not be alone. That was a weakness Loki knew how to use.

He smiled and gave a slow, courtly nod. He didn’t need the staff, or magic, or even his own voice. This boy would be his thrall just as surely as SHIELD’s little hawk. And all because he too had heart.

Chapter Text

Book was very thorough in his lessons. It didn’t take long for Loki to realize that the boy hadn’t been lying—he really could thrive. Lesson 1: Don’t look homeless if you can help it. This meant that nearly every morning they walked five blocks to a park and skulked in the bushes until an old man wandered by and unlocked the door to a concrete washhouse. They only had the dim light from mesh covered openings just below the roof and had to share the space with thin-legged spiders and crickets that liked to jump out of dark corners. But it allowed them to scrub their faces and hands. Book also suggested scrubbing at their underarms as well, even if they couldn’t sponge off entirely. Loki agreed. He’d never been overly fond of the smell of human exertion—less so when it was he himself who reeked of mortality. Mortality and secondhand clothes.

There wasn’t always soap, and sometimes the old man didn’t show up before they had to move on. Those days meant more walking to the closest gas station. Sometimes they had to forgo the wash all together and make do with splashing their hands in a fountain.

Lesson 2: Stealing had better be worth the risk. And whatever you steal can’t be something that couldn’t be chocked up to desperation. Petty cash and food were all right, you could usually talk your way out of it without involving the authorities. Things of value, however, were harder to explain—and apparently harder to forgive. And though Loki was quite adept at filling his own pockets with others’ things, Book had a valid point that a person was far more likely to forgive an innocent kid—emphasized by Book widening his eyes and gnawing on his lip, taking years off his age—than a “creeper.”

Lesson 3: You’re not too good to do a job—any job. It seemed Book managed to get by most of the time with his own earnings. A number of businesses paid him to do odd jobs and individuals often employed him as a “yard slave.” This Loki struggled with—he’d never had a job in his life, other than keeping life on Asgard from getting unbearably dull, and he’d never really been paid for that. Work he was well acquainted with, but a job? His pride rebelled against the idea. He was a prince, a conqueror. Unfortunately Book was not so benevolent as to work for the both of them. Loki’s status as an apparent “illegal alien” didn’t help either. He couldn’t hide his amusement every time the boy called him that.

And the lessons continued, each day bringing a new slice of information or trick of the trade. Before long, Book would be unneeded and Loki could turn his attention fully to the matter of his patron. Without his voice, however, the boy became useful as a kind of translator. He got the gist of most of what Loki tried to communicate though they certainly weren’t having discussions of much depth.

It wasn’t long before the boy decided it was time for Loki to “pull his own weight.” Apparently this mostly consisted of standing around and appearing familial. It would seem a complex web of rules governed the lives of children on Midgard and those unattended quickly came under suspicion. Stifling.

This particular excursion was to a “Soup Kitchen,” though, Book assured him there was more than soup on the menu. A sizeable crowd—predominately men—already clustered outside the dining hall as they waited for the doors to open. Loki arched away from the murmuring masses. They smelled like unwashed kennels that had been closed up for the past three months. A sharp dig in his side drew him round as Book glared up at him.

“Get over yourself. You’re not any better than the rest of us, Princess.”

He shot an incredulous glance around the room. In every way possible.

A look of scrunched concentration settled across Book’s face as he interpreted Loki’s flash of expression. “Do a better job hiding it then—or someone will decide to teach it to you with their fists.”

“Book!”

They turned to see a red-faced man pushing through the crush of bodies. He looked a bit rougher around the edges than some of the others, beard hanging from his chin and jaw in scraggled tufts and worming its way above his lips. Not a particularly big man, he sported the broad shoulders and wiry sinew of someone who knew what it was to work.

“Come here, boy,” the man barked in a friendly sort of way as he grabbed Book around the neck and drug him into a back-pounding hug. “How you been?”

Squirming away, Book grinned.  “Fair enough. But I haven’t seen you in months!”

Untold stories hid in the wry smile the man gave. “I’ve been all over hell and half of Georgia. Hope to stay in one place for a stretch. You been all right while I’ve been gone? Still hitting them books?”

Book lifted an eyebrow and smirked.

The man raised his hands, his beard pulling away from his mouth to reveal a nicotine-stained smile. “That a’ boy. Can’t beat good schooling.”

“Like I didn’t know that.”

“You got yourself a good head on your shoulders,” said the man, ruffling Book’s hair. Then he turned to Loki and his demeanor grew decidedly less friendly. Flint-chip eyes scrutinized him from beneath heavy brows. “I don’t know you.”

“Coon, this is my Uncle Loki,” Book gestured between them, “Loki, this is Coon.”

The man—“Coon”—thrust out his hand and grasped Loki’s in a grip too tight to have been polite. Posturing, he thought with a snort, merely quirking a smile and resisting the urge to shake loose his fingers.

“Ain’t heard tell of an uncle before,” he said with a hint of drawl creeping into his voice.

“Dad’s side of the family—haven’t really had much contact with him ‘cause he’s been overseas for years,” supplied Book.

“That right? Where abouts?” Disbelief coiled through his words.

Loki raised his hand to his throat and shook his head, not having to pretend the frustration he felt.

Book laid a hand on Coon’s arm, dropping his voice. “He can’t talk. Some kind of freak illness. It’s why he’s back.”

Eyebrows inching upwards, Coon still didn’t lose the hostile gleam in his eye. “That’s a right shame.” His gaze flicked across the crowd to the other side of the room. He turned to Book, “how about you go find out what’s takin’ them so blasted long to get them doors open.”

“On it!” Book dove into the crowd, wriggling through the bodies like a salmon leaping upstream.

Coon leaned back against the peeling plaster wall, arms crossed over his chest. “Now, you might be good people, but I don’t know you.” He flicked those hard eyes back up to Loki’s. His voice sunk into an edged calm, slow, almost lazy. “Anything happens to that boy and I’ll hear tell of it. And then I’ll be coming round for you. I already got the Law on me for one man, what’s one more? You’re street and there won’t be nobody come looking for you.” Coon scratched his chin idly, studying Loki for a long minute. “You hear me?”

Loki inclined his head, sure that the man didn’t understand his sudden amusement. Try harder, little man, I’ve faced monsters and gods and devils—what are you to that?

The thick brows dropped ever lower with Loki’s apparent lack of concern. Muscles along the shallow jaw tightened. “You’d best decide this ain’t so funny,” warned the man as he closed the gap between the two of them.

Loki couldn’t help himself. He reached out and gave the much shorter man a condescending pat on the head. The apoplectic flush that filled the man’s face made any repercussions worth it. Coon clamped his raising fist to his side as Book suddenly popped out of the crowd.

“A ketchup bottle exploded,” he announced. He noticed the flush in Coon’s face. “You okay, there, Coon?”

The man managed a tight smile. “Touch crowded in here is all. I’m gonna grab me some fresh air. Y’all go on ahead.” He was already heading for the exit.

“Well, if you’re sure,” said Book with a frown. He rounded on Loki. “What did you say to him?”

He gestured at his throat in exasperation.

“Oh, don’t give me that. You can make yourself perfectly clear when you want to.” The doors opened, and he drug Loki into the disordered stampede of cattle that was the mass of homeless attempting to form a line. “Seriously, Coon is a good guy—those are hard to find out here.”

The frantic gnawing of his stomach distracted him as the scent of cooked meat suddenly hit him above the general odor of somewhat unwashed individuals. Thankfully the line moved quickly, and before he knew it he had a brown tray with men and women wearing white mesh caps shoving plates of food at him and asking questions he couldn’t always answer. Book often provided one for him. Yes mayo, yes to an apple, no pickles, and broccoli instead of fries—to be healthy.

Apparently Loki also wanted banana pudding even though he wasn’t entirely sure what that was. It reminded him of karz, a yellowish delicacy among the dwarves—he certainly hoped it didn’t taste like karz. He was fairly certain the dwarves had managed to not only bake off their sense of humor in their sweltering mines, but their taste buds as well.

“Score!” shouted Book as he bounced away from the line. “Hamburgers! Did we get lucky or what?” The boy led them to an abandoned table in the corner and flopped heavily into a chair.

Loki sniffed the food experimentally. More and more he realized how limited his knowledge of day to day life on Midgard really was. He was well acquainted with the realm’s top secret military organizations and combat capabilities—but he had no idea what was sitting on the plate in front of him. During his last visit he’d been too busy to think of sampling the local cuisine—and pudding had hardly been a matter of importance when he’d grilled Barton on SHIELD and its agents.

Leaning in on his elbows, Book peered across the table at him. “Haven’t you ever seen a hamburger before?”

Dark hair brushed against his face as Loki shook his head.

“Dude, where are you from? Space?”

Loki ignored him. This “hamburger” appeared to be composed of a roll sliced in half with meat and vegetables piled between. He lifted off the top piece of bread to reveal the bottom half slathered with red, yellow, and white sauces. As Book continued to watch him in bemusement, Loki dismantled the rest of the sandwich. There is no ham in here, he thought vaguely.  I do not understand these creatures.

“Got room there for one more?” grunted Coon as he suddenly appeared at Loki’s back, balancing a tray in his hand. The anger had left his face to be replaced by a kind of calculation.

“Sure!” Book beamed as he gestured at the vacant space across from him.

The other man drug out the chair with a screech and thumped his tray onto the table. He dropped down, intentionally pressing into Loki’s space.

Loki rolled his eyes. I’ve fought for a place at the dinner table with Thor, do you think to intimidate me? Suddenly the scent of criminally unwashed human jammed its way up his nostrils. He swallowed a gag. Dear, sweet, Valhalla.

“Sorry there—ah—Loki,” said Coon, his tone anything but sorry. A thought seemed to catch him halfway through a bite of his food. Jamming the half masticated slurry-covered meat into his cheek, he proceeded to talk around the food. “What kinda name is ‘Loki’ anyhow?”

A retort welled up only to shatter beneath an icy realization. He was going to say it was the name he was born with—but that wasn’t true. An uneasy, sliding sensation dropped into his gut. Even his name was a lie—no more a name than “Book” or “Coon.” Would Laufey have even bothered to name his runt of a child before he abandoned him in that temple? Perhaps his birth mother had held a name in secret for the life she bore inside her. He deliberately set his fork down as a poisonous thought crept through him, settling uneasily in his stomach. He had no proof that it wasn’t his own mother that had looked in disgust at the weak thing she had bred and left him to the ice and snow.

“Trickster god,” supplied Book. “Now quit bugging the guy who can’t talk.”

“Not that he’ll have a need to with you ‘round,” said Coon. He might have been hiding a smile in his beard.

“Hey!” Book blustered.

The train of idle conversation rattled on, but it held little interest for Loki as he poked idly at his food. A simple question from a mortal fool ought not to have rattled him. The man didn’t even recognize the force of the blow he’d unintentionally landed. Long suppressed memories clawed from the recesses of his mind where he’d locked them away with other childish fears. Nightmares of abandonment had plagued him as a child. They were rarely the same, but he remembered being dreadfully cold. Sometimes it was Thor’s retreating red that tormented him, others his supposed father seeing him dangling over a precipice or fighting to stay above choppy seas and doing nothing. The worst featured Frigga. What was odd was that he never saw her face, but he knew it was her all the same.

Book’s plate was nearly clean and he was eyeing Loki’s pudding by the time the trickster pulled himself out of his revere. He neatly hooked his bowl away from the boy with his spoon. He raised his eyebrows and made a small circular motion with his hand. He could see the thoughts tumbling into one another as Book interpreted—correctly—that he wanted him to repeat himself.

“I said that Coon’s on the run,” said Book, eyes shining with boyish excitement held over from childhood games of cops and robbers. “Tell ‘em, Coon.”

The man kicked back his chair, balancing on the back legs as he tucked his hands into his belt loops. “Ain’t much to tell. The Law says that I gotta be locked up ‘cause I killed a man. Don’t deny it, but I don’t fancy life behind bars.”

With a spoon halfway to his mouth, Book paused and leaned across the table. “You’re holding out, tell him why you did it.” Book turned to Loki, “Coon’s not a criminal.”

The man gave a swift glance around and then launched into his tale. “There was this here idiot, living down the road a-piece. He kept three, four horses on his plot.” Coon gritted his teeth against the memory. “I wouldn’t ‘ave let that man care for a rattler. He was meaner than a striped snake and was always taking it out on them poor horses. He’d already done gone and killed one of ‘em. You ever heard a horse scream?”

Loki swallowed, forcing his curled fingers to straighten in his lap. Memory of red slashes across a silken grey coat. A whip in his hand, wet not with horse blood but with the horse trainer’s. He gave a short nod.

“Awful sound, fit to raise the dead. Well I wasn’t ‘bout to let him carry on like that. But animal control aren’t worth a darned thing. What am I paying taxes for I ask you? Bureaucratic red tape and hogwash. Said there weren’t enough proof. But I knew, I’d seen. So I decide that it weren’t happening again. No, sir. So I sneak in and was making to run off with the last two.” A sadness crept into his eyes as he rubbed at his chin. “They were right pitiful, couldn’t hardly see cause of the flies crawling all over them. Just as I’m unfastening the gate, here comes their owner and he’s cussing a blue streak. So I just lets the horses go. And he pulls out a gun and makes to shoot them just out of meanness. I snatched his gun away and when he came at me, I hit ‘em. And I hit him again until I was sure he wouldn’t be hurtin’ no one else.”

“But you didn’t mean to kill him,” said Book quickly, waiting for clarification. He needed it not to have been on purpose, regardless of the reason.

“I was so angry I don’t know what I meant—but I weren’t there planning to kill him,” said Coon.

And what would you think of me, child? thought Loki as he reflected on the dead he carried. Even if he excluded deaths in war or self defense, the numbers would stagger most. Grim amusement ghosted across his features. When the boy found out his trust had been placed in a killer—a mass murderer from his perspective—how he would shatter.

Chapter Text

It felt good to get away from the boy’s persistent chattering. It was as if he’d not had anyone to talk to and was making up for it all with Loki. Never mind that it was a completely one-sided conversation. Being forced into such a partnership with a human frayed his patience as it was, but Book was of no use to him if he couldn’t gain his trust.

And that was why Loki stood alone in the concrete washhouse. While the boy busied himself with his own schemes for the day, Loki was going hunting. A scant few miles outside the town, the countryside gave way to pastures and thick stretches of forest, the woods growing ever denser until they showed little to no signs of human habitation. These woods crept steadily up the sides of hills that turned into gentle mountains.

To gain the solitude of these trees—and to get away from the constant presence of Midgardians—Loki had volunteered to try and earn his way through acquiring fresh meat for their table—such as it was. The little problem of lack of hunting tools and the apparent illegality of his plan didn’t cause Book more than a kind of disbelieving bemusement.

“What are you gonna do? Condescend the rabbits to death?” he had asked.

Oddly, despite his lack of faith in the outcome, Book hadn’t objected. In fact he seemed almost as eager to get Loki away as Loki was to go. Curious.

He’d save those musings for another time. Now he simply wanted to wash the sleep from his face and try and comb some tangles from his hair. His thoughts must have wandered elsewhere because he didn’t notice that the old, cracked mirror had been replaced until the early sun crept high enough to angle through the mesh covered slots around the top of the room.

He started as he caught his reflection in the wavy mirror. This was the first time he had seen himself clearly since being sentenced to this mortal hell. Hands clenched around the edges of the sink as he swallowed rising bile. There, around his mouth, were marks he hadn’t seen in hundreds of years. Jagged scars bit into the tender flesh around his lips, some slicing into the lips themselves. They were old, pale with age; vicious scars immortalizing torn flesh and malicious care. They twisted and stretched—scars of childhood pulled tight by growth.

Leaning forward, he rested his head against the cool glass. With his magic gone—he ought to have known. He’d carried the smear of glamour for so long he hadn’t actually had to think about it in hundreds of years. His magic had unconsciously fed it in the same way his heart beat and his lungs expanded without thought or order.

But the way the boy would look at him sometimes, a question clearly brewing. Considering the near constant stream of questions rattling from the child, it should have occurred to Loki to wonder why this one would never come. He wanted the answer—badly—but every time he nearly gave voice to his thoughts, he reined himself in, curiosity clearly weighed against something else and found wanting. Tact, perhaps. Or pity. Loki growled. How dare that weak creature look at him like that.

“Bad memories?” asked a voice.

Loki reeled back. His patron filled the mirror like swirling mist.

“Do you remember it, blood on golden thread?”

How?

“I know all there is to know of you, Loki. Even that which you try to forget. But how can you when the evidence is there on your face.” His patron hummed in thought. “And to think how willingly you suffered for your brother then. And still he does not know?”

Be quiet! Loki snarled.

The coal-dark eyes narrowed into shards. “You alone are to blame for this, Trickster. Do as I wish and all will be restored to you. Your strength, your voice.” She paused, the final promise drawn out alluringly, “your magic to hide your shame.”

The mirror shattered. Loki slowly drew back his fist, letting the blood drip into the sink. Shaking himself, he shoved his injured hand into his pocket and eased out the door.                                             

 A few miles of angry hiking had done a great deal to calm his rage and distract him from the sick feeling twisting through his gut. That and the morbid desire to run his fingers over the pits and tears around his mouth. Huffing in irritation, he returned his focus to the vibrant new-green of the forest. Within the wood, animals would have already begun to venture out of their holes and take the edge off their winter leanness. All the better for him.

He’d never been overly fond of hunting. Or rather, he had been quite fond of the hunt and the chase, but less so of the kill. Squeamishness didn’t play into it. He’d kill to eat or because an animal was dangerous and needed to be slain, but he was indifferent to killing as a sport.

Once, he and Thor had tracked a chunna for over a week, the clever beast always eluding them. Chunna were creatures fit for sport and fur hunting rather than for food. The closest Midgardian animal would be the fox, though, the chunna stood a bit taller and with much larger ears. They had striking, light golden coats with ruffs around their necks and a tufted plume atop their heads that ran in a ridge down their backs to become part of their large, brush-like tails. Unfortunately for them, this coat was much prized by the ladies at court.

This particular hunt was meant to end with a chunna skin to finish their mother’s nameday present—a lavish cloak embroidered with delicate, interlocking designs in gold and silver thread upon a deep blue. But when they had finally cornered the creature, Loki hadn’t really wanted to kill something that had offered such a chase. There had been a nearly sentient ingenuity to the way it evaded them. And while Thor’s patience had grown thin after the first two days—after all, tracking a chunna wasn’t nearly so glorious as trailing after a bilgesnipe or a giant boar—Loki had reveled in the game.

And so he’d stayed his hand. He’d finished the hunt not with a knife thrust, but a simple touch to the back of the creature’s head. In his touch he gave the chunna its reward—spells of minor protection and intuition. Thor’s lack of understanding had been truly impressive. He had suggested that perhaps their mother’s cloak should be trimmed in Loki-skin to make up for their wasted effort. Loki had airily replied that it wasn’t really in fashion.

He flexed his muscles to ease the tension suddenly building in them. Perhaps Thor still wanted to gift his mother a Loki-skin cloak—this one also blue, a Jotun blue. He shied away from such thoughts. He was here to hunt. With a knife, stout branch, and a fire, he could fashion a spear with little difficulty. That had been one of the weapons he was quite skilled with, but given his inherent gifts, he wouldn’t be needing any weapon. His real skills lay in tracking and his ability to become the perfect predator for any kind of prey. Midgardian fauna had never been an area of particular interest to him, but he knew they lacked many of the more aggressive types of animals that populated other realms.

A glis would be far too much, he thought. A hound then. Glancing around, he made sure he was quite alone as he prepared to slide from his natural—his Aesir—form into another. She may have taken his magic and much of his strength, but he didn’t need magic to change shapes—rare though it was, he’d been born with the ability. The muscle along his jaw jumped. He’d started as an infant if Odin was to be believed—instinctive mimicry.

He crouched down, remembering what it felt to be a dog, the nose down, tail up kind of focus. It was an easy process to fall from one form into another, muscles sliding and stretching, organs moving and changing. Just as he began to feel the shift, a terrible tearing wrenched through his body.

His knees hit the damp ground. Fingers jammed into last year’s leaves as a swallowed scream dripped from his lips. It was as if iron spikes had been driven through his skin and into his bones and when the muscles tried to move, they tore loose from where they had been tacked down.

The memory of a thousand needles driving into him surfaced as he remembered when She had made a prison of him. He hadn’t realized then what she had done. Swallowing, he rocked back on his heels, feeling the cold wet of the ground creeping up his knees. Gritting his teeth, he focused on his arm, carefully willing it to ease into fur and paw. The ripping sensation grew as pinpricks of blood dotted his skin. Hunched around his arm, he gasped for breath, letting go of the change and settling back into his normal state.

Even this, he thought raggedly, even this She would take from me. He ignored the way his own skin felt suddenly too tight. His head hung loosely between his shoulders as he hunched on the ground, hair a lank screen for his face. A hint of a laugh curled in the back of his throat as he rolled his neck out slowly, eyes roving the clearing. Shaking himself out, he unfolded from the ground and spared the clearing one last look over his shoulder. An expression of confident challenge ran through his body and settled across his scarred lips. Is this all that you bring against me?

By the time he had covered the miles back into town the sun was angling ever deeper into the west and hunger had gnawed its way through his confidence. In its place snarled irritability and a growing sense of being hemmed in.

Plunging into the darkness of the entry hall, Loki paused as he waited for his eyes to adjust. Up ahead he could hear the boy’s particular brand of clattering. He considered easing back outside in order to avoid the questions the child seemed no longer able to contain. Even if Loki had been willing, he was certainly far from able to answer. And oh, how he wished to. Simply being able to give voice to anything would have been a comfort. Try though he might, he could only manage animalistic grunts. Not that this was the first time he’d endured enforced silence, but he’d never known a magic that could take a voice. One that could swallow the sound of words, physically bind the lips or throat—but not this. The sliding fear in the back of his mind whispered that he may never retrieve his voice if he did not bow to Her wishes.

He rolled his shoulders and shook off the thought. Hitching up his bag, he headed toward the “Pit” as Book called their main living area. Something caught his interest just out of the corner of his eye. He paused and backtracked. The whitewashed cinderblock wall down the righthand side of the passage was no longer bare. Blurbs of somewhat clumsy writing speckled the length of the hall.

Loki peered at the sentences. They were all questions: Where are you from? Do you have any siblings? How’d you lose your voice? How old are you? How’d you get on the street? What’s the story behind your name? Where’s your family?

The onslaught of questions never ended. Loki jerked away from them. So this was what the child had been devising.

“Who’s got the mad idea skills?” asked Book as he popped up next to Loki. He grinned and gestured at his handiwork. “See, it’s like a giant message board. Now we can actually have some conversations that aren’t some never ending game of twenty questions.” He held up a tin can, rattling the thick black markers jammed into it. “You can use these. I kind of killed one already, but if we run out I can get more and…what’s wrong?” He’d noticed Loki glaring at him.

What right have you to know anything!

The boy frowned. “Look you don’t have to answer them all. I just thought well…it would help if we could get to know one another a bit better. Why don’t you just try one?” He held out the can.

It clattered to the ground as Loki smacked it away and stalked past the boy. For an instant, Book just stood there. Then he knelt down, gathered up the scattered markers and put them back in the can, setting it on the ground by the wall.

“Here’s a question for you, Loki,” he said stiffly, partially hidden by the shadows in the hall. “Why’d you go hungry tonight?” He snorted, “Don’t worry, I think I know the answer.” With that, his steps retreated, light flashed briefly into the darkness, and the door slammed shut.

Loki dropped his bag by his pallet and sunk down beside it, balled fists pressed against his knees. He swallowed thickly. A wave of claustrophobia rushed over him, pressing down on his lungs so that it was like breathing with Mjolnir on his chest. His nails bit into his palms and he resisted the urge to tear off his own skin.

He’d gone decades without once changing shape, but that had been by choice—to not have the option at all…he surged to his feet and ripped off his outer layers, stripping down to his undershirt and tearing off his shoes. Pressing through the slender gap in the crates, he forced his way out into the main warehouse, its high, grimy windows letting the reddening sun slant across the vacant expanse.

For a moment he stood against the light, listening to his heart try and tear itself from his chest. Then he began to move, flowing through the stances he’d been adapting for hundreds of years. They were not the thick, bullish moves of Thor or most Asgardians, nor even the modified strategies used by Lady Sif or the maiden warriors. These were a swirling dance of movement, forms based on avoidance and the turning aside of an enemy’s attack. A warrior was fast, but Loki was faster, sliding always just out of reach. A coward’s approach he’d been told. He’d never seen the point in proving your valor by taking a blow—and the broken rib that went with it—when the same blow could have been avoided and exploited. But then he’d often known he was the only sane one.

Sweat trickled unnoticed down the nape of his neck as he dropped into the trance of movement—martial meditation he liked to call it. He reveled in the freedom of motion, the crushing sense of claustrophobia evaporating.

His arms swirled through the last form as he traced out a crescent with his left foot before sinking his weight down onto it. Warmth shot through his muscles, a familiar ache welling up. He slicked back his sweat soaked hair and looked up to see moonlight just fingering the rusty edged windowpanes.

The crevice into the Pit spilled a beam of light into the dark expanse. The light brushed across a boy’s silhouette. Loki pulled away into the shadows, crossing his arms over himself. Book just stared for a moment and then got to his feet.

“Tomorrow we learn about how to find a real shower,” he said. He brushed at the seat of his pants and then squeezed back through the crack, momentarily cutting off the light.                                     

 Loki cursed himself soundly in every tongue he knew. If it was possible, the boy was more wary of him now than when he had first pulled him from the gutter. His flash of temper and display of martial skill had seen to that. That trust that had so very nearly been his was gripped tightly once more.

Though cordial enough on the surface, the tensions beneath were enough that even Thor would have noticed them. A single misstep now and the boy would either run or worse, set the realm’s law officers on him. That would go poorly, and Loki had little doubt that being of interest to the authorities would eventually bring his presence to SHIELD’s attention.

But this was hardly the most delicate situation Loki had ever found himself in. For the next few days he donned the cloak of one who knew he had acted rashly but was too proud to apologize. He imagined Book would have been astute enough to recognize a quick apology as nothing more than a placating gesture of manipulation.

The morning of the fourth day, Loki played his hand. Watching through cracked lids as he feigned sleep, he saw Book slide from his bed chamber and head down the hallway. As the boy walked out toward the door’s sun-chinked outline, he paused and backtracked. He leaned forward to squint through the shadows, but Loki knew there was a new line of text beneath one of his questions. For a minute Book marveled at the neat, even lines that clashed with his unwieldy scrawl. He glanced back at Loki before heading out the door.

Slightly backlit, Book’s expression had been unreadable. Loki only hoped that his action had been interpreted as an attempt at mending the rift between them by one who couldn’t bring himself to say it in so many words. He’d spent much of the night deciding which of Book’s questions to answer and how truthful to be. It had to be one that seemed to reveal something private and personal about himself. A touch of vulnerability and trust on his part as a peace offering. In the end he’d simply gone with the truth—though the elements that would mark him as a visitor from another realm were obscured.

Loki pushed himself up from the makeshift bed and brushed the dirt from his clothes. He had made his move. Now he had only to wait. His hooks were well set. The boy would forgive him and as long as he tread carefully, Book’s waning trust could be rekindled and things could proceed.

It wasn’t until that evening that he would have the chance to see if his assumptions were correct. The boy had been away all day and only returned after the sun had vanished. He carried an armload of scrap wood to burn against the strangely chill night.

“You’ve been busy,” he said, nodding at the already snapping fire in the barrel. His satchel dropped from his shoulder with a thump as he sunk down beside it. Curling his arms round his leg, he rested his chin on his knee. “We’ll need more wood before the week’s out. It might snow on Thursday.”

Loki looked at him quizzically. But surely winter is well passed by now. Things are in bloom.

Book huffed. “I know the flowers are out, but around here that doesn’t mean much. I read once that there are actually three small winters after winter proper.” He extended his fingers as he counted them off. “Redbud, Dogwood, and Blackberry. Whenever those are in bloom, better watch out, cause a cold front is coming.”

There was an awkwardness in the way he carried himself, as if he weren’t sure exactly what to do or say. Loki fought to keep his face passive. The boy was going to try and somehow mend fences. But he wasn’t sure how to go about it.

“I read your message.”

Yes, that much was obvious, thought Loki with an inward sigh. On the outside he carefully schooled his features to impassivity with just a bit of uncertainty leaking through—as if he wasn’t already aware of how his overture had been received.

“This would explain some of your abandonment issues.”

Loki’s head whipped round. What?

“But it’s okay, I get it.” Book looked at him earnestly and with something like pity. “It’s never easy to learn that your own parents didn’t want you—and they couldn’t even be bothered to give you up properly.”

Loki found himself backing away slightly. This wasn’t a direction he had foreseen.

Book raised his head and frowned in thought. “You were pretty old when you found out you were adopted, huh? Your folks really dropped the ball on that one—but a lot of adoptive parents are scared of how their kids might react.”

Sinking down onto a box, Loki pressed his fingertips to his forehead. Dear, sweet Norns—he’s trying to counsel me.

“But at least someone wanted you. I mean, your parents chose you. It’s not like they had to keep you.” He blew at a stray curl of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. His voice dropped almost too quiet for Loki to hear. “I’d give anything to be adopted.”

Flicking leaves into the coals, Book watched as they curled in upon themselves, a molten eye showing their skeletal veins until they flared and vanished. “You want to talk about unwanted? My mother threw me away. Literally. In the trash.”

Loki glanced up, but Book continued to watch the leaves.

“Tossed me in the dumpster and left me to die. Great mothering skills right there. It was two days before someone found me. Thought maybe a cat had gotten closed up in there. Boy, were they surprised. So I get it. I understand what it feels like to be abandoned. But at least you had someone decide they wanted you. The people that found me just left me at the hospital, and they shuffled me off as soon as I was stable. Been shuffled around ever since.”

He dropped his chin into his propped hand and sucked on the inside of his cheek. “That’s how I got saddled with the most atrocious name in the history of anybody—ever.” He took a steadying breath. “My name…is Hubert Aloysius Standish Salyer.” Book closed his eyes against it as if the name pained him to admit.

Loki laughed. Just as much at the mournful look on Book’s face as the great mouthful of a name. Granted, he found most Midgardian names odd sounding—but this was a tremendously unfortunate name for the child. Little wonder that you prefer Book.

“Thank you for reminding me why I don’t let people know that.” He huffed and pushed himself off the crate. “Why couldn’t we be like those Nordic countries that have an official list you have to choose from—or at least a judge that would stop you from sticking a kid with a name like that! But oh no! We’re American, we’ll have none of that socialism here, thank you very much—just publicly funded this and welfare that—and standardized tests without enough spaces to actually fit your atrociously long name!”

The boy was working himself into a rant and Loki merely sat back. He knew they’d somehow strayed into politics, but this realm was filled with so many conflicting ideologies he hadn’t really paid attention to them beyond the fact that it would all be irrelevant when he was king.

Book flopped back down with a noise a bit like a disgruntled horse. “I suppose it could be worse. I mean, the Puritans had some crazy names. I read about this one guy named If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned Barebone. Or there was some guy in the Middle Ages whose parents actually named him Phillippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bambastus von Hohenheim.”

There was a name Loki recognized. Or at least partially recognized. A renowned—and somewhat eccentric—Aesir had a similar name. He was considered the authority on alchemic reactions. Perhaps they were one and the same. He had disappeared to Midgard in his dotage.

“At least that name is kind of impressive. But no—I get Hubert Aloysius Standish Salyer. There is nothing remotely cool about Hubert.” His mood seemed to drop away. Fiddling with the zipper on his open jacket, he ran it up and down the teeth. “It’s worse than bad, though. It’s not mine. Like I’m walking around in someone else’s shoes and they pinch and rub, you know?”

Of course he did. He’d been walking around in a life that wasn’t really his for centuries—doing everything he could to make it fit just right and always coming up short.

“Soon as I’m old enough I’m gonna change it.”

Loki’s eyes widened inquiringly.

“I don’t know yet to what. I mean I’ve tried out all kinds of different ones, but I haven’t found the right one yet. And it’s gotta be unique, but not I’m-naming-my-baby-after-a-fast-food-chain unique.” He waved his hands as he talked, casting flailing shadows behind him. “I guess I’ll just know when I find it. It’ll feel like mine.”

Leaning his head back against the crates, Loki schooled his features to hide the bitterness creeping into his thoughts. Perhaps this mortal boy might hope to one day find his place in the universe and be content. Loki was not so delusional as to believe in hope.

Chapter Text

Loki may not have had Book’s unwavering trust, but it seemed his ploy had been successful at least in undoing the damage. In fact, it may have moved him closer to gaining full control of the boy. He didn’t require total trust to meet his needs, but the challenge appealed to him and helped pass the days in exile. It wouldn’t have been the first time he set such a goal for himself to alleviate the monotony of the Realm Eternal, or simply to prove that he could. 

He smiled a bit at the memory of one such challenge. He had once trained every hound in the kennels to treat Fandral like a hind—no magic involved. The kennel locks had also been mysteriously faulty that season. More than once the normally swaggering hero had needed to be rescued from a pack of snarling, baying dogs—or had to climb out a window because the pack was at his chamber door. Even Thor had found it funny. Odin, less so. Whether it had been through some strange fondness for Fandral or annoyance that his hounds had been so misappropriated was unclear. There was no Odin now to interrupt his diversions.

There were downsides, however, to inserting himself back into the boy’s good graces. In patching up the breech, Loki was once more subjected to the full brunt of his curiosity. A distant, polite Book didn’t give voice to every question that popped into his head, didn’t wheedle, didn’t dissect him with his eyes. But Loki’s “apology” appeared to have been accepted. And now he was once more the apparent sum-total of the boy’s social interaction.           

That morning particularly, Book had been watching him closely. It was a look of thoughtful curiosity, but not suspicion. And yet, Loki was done being stared at. He whirled and threw his hands sharply in the air, What?!

“You don’t shave, and there’s not a hair on your face,” Book leaned forward, features cinched together in concentration. “But, you are the definition of white. I’m trying to figure out where you’re hiding it.”

Giving a deep sigh, Loki turned to fully face Book and crossed his arms. Explain.

“Your Indian blood. I just can’t see it in your face. But you don’t grow facial hair, so it’s got to be in there somewhere. Maybe the cheekbones.”

A particularly nasty smile curled his lips. Oh no child, it’s a completely different sort of blood altogether. As a young man in a culture of bearded warriors, Loki had been very aware of his lack thereof. Being a shapeshifter had given him an easy remedy, but hours before a mirror had only revealed that he disliked everything about hair on his face. He was just vain enough to deal with the teasing and yet another sign that he wasn’t quite like everyone else.

It hadn’t even been that difficult to stop the comments and jibes aimed his way. After Thor found himself with a beard that didn’t stop growing until it trailed behind him on the floor, everyone suddenly lost interest in Loki’s lack of facial hair and became incredibly polite to Odin’s second son.

Now that Loki knew of his true parentage so many things began to make sense. He’d had little contact with actual Frost Giants, but he’d never seen one with a beard, even in his books. Perhaps they could not grow them. It hadn’t seemed a pertinent question to ask when he and Thor had played at slaughtering Frost Giants and putting their heads on pikes as children.

An image of his own slack face skewered on Gungnir flashed through his mind. Cheers echoed in the background, and all was red. Red splattered down the golden shaft, red light dying in his demon eyes—red cloak draped across the meaty fist that hefted Gungnir aloft. Loki hurled the thought away, slowly unclenching his rigid jaw muscles as he came back to himself.

Book idly rolled a piece of charcoal around the inside of the fire barrel with a stick. Loki hadn’t let anything show on his face that might have caused the boy alarm. The clawing madness still scuttled along his spine, nipping at the edges of his thoughts. The old rage seethed within his chest, the same rage that unfurled every time he thought of the Jotun, inevitably because he could not evade the remembrance of his own monstrous nature.

“You’re doing the thing,” said Book. It was an attempt at casual nonchalance—a paltry attempt. His voice hitched between his words and there was a coiled readiness to his stance. “The thing where you’re a million miles away, and it doesn’t look like you’re on vacation.”

Loki blinked, wiping away all traces of his agitation. You tolerate the boy because he is clever, Loki thought, and yet because he is clever he sees more than he ought. Shrugging, he slid his bag over his shoulder, slowly becoming so used to its presence that he felt somewhat naked without it. He headed for the door without attempting an explanation. The image of his own impaled head still whispered before his eyes. And though he would not go so far to say it unnerved him, the sensation of precarious balance that followed the burst of rage threatened his ability to hide everything he would like. He was in no mood to twice repair a breach with Book. Better that he bleed these emotions dry in the lonely recesses of the forest or the abandoned backways of Greenville’s crumbling industrial district.

Book’s voice echoed after him as he emerged into the pale sunlight. “Feel free to bring food!”

The slam of the exterior door drowned out anything else the boy might have said. Loki immediately turned from their normal exit and circled the outskirts of the warehouse, occasional shards of glass grinding beneath his shoes. Leaping atop an abandoned dumpster allowed him to vault over the top of the chain-link fence and drop down on the other side. The jolt of bone meeting concrete through the thin soles of his shoes jarred up Loki’s leg. Not for the first time he cursed the pitiful excuse for boots Book had scavenged for him. A seam along the left side had begun to tear free, allowing the slightest rain to completely drench his socks. The right boot fared little better, glints of silver duct tape keeping it together.

Weak morning sunlight glanced off grimy windows, illuminating “for sale,” and “no trespassing” signs. Loki tried to focus on the way it slid across the pockmarked pavement and nosed its way into shadowy corners and alley mouths. He tried to think of anything but the lie of his own skin.

The pale scent of morning mingled with the wet-grit smell of brick and mortar and asphalt. The distant thrum of cars broke the stillness. And though he could hear the first movements of the day, Loki was alone in this forgotten section of town.

A craving for green spaces suddenly struck him. A hunger as real and biting as the clawing of an empty stomach. He turned his back on the hum of an awakening Greenville and set his face toward the forest. Cutting into an alley, he started toward the distant tuft of green hills that rose behind the town.

Wires crisscrossed above his head, gathering into clusters and then crawling down the alley wall to disappear into various buildings. The angled slope of patchwork concrete slanted toward the center of the passageway, supposedly to allow water to sluice down through a rusted metal grate. Instead, it dammed up in divots and pools dyked with last year’s leaves and anything else that could wash off a disused street.

“Are you still so prideful?”

The words brought Loki up short. He caught the shimmering reflection in the slimy puddle at his feet. I am no one’s pawn. He locked eyes with the wavering image of his patron. The black pits narrowed in annoyance.

“Why run from the inevitable? Did you not accept your fate long ago,” murmured his benefactor.

Loki walked on. My fate is my own and I’ll meet it on my own terms.

The image melted from puddle to puddle, ghosting along the rain-drenched alley. It settled in front of him, dark eyes an oil slick on the surface. “And how will you wreak the coming chaos from this patch of mortal soil?”

Loki crouched down before the stretch of water. Do not underestimate me. I don’t require your aid to do what will be done.

“We shall see, little godling.” The voice paused, calculating. “Strange that you would linger with this human child, playing at mortality when I could return you to your path of greatness.”

Infamy is a word more suited. The vast unknowns of his patron gnawed at him. He did not know what she was or what her purpose was. What he did know was that She knew things she ought not and that there was far more to her plans than she had revealed. A veil of obscurity hung over the entire affair. Every question he posed brought only more questions.

A dry, brittle laugh cracked against the old bricks of the alley. “Very well, Liesmith. Play at what games you will. I am patient. The path unto your destiny may take many unexpected turnings—though your ultimate fate cannot be unwritten.”

With a snarl of rage, Loki rushed to his feet and stomped through the puddle, shattering the image. The slowly awakening town blurred by him as he strode toward the trees. Today seemed to be conspiring against him. First Frost Giants and now Her. The festering rage ran through him like hot lead, threatening to boil over into action. He didn’t trust himself not to do something that even Thor’s thick friends were likely to notice. Granted without his strength or magic it would have been more difficult to really do anything spectacular. A slow, sick smile spread across Loki’s lips as he passed into the dappled light of the forest. He’d still manage.                     

By late afternoon Loki felt that he had once more lashed himself to calm and sanity, the terrible unbalance of before fading away. The price had been pushing himself to the limits of this mortal frame. Dripping with sweat, he leaned against the trunk of a spreading maple, the rough bark pressing into his bare skin. He’d run through his single spear forms, a sharpened stick a sorry excuse for his usual training weapon. He’d thrust all of his rage and frustration into every strike. With each blow, he imagined plunging the weapon deep into Her flesh, into Laufey, into Odin. The finesse and subtlety for which he was known took on a savage edge as he had to blink sweat from his eyes. Thoughts faded beneath the throb of his own heart in his ears, muscles screaming for him to stop. His breath had hitched against the back of his throat in raw gasps.

As he had spun the stick in a final, arcing attack, he’d had to force himself to not simply collapse to the clearing’s leaf-strewn floor. Blowing like a lathered horse, he’d walked the clearing, spear braced across his shoulders, until his heartbeat stopped pounding behind his eyes and he could hear something other than his own blood in his ears. Only then had he allowed his shaking legs to buckle and nearly drop him to the ground. Still, even as he sat against the tree, he took deep, measured breaths which pressed his ribs against his skin.

You’ve grown lax, he thought. At one time he had begun his mornings with weapons practice, followed by the magical equivalent. Not that this was uncommon among Asgardians—though perhaps the early hour had been. It was not for no reason that Asgard was known for her warriors. Even her common folk considered martial training a simple part of routine. Prepare breakfast, go to market, train with the sword, do the washing.

He imagined many had thought less of him because he frequented the training fields less than Thor. Bitterness crept into his fatigue. Just because they hadn’t seen him there didn’t mean he trained any less than Thor. On the contrary, he probably practiced more—he’d had to. But when anyone did see Loki on the fields, they wrongly assumed they’d seen him practicing. They saw only what he had already perfected in private.

Resting his forearms on his knees, he let himself slump forward. The comfort of drilling his magic might have been denied him, but now more than ever he needed to keep his skills sharp. This mortal frame couldn’t take the punishment he was used to dealing out to his body. He needed to be honed, ready for whatever may come. It was time to get back into the routine he’d been forced to abandon after his fall and during his imprisonment.

Glancing up at the sun, he judged by the angle that it was several hours into the afternoon. That left him time enough to clean himself in the nearby stream and put his spear to more use than calming his agitated thoughts.

The shock of the cold water was enough to clench his teeth against the chattering, but at least he wasn’t likely to smell like soured flesh and Volstagg’s boots. He shrugged on his shirt, the fabric catching at his damp arms. He left his boots by the stream, not trusting their ill-fitting size to allow him to walk quietly through the dry bracken and fallen twigs of the forest.

It took nearly two hours, but his patience eventually snared him two fine rabbits. He skinned and butchered them in the forest, careful to keep from splattering blood on his clothes—that was something the local authorities were likely to notice. It also kept Book from gagging and complaining that the skinned conies looked like headless cats. Loki noticed it didn’t keep the boy from eating the meat despite his protestations. But given that Book had suggested rummaging through dumpsters as a viable way to find food, Loki wasn’t wholly surprised the boy could swallow his disgust.

Deciding to cook the rabbit in the woods rather than transport it raw, Loki set about creating a fire. He missed the ability to simply cause one to spring to life. It had been a hard won skill. Elemental magic had come easily enough to him—all but fire. Sitting back on his haunches, he shifted a twig to better catch the slowly spreading flame. As he stared at the creeping tongue of light and heat, he remembered how he had fought to make even the smallest flicker obey.

But you did submit, he thought, in the end. His triumph over it had been one of the greatest achievements of his youth. And now he was reduced to the techniques of a common woodsman. The growing light threw wavering shadows across the bitterness of his face.

Loki hunched forward, pressing his hand to his chest, the hollowness of his magic echoing within him. His eyes slid shut. Slow, angry breaths hissed between his teeth. I conquered the element which raged against my very nature and I can be reduced to this? He raised his shadowed gaze to the surrounding woods. From the dappled recesses he imagined Her eyes watching. Calm crept over him as his hand dropped to his side. Take what you will, play your games. He rose, tall and every inch a prince. I have conquered fire’s will and seen the void. What are you to that?

Loki had long ago mastered all forms of elemental magic—all save one. Fire still escaped him. Even as he moved on to more advance forms, fire still stood beyond his grasp. He had mastered water first, something nearly unheard of in someone so young. Its mercurial nature seemed perfectly natural to him and he had never understood why others found it so difficult to control. He could draw water into twining serpents from the air around him, freeze them into icy daggers that vanished in a puff of mist on impact. But he couldn’t so much as coax a candle flame to his palm.

He’d spent hours crouched before an oil lamp, weaving his will into spells that should have sent the little flame gauting toward the ceiling. His spells always shunted away, the flame laughing merrily at him. Many a night his mother had found him passed out in the middle of the floor, completely drained and the lamp still burning.

Though he didn’t want to admit it, Loki was afraid. He hadn’t been afraid when he’d first begun practicing teleportation spells—and they were more fraught with danger. He hadn’t been afraid when he’d begun shapeshifting—even though he had some rather unpleasant splicing incidents when he got a bit too creative. But the thought of opening himself to fire’s influence sent a roll of unease through his stomach. He respected the physical presence of fire, but that didn’t frighten him. But every time he tried to blend his magic with the flames, to make its melody part of his song—he blanched. Then came the nightmares.

They slid into his dreams, erratically at first and then with startling regularity. Before long every night his sleep was broken with terror and he crept into his washroom to douse the remembered burning in a frigid plunge. Then, unable to return to his sweat-soaked sheets, he’d clamber up the wall adjacent to his balcony and wedged himself into the space where three spires met. On a good night he would drift back into a hazy slumber. On a bad one he would merely stare at the stars until Asgard’s sun broke across the horizon.

His mother was growing suspicious, although he still smiled and laughed and tried to ever be the Loki she knew. The glamour over the dark smudges of sleeplessness likely wouldn’t fool her for long—if it had at all. Frigga preferred her sons bring their troubles to her when they became too much for them, but she wasn’t likely to let this continue much longer.

Loki knew he had to end it, but he was going to need help. Unfortunately.

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to do,” said Thor as he crouched on his haunches outside a rather complex pattern of interlocking runes and lines.

Loki huffed as he knelt inside the circle, using a knife point to deepen one of the runes. “It’s magic, Thor, did you really expect to?” He shifted on his hands and knees a bit to the side, scrutinizing the pattern.

“Who would need to? It’s just magic.” Thor frowned and hunched his shoulders.

“And it was ‘just magic’ that got us off Vanaheim last month and kept you from being a clowder of glis’ first real meal. And what about that hammer you keep eying. It’s magic too.”

Picking at the gilt embroidery on his sleeve, Thor blew a puff of air through his teeth—a habit his mother had not quite managed to break him of. “But it’s a hammer first.”

“A magic one,” retorted Loki.

Thor chucked the first thing that he could reach at Loki’s head, his brother ducking as the candle sailed above him and clattered to the ground across the room, snapped in two places. Loki merely grinned at him, which made Thor grab for another projectile. His hand closed over a book. As he reared back to throw, Loki’s hands shot up.

“No, no, no…not the book!” he said, suddenly on his feet.

Rolling his eyes, Thor ever-so-delicately set the book down. He then chucked the bag it had been in directly at his brother’s face, the heavy wad of fabric connected with a dull thump. “Thank you,” Loki mumbled as he peeled the bag off his head.

“Fine, I don’t understand. So what good am I going to be?” asked Thor.

Loki sighed and brushed bits of stone dust from his trousers, only managing to smear the whitish dust across the black fabric. “You’re here to close the circle. I won’t be able to do it from inside.” He strolled over to the book and tugged it away from Thor, rustling through pages until he found the one he wanted. A long finger tapped the page. “Carve that symbol into the gap I’ve left you, connecting it like the image shows.”

Thor scrunched up his face as he eyed the symbol. “What’s it do?”

“Magic, obviously,” he said with an innocent smile. Thor groaned and looked like he was considering throwing the book again. Loki relented. “It’s a bit like the shield charm around the citadel. Just more simplistic.”

“But why are you sealing yourself in?” asked Thor.

“I’m not. I just want to practice this spell without any chance of it getting out and wrecking something.” He swallowed deeply and shuddered. “I don’t want a repeat of the Great Hall incident.”

Nodding, Thor winced at the memory. “The hangings in the southeast corner still smell odd.” He paused and narrowed his gaze. Strong arms folded over his chest. “Didn’t mother forbid you to practice new spells unattended after that.”

“Just like you’re not supposed to be borrowing weapons from the Einherjar’s weapon vault and practicing with them in the dead of night?” Loki looked up at his brother evenly.

Blustering, Thor stepped back. “How did you know?”

A small smile curled his pale lips as he went back to double checking the lines. “Honestly, Thor. I’m your brother. Let’s just assume I know everything about you. Now, I really would like to try this sometime in the next hundred years.”

“Fine. But this is blackmail.” He glanced at the book and started carving in the rune.

“Of course it is. Now, place your palms against the circle to activate it and step back.”

Thor did as he was told, startled as light erupted from the runes, creeping in a sheet toward the center of the circle before gathering into a pillar that speared toward the ceiling. As it nearly brushed the stone rafters the light began to fold back on itself, inching toward the ground like the spray of water from a fountain. Loki remained inside the circle carefully watching as the dome cascaded slowly toward the ground.  When it was only a foot or so away from the floor, Loki waved his hands in a dismissive way and a glamour fell away from a second set of runes encircling the first. As the sheet of light came down, Loki’s hands darted out under the falling wall and activated the exterior circle. He yanked his hands back before the golden light settled onto the ground.

“What was that?!” asked Thor, anger tingeing his words as he watched the second set of runes glow and merge together in a solid wall of magical energy that arced upwards to form a second dome enclosing the first.

Settling in the center of the two circles, Loki’s image seemed to waver a bit as power coursed through the two shields. “I’m merely taking precautions. I can’t have you interrupting until I’m finished…and I might need some motivation to see this through.” The second part he added more quietly. He pointed at the inner circle. “Only you can break the inner circle, and only I can break the outer one, and yet neither of us can get to either.”

Thor seemed somewhere between angry and confused. And, being Thor he quickly decided instead simply to be angry. “Loki, you fool! Now you’re stuck in there. And you tricked me into helping you!”

“Yes, it would have been nice if I didn’t have to trick you into helping me,” said Loki dryly, “but I need to do this and you wouldn’t understand.”

“How are you planning on getting out of there!” Thor’s eyes stretched wide with realization. “Loki, Loki, how are you going to eat. You’ll starve!” Small fists slammed against the shield, only a slight crackling even evidence of it being struck.

Loki took pity on his brother. “Don’t be so dramatic, Thor. Father or Mother could shatter these with little difficulty. It will just take someone with a lot of magic to do so, and while you’re looking for someone like that, I can get to work.”

With that, Loki turned his back on Thor and knelt in the center of the circle. He drew a deep breath and let it out less steadily than he would have liked. Digging in the pouch at his waist, he drew out a spark stone and set it against the wick of a candle. A flame leapt up.

It jumped merrily on the twist of cloth. Loki curled his fingers into his palms as he stared at the little light. It mocked him. Something hard and icy knotted in his chest as he reached out with his magic to touch the flame, to make it listen to him. He jerked away. It was wrong, wrong, wrong. A primal terror beyond thought or reason seeped through his bones. This thing was everything he was not. It was light and heat and burning and he was the cold dark of a moonless night, frigid and devoid of warmth. If he touched the fire he would burn away like snow before a pitiless sun.

He was so cold. It seemed his breath came in a fog before him and frost netted across his bone-white knuckles.

No! He was Loki Odinson, Prince of Asgard. He clenched his teeth so hard the muscles in his jaw jumped. He would best this fear. For a brief moment he glanced behind him at Thor—his brother watched him warily through the barriers. A pang of remorse spiked through him. He shouldn’t have made Thor complicit in this—he ought to have been strong enough to do it himself.

“I can do this,” he muttered, returning his full attention to the little flame. And he knew he could, he just needed the right motivation to bend the flame to his will. His eyes slid closed. No turning back now. He reached out with his magic and whispered a spell.

Fire erupted within the dome, swirling and gauting against the walls.

Thor stumbled back, tripping over his feet and hitting the ground hard. He stared in horror at the maelstrom of hell before him, the small dark form of his brother lost within it. “Loki!” he shouted, throwing himself at the shield with all his might. “Loki!”

Flames pounced like devils, licking around him and searing across his skin. He cried out, dropping to all fours as he grasped at the fire. It mocked him, tearing through his magic like kindling, feeding on the power and blackening his soul with its heat. He coughed. He couldn’t open his eyes anymore and the boiling heat tore through his throat and lungs. He lunged for the shields but knew he wouldn’t be able to break them. That was the whole point after all.

He was going to die. No one would come in time and he’d be nothing but a pile of ash. The firestorm made his tears boil. The fire latched onto his clothes and skin. He could feel it blistering, the cloth melting through skin toward bone. A small part of his mind sequestered away from the pain idly chided him for wearing anything metal, for he could feel that melting as well.

Vainly he snatched at the flames, threading his magic through them, trying to call them to heel like he had so many other powers. His magic recoiled, even now trying anything to avoid touching the burning death. Loki could feel himself fading, darkness creeping upon the edges of his consciousness. He lunged once more for the fire, folding his magic around it, pulling it into himself despite the way it struggled and fought. Its essence burned through his until it was left in little more than papery, blackened flakes. Fire snarled and roared around his magic, ravenous to devour all that he was.

No! Loki roared back. He imagined himself knotting all the fire into one white-hot coal, tearing its tendrils from his flesh and squeezing them into a single point. In his mind he gripped the coal, though his fingers began to steam and melt, and pressed it into his chest, gasping as it burned through to settle at his heart.

From what seemed like far away a shattering sound rocked the room and the fire whisked away in a gust of wind. Loki realized he was curled up on the floor, his eyes squeezed shut. As he peeled back his eyelids—they felt so brittle, like they’d nearly been stripped away—he gazed blearily up at the towering form of his mother. He had never seen her so angry before. She loomed over him, her rage thick about her. There was something about this anger he couldn’t quite place, his pain-fogged mind muddling over the problem slowly. He glanced behind her to see Thor frozen by the wall, horror rooting him to the spot. Loki’s gaze rolled back to his mother. Ah. That was what was hiding in his mother’s anger.

Terror.

“Loki, oh Loki, what have you done,” she whispered as she knelt by him. He could already feel her spells—cool water—brushing over his ruined skin.

He smiled, or at least he tried to. The muscles in his face weren’t working quite right. He held out his hand and uncurled his fist. There, dancing in the blackened wreck of his palm, was a single, sickly flame.

Chapter Text

Book had been pleasantly surprised by the offering of fresh meat.

“This is so good,” he said, juice dribbling down his chin. “No funky chemicals I can’t pronounce, no plastic packaging, no meat by-product…whatever that is.” He hadn’t stopped chewing the whole time so that Loki got a good view of the entire process.

It’s like eating with Thor when Frigga wasn’t around. At least Book wasn’t bursting out laughing in the middle of things and spraying him with chunks of saliva covered meat.

Loki sat back and listened as Book rambled over the scintillating aspects of his day and really anything that happened to pop into his mind. All too soon the rabbit was gone, all except for the final piece which Book was still chewing, refusing to swallow until every last ounce of moisture was gone. Hunger still curled in Loki’s stomach, though it wasn’t nearly so sharp as it had been. He knew the boy felt it too.           

“You’re going to have to teach me someday. To hunt I mean,” said Book.

Loki inclined his head and made a humming noise in the back of his throat. The boy interpreted it as the perhaps Loki had meant for him to. He of course had no plans to be around long enough to suffer trying to teach Book how to hunt with nothing but an extended game of charades.

The two broke apart into their nightly routines, Book to the newest volume to find its way into his hands, and Loki to silent contemplation. The edges of the Pit disappeared into darkness as the sun slipped behind the mountains, no longer casting light though the high windows of the warehouse. Stray rays from a nearby street lamp replaced them, but they were weak and didn’t reach to the ground. Most of the light came from the fire barrel which smoked a bit with too green wood. As the light dimmed Book squinted and brought the book closer to his nose, inching ever nearer to the light source. Eventually, after blinking hard several times he abandoned it.

Loki surreptitiously shifted his attention as the boy drew a black marker from his back pocket.

With hooded eyes, he watched Book repeat what he had determined was a nightly ritual. The boy shoved back his right sleeve and began to trace the day-faded sharpie lines on his skin. Five names cut like slash marks across his inner forearm, one on top of the other. With his tongue tucked between his teeth, Book meticulously blacked the lines again until they stood out, wet-black from his skin. Feeling watched, Book paused and looked up.

Loki quirked an eyebrow with a significant look at Book’s arm.

He sighed and replaced the cap on the pen, chewing the inside of his lip. “They’re my family, my street brothers and sisters.” He held out his arm, pointing to each name in turn. “Cole, Madison, Montana, Deirdre, and Simeon.” The sharpie twisted between his fingers. “You know I was a run away, right? Multiple offender actually. The last time it was winter—never run away in winter—but with the way this guy was going, I wasn’t going to make it till spring. So, I hightailed it out of there. It wasn’t long before my food was gone and I was ready to just curl up in a doorway and let the cold take me—all little Matchstick girl.”

A piece of wood popped loudly, sending sparks flitting into the air.

“But then Simeon found me and brought me into his crew. We ran with other kids, but family was those five. They were a bit older than me, but it didn’t matter. We watched out for one another.” Book wasn’t looking at Loki now. He followed the curling path of the sparks as they drifted out of the fire and into the darkness. “And things were good, you know. Yeah, it was hard, but we had each other and we made it work.”

“Couldn’t last, though. This life will eat you up if you let it. Didn’t matter that we were kids. Took Cole first. We steered clear of the gangs, but that didn’t matter when their turf war caught Cole in the crossfire. Madison was next—she’d always had a habit of pinching things. Hooked up with a hard crowd and got nabbed breaking and entering. She was almost eighteen and one of the guys had been packing. They shipped her off to jail.” His fist clenched so that the names shifted over the raised tendons. “She’d been shived twice last I heard. I doubt she’ll live long enough to make parole. Montana found he could make his pain go away as long as he had a needle shoved up his arm. Turned one of the sweetest, rock-solid kids I ever knew into a glass-eyed skeleton by the end. I found him in the alley where they dumped him after he overdosed.” Book stared into the flames, unseeing. “He still looked desperate even then. Deirdre wanted out. She looked older than she was and so she started selling the only thing she had. One day, she vanished. Probably got snatched.”

Outside a truck rumbled by, breaking the night’s silence. Book unconsciously curled up a bit tighter and Loki remembered how cautiously the boy had treated him at first. In many ways Book still didn’t put himself in a position where Loki could overpower him. Deep sorrow crept into the boy’s eyes as he thought about his friend’s fate.

His thumb slid down his wrist until it rested next to the final mark. He smiled as he looked at the name. “Simeon was the best of us. He’d played the game longest, and he was so close to getting out. Even got a job that paid under the table. But something happened, I guess. I don’t even know what, and he started coming back smelling like cheap liquor.” His lips curled in distaste. “I knew the smell. And suddenly the money was gone and then the job was too and somehow he still managed to stumble back—at least most nights. I’d been hit before, but drink made Simeon,” he paused, “not Simeon anymore. I’d been hit, but never beaten—not by any of my loser foster families or other street—but my rescuer, beat me. And I let him. For months I lied to myself and I let him. Then he almost took my eye,” Book raised a hand to the white cleft through his eyebrow. “And so I ran.”

“And I made a promise that I wouldn’t let this win. That I would get out, that I wouldn’t be just another statistic. I’m smart, and I know how easy it is to get pulled down by this life and to try and find relief instead of hope. And sometimes I’m tempted. So I keep their names with me so I don’t forget that that could be me.” He gestured down at his arm. “This is my rosary, and these are my ‘Hail Marys’—I remember who they were before, what it was that brought them down.” Savage conviction ran like rods of steel through his words. “And I’m not going to let this beat me.”

Chapter Text

It seemed even the voiceless could scream.

“Loki! What is it! Hey, Loki!”

Confusion muddled his thoughts as Loki lurched from sleep into reality, tendrils of his dream still clinging to him. The ache in his throat was real, the rest was just phantom pain ghosting across his body. He vaguely registered the boy framed against the fire barrel’s meager light. Book was standing there, eyes still glazed with sleep as he menaced the shadows around them with a ragged piece of wood. Slowly it seemed to dawn on him that there was no real danger and he shakily lowered his weapon.

Loki shoved himself back against the wall of crates, wrapping his long arms around his knees to try and hide their shaking. Sweat trailed down the back of his neck and seeped through his clothing to chill in the night air. His heart slammed against the inside of his chest arrhythmically and a sick feeling curled in the pit of his stomach, threatening to upend his meager dinner. Mortal frames were not built for terror.

Book gave a weak laugh as he placed one end of his plank against the floor and leaned heavily on the other. “I had no idea someone that couldn’t talk could scream that loudly.” He whistled, “impressive. And you know, terrifying.” He pressed a hand against his heart. “Yeah, that adrenaline rush isn’t going anywhere any time soon.” Catching sight of Loki’s ashen face and wide eyes, he sobered. “Loki, it’s okay. You’re safe, it was just a nightmare.”

Just. Loki gritted his teeth. If it were only that. He clenched his eyes against the fragments of memory that threatened to undo him. The agonies Thanos had inflicted upon him, not because he wanted to make Loki comply, but because he could. The Mad Titan had been canny enough to make sure that while the pain was raw and visceral, the damage wasn’t lasting. Loki had a job to do after all. His…”instruction” had still left him stumbling through the tesseract portal, wild and reeling, weakness buried beneath a manic masic.

Tangled up with these more solid nightmares were the vague, distorted recollections from the void—the dark between darks. It was nothingness filled to the brim with things that his mind shuddered to even comprehend. They might have been beautiful or unholy terrors. But they were so completely other, made of the inexplicable pieces that had fallen through the mesh of reality, that a creature of Yggdrasil had no way to even begin to give them shape. And yet, the mind tried, creating flaming wheels filled with eyes, crystalline wings that continuously shattered and reformed, teeth with no mouths to hold them, and a thing that was every childhood nightmare enfleshed. They moved through him like ghosts…or maybe, maybe they were the solid things, the real things, and he was the one that was intangible, untouchable, a fragment of thought from someone else’s dream.

Flashes of colliding with a great, predatory thing—sinuous and devouring all about it, coiling about Loki like some massive serpent. In the void there were currents of soundlessness—a silence beyond deafness that cut off even the voice within your mind. And yet, this thing shrieked in rage, tearing at Loki, knotting itself through the shattered remnants of his psyche that had fallen into the void.

A hand on his shoulder caused him to jump.

Book offered a reassuring smile. “It’ll be okay. Whatever it was, whatever happened, it’s over. You’re safe here.” He hefted his piece of wood. “I’ve got your back.”

The image of Book facing down the inhabitants of the void, shouting them down and swinging his meager bit of wood, struck Loki as funny. And by the Norns, he could see it. He tried to swallow the sound in a kind of choked cough, but he was too raw and untethered for that kind of restraint. He laughed. Letting his head hang between his knees, he laughed until his shoulders shook. It sounded slightly manic even to his ears.

Book merely quirked an eyebrow in confusion and gnawed on the corner of his lip, “dude, you okay?”

This only made Loki laugh harder. This child with his naiveite, crooked face, and broken piece of wood would take on the Mad Titan and terrors of the void? Loki let his head loll back against the crates as his laughter softened and the deep shadows of the dream slipped away. He offered Book a weary smile.

The boy rolled his eyes. “You are so weird.”

Too true. Loki bowed in acknowledgement.

Book glanced at the complete darkness still visible through one of the dingy transoms and sighed. He tossed more kindling into the barrel and then slid down across from Loki.

“Sometimes I have this dream, a good dream” he clarified as Loki narrowed his eyes, clearly not wanting Book to start sharing whatever horrors darkened his sleep, “and in the dream I’ve got this big family, and I mean big. I’ve got brothers and sisters, and aunts and uncles, cousins, the works. And I’ve got parents and grandparents…or at least I think that’s who they are. You know how it is in dreams where things are kinda one thing and kinda not?”

Loki nodded.

“I dunno, the exact relations, but I’ve just got this sense that I’m at the center of this big group. Sometimes I think it’s Sim and the rest of the gang, but it’s not really their faces I’m seeing. It just feels kind of like them, but I know it’s not. Nothing ever really happens in the dream. Like, we don’t do anything, they’re just all there, but I get this feeling, like they care about me.” He sighed. “It’s…nice.”

Loki snorted. Of course the little orphan would dream of being at the center of a large clan. His nightmares likely consisted of the opposite—of abandonment, loneliness, and rejection. The boy ought to count himself lucky if those were the worst terrors to stalk his sleep.

It shouldn’t surprise him that his own nightmares had finally come. He’d been dreading them since he had first felt exhaustion wearing down this mortal body. If he’d had his magic there were ways to push back the need to rest, or at least hedge his sleeping mind with the same vigilance that guarded his waking thoughts. Without it, he was vulnerable. What he’d experienced since being thrown from the Bifrost would likely haunt the dreams of most, but he’d not necessarily been a stranger to bad dreams.

Jerking his thoughts away from such paths, Loki turned his attention to Book. The boy continued to yammer on, talking about everything and nothing. The noise was a comfort and Loki dropped into the warm sea of words, only latching onto meaning for a moment before releasing the thread of thought.

“Never really liked artichokes…flight risk they called me, but I’ve never been on a plane—get it…curdled milk…they call them fireflies down here…Mark Twain…love the two dollar theater…bet I could pass for as young as ten if I needed to…not sure when my actual birthday is…wish people would stop recycling their cardboard, where am I supposed to get it…wolves up at the nature center…Dr. Pepper…I can whistle “Bohemian Rhapsody”….couldn’t read ‘till third grade…don’t like the Moderns much…did  you know that “blonde” with an “e” only refers to girls, and without is typically for guys…marshmallow cream…”

And on and on it went. Loki drifted further and further away from the shadows of his dreams. Exhaustion rushed in to fill the empty hollowness left as the fear leeched away. His eyes slid shut as he drifted back into oblivion. Just as he succumbed, the brief glimmer of a memory nagged at him. He was familiar with the tactic Book was using.

As a child, Loki was prone to nightmares. They were enough to be noticeable, but not it seemed enough to overly concern his parents. As he grew, they settled—for the most part. Certain events understandably followed him into his sleep and he would awake screaming or drenched with sweat even into his mid seven hundreds. By that point, though, he had learned how to hide the shame of such unmanly weakness.

But when he had been very small he had cared only for the comfort of his mother’s arms, or when older, his brother’s presence. When he was older still and couldn’t very well climb into his brother’s bed anymore, he would still sneak into Thor’s room and sit just within the doorway and listen to him breath.

Despite being more often afflicted with nightmares, Loki wasn’t the only one with troubled sleep. Thor had them on occasion as a child, as is normal. Very rarely would bad dreams bother him as he grew, even after experiences that would follow Loki from the waking world. But there was once when they were both young men—too old to be considered children and too young to be considered adults—that it was Thor whose sleep was broken by nightmares.

Loki started a bit as his door suddenly creaked open and Thor slipped into the room. Thor hadn’t been particularly annoying recently, so there had been no need to spell the door against him. Still, Loki hadn’t expected him to be barging into his rooms when anyone in their right minds would have been asleep. Although “barging” wasn’t quite the right word. If anything, Thor seemed…hesitant.

“Thor?”

His brother didn’t answer, merely trudged over to the sunken seating area where Loki was perched cross-legged with a magic tome across his knees. Thor wasn’t really looking at him…or anything really, but Loki could still see the redness around his eyes.

“Are you drunk?”

“No.” Thor snapped, though there was little fire behind it.

“Then are you going to tell me why you’re in my chambers well into third watch?”

Thor ignored the question and dropped heavily onto a cushioned seat across from Loki. “What are you reading?”

The fact that Loki was reading was answer enough as to why he was still awake—though in reality he slept less than Thor for a variety of reasons. If you slept too much there weren’t enough hours in the day to train properly, study, and still cause a little mischief.

Placing his elbows on the book and leaning forward, Loki narrowed his eyes. “Why in all the realms would you care what I was…” Loki trailed off as Thor glanced his way before his gaze slid away again. In that brief moment, Loki saw the hollowness and lingering terror behind his brother’s eyes. More than once he’d seen that look in green, reflected back at him as he splashed water over his face and head, trying to wash away the remnants of a nightmare. He’d never seen it in blue before—hadn’t thought Thor capable of it.

He knew Thor had been on a mission to Alfheim recently—something that was becoming more common as they grew older, Thor going his own way and Loki not always trailing along. Loki also knew that it had gone poorly. A group of fanatics with dangerous aspirations and even more dangerous weapons had been plaguing Alfheim and leading the fairly isolationist elves to reach out to Asgard for assistance. Attempts to strategically disarm the zealots had gone spectacularly wrong—a spy in the Alfheim tribunal. It had been a bloodbath.

Loki hadn’t been there when Thor returned and the little he’d seen of him since, Thor had been uncharacteristically quiet or desperately loud. And Loki couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t understood the importance of the somber talks behind closed doors Thor had had with their father. Or the concern in his mother’s gaze. It had gone badly—of course Thor wouldn’t have been his usual boisterous self—but Loki hadn’t realized just how badly.

Thor cleared his throat. “What are you reading?”

Loki rocked the book back so that Thor could see the cover. “Ensorcelment and Magecraft.”

“Ah.” There was a long pause as Thor continued to find the drapes framing the balcony absolutely fascinating. “What’s it about?”

Blinking rapidly, Loki couldn’t quite keep the shock from his face. Thor had repeatedly said that he’d rather take a beating with Mjolnir than listen to anything about magic.

“It’s pretty advanced material…but it’s really quite fascinating. You see, it deals with the root nature of magic and sorcery. More philosophical than practical.”

Thor was nodding, but clearly not really paying attention to what Loki said.

And so, Loki talked. At first Thor just stared out the windows. Then he paced for a while, examining the knickknacks and baubles that lined Loki’s shelves—ones he’d seen a thousand times. Eventually he settled back on the circular couch, but right next to Loki—ostensibly to look at a diagram—a diagram that would have meant nothing to Thor.

Loki droned on, letting the cadence of his voice fall into a soothing rhythm as the tension in Thor’s body slowly eased. Eventually Thor let his head lean back against the top of the couch and his eyes drifted shut. Still Loki continued to talk, and if he wove a bit of sleep into his words, he didn’t think Thor would fault him. Before long, the rhythm of Thor’s breathing slowed, growing deeper and more even.

Loki closed his book and set it aside. He crouched in front of Thor and studied his sleeping brother for a moment. “What happened on Alfheim?” He reached out with two fingers and gently pressed them to Thor’s forehead. Closing his eyes and twisting his head to the side in concentration, Loki took a deep breath. He hadn’t done this often, but he needed to know what Thor had seen—and Thor obviously wasn’t going to tell him.

Suddenly, Loki was tossed into Thor’s memories. Battle raged around them, elves seemed to materialize from the shadows. Blood dripped down Thor’s face as he swung Mjolnir, connecting with a charging elf. He gave a battle cry and threw his hammer, plowing through three enemies in succession. He grinned. Thor was enjoying himself.

Then, on the edge of the battlefield, he heard a child’s screams. A girl covered in grime huddled at the edge of the chaos, a zealot advancing toward her. In a single bound, Thor closed the distance between them, Mjolnir meeting the elf’s raised blade. Thor’s reputation for being a skilled warrior was well earned, however, and his enemy didn’t last long.

 “You’re safe now,” said Thor as he smiled down at the child.

Slowly, she uncurled from her fetal position and turned to face him, revealing the dark gem roughly imbedded in her chest.

“For the glory of the aether’s children,” she said, raising her fingers to the gem. The instant her fingers touched it, a sickly glow burned in the heart of it, radiating out through her veins like fire.

Then all was screaming and a rush of dark fire as Thor threw up his hands to shield himself. Someone was yelling his name and the snap of protective elvish magic crackled about him while the girl burned before his eyes.

As the wave of destruction faded away, cracks spiderwebbed through the bedrock in all directions, corpses littering the ground, Aesir and elvish alike. At the center, the girl’s mutilated husk. 

And then her thin, shredded chest spasmed. Shaking, Thor knelt beside her and gingerly cradled what was left of her broken body, feeling the thick blood work its way through the chinks of his armor and slick his hands with gore. There was so much for such a little thing.

A pained wheezing gurgled in her throat. Thor begged the Norns to cut her thread and end her suffering. Yet the thing in his arms lingered, twitching, moaning, and occasionally making strangled sobbing sounds.

Finally, mercifully all movement ceased. It was even longer still before Thor let them take his burden from him.

Loki jerked away from Thor, skittering backwards as his breaths came in hitching gasps. Exhaling slowly, he licked his lips and looked skyward. He ignored the dampness that trailed down his check and neck.

“Bastards,” he whispered as he thought of the kind of monsters that would us little girls as their weapons.

A frown creased Thor’s brow. He shifted and mumbled to himself.

It had been ages since Loki had seen Thor have anything but blissfully untroubled sleep—he was too mulish for anything else. If only this were just a nightmare, figments of fantasy and fear that would vanish with the dawn. He sighed and padded across to his brother’s sleeping form. Gingerly, he settled himself sideways on the couch, bare feet burrowing beneath a throw pillow. He rested with his back against Thor’s side and then leaned back until his head rested against Thor’s. The troubled clouds of the dark memories prickled through Thor and leeched into Loki.

Letting his magic seep through their physical contact, Loki pushed back, bridging the gap between them. With measured breaths, he slowly inhaled through his nose, letting the air escape between his lips. Over and over in slow rhythm he quieted his breathing and felt his heart rate drop as well. Beside him, he felt Thor do the same as the two began to breath in sync, and Thor dropped deeper into rest. Then, Loki allowed his head to fall back fully onto Thor’s shoulder as he conjured up happy memories. The death and decay, the image of the shattered corpse, gave way to the two of them as boys, dashing through a field of flowers and catching up whole armfuls to shower their mother with; or standing atop Sleipnir’s broad back at full gallop, the wind whipping through their hair; or sitting at father’s knee while the fire crackled late into the night and he told them tales of long ago; stargazing on Vanaheim with their cousin Freya; the two of them returning triumphant from some quest, each talking over the other in excitement as their mother smiled with pride.

Thor eased into gentle sleep as Loki allowed the memories to sink into his dreamscape, before letting his own heavily drooping lids fall closed.

“Sweet dreams, brother,” he murmured as exhaustion took him.

Chapter Text

“Morning!”

Starting awake, Loki froze just in time to keep from striking Book, who leaned over him, hands clasped behind his back.

“Jumpy much?” the boy asked, still overly cheerful. The glow around the transom windows suggested the sun hadn’t been up for long.

Loki forced himself to visibly relax despite the race of his heart. The knife half into his palm was surreptitiously edged back into his sleeve. No need for the boy to know he’d taken to secreting knives. They were hardly the kind of fare he was accustomed to, but they were sharp and better than nothing. Several local eateries had “donated” them to the cause and he was fairly certain Book only knew about the pocket knife he had grudgingly acquired for Loki.

Allowing his irritation to manifest on his face, Loki gestured angrily, pointing emphatically at the still pale light creeping through the windows.

The boy ignored him. “This,” he said as he held up a bottle, swirling the clear liquid inside, “is for your teeth. You swish, you gargle, you spit.”

Loki’s nose wrinkled as he caught the scent of strong Earth alcohol. A pitiful imitation of Asgardian libations. The thin, sharp scent reminded him more of the solvents used by the court artists when they painted the royal portraits.

Book shook the bottle under Loki’s nose. “You don’t drink this. Got it?”

Loki would rather drink troll sweat.

Narrowing his gaze, Book bored into Loki’s eyes. “If you do, I’ll breath morning breath all over you,” he said, the threat strong in his voice. “I promise you, it ain’t pleasant.”

Crossing over to one of the crates that formed the wall separating them from the main warehouse, Book folded down the front of what had previously appeared to be a solidly nailed shut box. He tucked the vial inside among what appeared to be blankets, some cans of food, other items Loki couldn’t fully make out, and not surprisingly, books.

Impressive. He would never have suspected there to be anything special about that crate from any of the others. It was quite the hiding place. More importantly, it hadn’t even occurred to him that the boy had anything to hide.

Securing the box, Book settled on another crate that jutted out from the wall for seating. He tucked one leg under him and suppressed a yawn. “Preventative measures are key. Take care of your body, take care of your teeth. Alcohol will kill near about anything, including all the lovely creepy crawlies in your mouth.” He leaned forward, eyes widened in excitement as his voice pitched higher. “Did you know there can be hundreds of species of bacteria living in your mouth? How crazy is that? That’s why we need a backup if we can’t get our hands on toothpaste. Just make sure you don’t spill it and you rinse real good. Don’t want to smell like a sot.”

Given the lingering scent of the alcohol, Loki swore to never to let them run out of the sparkly blue gel they used to scrub their teeth. To Book he merely nodded and then gestured at the hidden compartment.

“Preppers ain’t got nothing on me.” The boy leaned back and swelled with pride. “Made it myself. It’s the coolest thing ever.” He rapped the back of his knuckles against its side. “Remember how I said that you always carried everything you needed in your bag? Well, if you’re lucky enough to be sorta settled, it would do you well to have a stash—or better yet two, one nearby and one hidden away elsewhere in case you gotta run. When times are good you store up some extras for when they’re not. Never anything you can’t afford to lose.” He reached down and patted the rugged knapsack at his feet. “The bag is still everything.”

Loki nodded. He could see the wisdom in it, but it was so cumbersome to actually carry everything on your person. If he’d had his magic he’d simply have secreted things in the spaces between. If. He shook himself. That way lay only discouragement and pain.

“On your feet. Time to hunt up some food, and then,” Book paused as excitement burst across his features, “then your education continues.”

The sheer excitement was new. Book still continued to share bits of his street wisdom—and Loki was forced to admit the boy had gathered many helpful strategies for surviving this life—but he was rarely so gleeful about it. With his curiosity somewhat peaked, he followed Book out of their sanctum in search of breakfast.

Luck was with them that morning and before long the two were fed and supplied with goods for a mid-day meal as well. Book led them toward the town’s heart, passing the columned porches and white-sided steeples of several churches, crossing through a shaded splash of green, and exiting onto a street of little shops. This section of town bore its age in the details of the buildings, the roundness of the bricks, and the individualized character of each separate store front. The broad sidewalk ran underneath the occasional striped awning and was bordered by evenly spaced trees set into rings of dark mulch. Voices already drifted through many of the shops. A handful of people leisurely sipped coffee at clusters of little tables on the sidewalk or perused tables of wares that spilled out into the walkway.

“There it is!” said Book as he tugged at Loki’s sleeve.

The building stood across the street from them with two sweeps of stairs leading up to the large, paneled door. This was a building craftsmen had spent some time on, the decorative details setting it apart from the generic designs Loki had seen in other parts of town. Broad white sills and trim bordered red brick, curled stone cornices topping every door and window. Loki only caught a glimpse of the side, but it seemed the building rambled away, having been added to at some point in the past.

Glancing both ways despite the emptiness of the streets, Book hauled Loki across the pavement and up the stairs. “They’ll have just opened,” he said as he heaved at the door, which nearly knocked Loki back with its heaviness. “My home away from home,” declared Book as he spread his arms wide, encompassing the open foyer and polished floors.

A scent washed over Loki, one that brought childhood memories bubbling up. The scent of dusty sunbeams and crackling bindings. A thousand hours tucked into hidden corners and devouring every scrap of information he could find. His heart twisted in his chest. He turned to Book, unsure of how to ask what he wanted. Finally, he placed his palms together and then opened them as if cracking a great tome.

The boy grabbed his coat sleeve and tugged. “Yep, a library. Boon to the un-homed and vagrant-lifestyled everywhere.” He lowered his voice. “But don’t let them know we’re on the street. They’d have services on me in a heartbeat if they knew. And they’d think they’d be helping.”

Kindly older women sat behind a worn desk, nicks and scratches revealing the years of various stains and varnishes. The slighter of the two women waved a neat hand at Book and gave him a broad smile. The boy gave a playful salute and tugged Loki deeper in, away from the lofty, crown-molded ceilings of the entry toward the switchbacks and labyrinthine turnings of the stacks.

“Got another rule for you.”

Loki raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t look at me in that tone of voice. We had a deal, and I’m going to make sure you can make it on your own. And you are so not ready to be rereleased into the wild.” Book gave a yelp as Loki flicked him upside the head. He rubbed his temple. “I wish you wouldn’t do that. Anyways, if you’re not just surviving, you’re working, and if you’re not working, you’re learning. Never waste time if you can help it. You don’t need a school building to learn—history is full of people who learned simply by reading whatever they could get their hands on. Autodidacts they’re called.” The boy beamed and glanced around the library. “This place is my ticket out. Get me a GED and then a scholarship to college and with God as my witness, I’ll never sleep in a cardboard box again!”

Well, a god, thought Loki with a smirk.

An unexpected crack of thunder suddenly shook the building. Loki flinched. He hadn’t gotten used to the near daily occurrence of rumbling thunder or heat-lightning branching across the night sky. Normally it waited until the afternoon, however.

Book grinned and pointed at the rain smattering against the arched windows. “And this is the second reason to love the public library. A roof that doesn’t leak in the rain, air conditioning in the summer, and heat in the winter. Our tax dollars at work!”

The comforting sound of rain thrumming against the building followed them through an open space strewn with tables and chairs toward another section of books guarded by an unmanned counter. Book glanced around tentatively.

“Maybe she’s not in today,” he said quietly.

“And the slacker returns,” came an annoyed voice from among the shelves by the counter.

The boy winced and shot Loki a sheepish look. “Don’t mess with Kayden,” Book whispered, “she’ll eat you soon as look at you if you cross her.”

The owner of the voice stepped from behind the shelves and fixed Book with a hard stare from behind her square, heavy rimmed glasses. She had the thick, hardy build of Asgardian peasants, but none of their cow-like docility in her broad face. Mild annoyance pressed into the corners of her lips as quick, tigrish eyes flicked over them. Planting her black-nailed hands on her broad hips, she radiated a sense of immovable attitude.

“The Russians are still in your pile,” she said.

Book dug his toe into the carpet. “Come on, Kayden. They’re bricks.”

“You managed to get through The Lord of the Rings without a problem.”

“They’re just so…Russian.”

“Your observation astounds.” Kayden reached behind the counter and jerked out a sizeable volume, slapping it into Book’s hands.

He hefted the novel, “Crime and Punishment? Really? I’m the only one here that gets an assigned reading list when he comes to the library.”

“Build a bridge.” She turned all her attention to Loki, “Who’s the bean pole?”

He bristled at her insolence. Though she stood several inches shorter than he, she faced him as if she were staring him level in the eye. Impudent ant.

“That’s my Uncle Loki.”

She snorted and quirked an eyebrow. “Seriously? Well, you’re going to be trouble.”

You have no idea.

“Kayden, can you show Loki how everything works? Basically, assume he knows nothing.” Book ignored the look Loki gave him.

“He’s your uncle.”

Book quirked a grin. “Yeah, and you work here. Besides I’ve got stuff to do,” he shifted the book in his arms, “and apparently I’m reading Dostoyevsky.” He scampered towards the stairs before calling over his shoulder, “Oh, and he‘s a mute!”

Kayden made a sound of disgust in the back of her throat. “Whoop-de-freaking-do. You can use a computer, right?”

Loki shrugged.

“Perfect.” Kayden shook her head and shouldered past. “Come on Special Needs, let’s get cracking.”

The human method of finding information was obviously clumsy, but Loki grasped the concept rather quickly as the surly librarian walked him through the use of the computer and introduced him to the card catalogue system. It was logical enough he supposed and would allow him to find what he wanted in lieu of a query spell or helpful wisp. A cold sense of longing twisted briefly through his chest as his thoughts flashed to Asgard’s golden achieves, the beams of sunlight striking through the shelves like sunrise in a misty forest.

Fingers snapped in front of his face. “Needs, stick with me. Or are you slow too?”

Loki leveled a glare at her that should have sent the mortal scurrying away.

She merely snorted. “Oh, honey, you’ll have to do better than that.” She thudded off toward a shelf, flicking her wrist for Loki to follow. Running her hands along the spines of the books, she stopped and plucked a volume off the shelf. “Here, PT7313.E5 B96 2005—see how that works now?”

Nodding impatiently, Loki leaned against the shelf.

“Don’t get smart with me,” she said, replacing the book. Suddenly rounding on him, she stood as tall as she could and pressed into his personal space, fixing him with a hard stare from behind her thick rims. “You don’t do what I just did. Never put a book back on the shelf yourself. You hear me? If it comes off the shelf, it goes on that cart over there.” She gestured at a listing metal cart, whose rusty wheels promised to scream the instant anyone tried to move it. “And do you know why? Because if books are just thrown on the shelves, do you know what we’ll have? Anarchy! Pure and utter chaos!”

He had to agree. The system only worked if order was maintained. And much as Loki itched to snatch books from the shelves and secret them in amongst other stacks, he himself did not want to suffer from being unable to find what he wanted. The library was the one place where he valued the order of things.

“You got all that?” she asked. “Good. Then in that case you’re on your own.” With that she thumped away, leaving Loki to stare after her. She reminded him at bit of Eir, Asgard’s chief healer. He always felt a bit like he’d become an annoyance to a particularly efficient landslide after he’d talked to her too.

He turned back to the heavy shelves. For a moment he stood still and just took in all the books. Where to begin? The sciences? Politics? History? He knew more of Midgard than most Asgardians cared to, but his knowledge was hardly current and held gaping holes. Such as the nature of a hamburger.

In the end he decided on a selection, pulling an introductory text on the history of technological advancements, two volumes of world history, and a collection of biographies of famous men. It didn’t take him long to ferret out a secluded nook to dig himself in. Every library had one such place—out of the way, little trafficked, and virtually unknown to the common patron, and yet it would always have the most comfortable seat. This time he tucked himself into a spot beneath a staircase, partially concealed by a bookcase. In a matter of moments, Loki had drug a chair and small side table into his spot and arrayed the books around him. Dropping into the seat, his long frame draped over the edge as he snatched a text from his pile and began to read.

After a while his attention began to wander from the supposed accomplishments of a Ghengis Khan. For the first time since being cast upon this backwater excuse for a realm, he felt almost at ease. But the comfort was laced with a melancholy thread that he refused to call homesickness. What home did he have? Asgard? A lie. Jotunheim—he laughed. What was left of it would never be home. Nonetheless, he couldn’t deny the slightly bitter yearning the library brought to him. He shook himself. While so much of it reminded him of his youth, Loki could not forget that this wasn’t Asgard. There was no sense of age, and the gravity of hundreds of thousands of years of knowledge weighing down every breath that he took. But most of all it was the lack of chiming wisps, ringing like tiny crystal bells through the rows. Loki had only been a child, just having learned how to read, when the wisps came. Native to the deep forests of Alfheim, the small creatures nested in the trees and merried themselves by leading travelers astray; though, they were just as likely to lead them to some secret sight or beauty. An entire colony arrived in a shipment of silken tapestry tales from the elves. The unusually cold winter must have driven the small creatures to hibernate in the warmth of the packing vessels and then be unknowingly transported to Asgard.

Olir, the head archivist, had never been more surprised than when he opened the cask and a swarm of brightly gleaming, multi-colored motes of chittering light erupted from the silks. Lacking trees to build their nests, the creatures had made a pest of themselves by nesting within the pages of ancient scrolls and spell tomes. After a rather fearsome war waged between archival assistants and perturbed scholars on one front and the mischievous wisps on the other, Olir arranged a compromise, giving the wisps an abandoned nook stocked with outdated and worn out material for their nurseries.

Before long the Aesir discovered that wisps could do more than lead astray. They could also locate anything within their territory—if in the proper mood and asked politely. And so the wisps took over the job of archaic and cumbersome query spells, able to find anything within the library, whether it was in its proper place or not. As a boy Loki had been enchanted by the dancing lights, which cooed and trilled and hummed in their musical voices. They too had taken a liking to him and his eclectic reading habits. At that age Loki reveled in the freedom books brought and the even greater freedom they offered. It was also something he was so much better at than Thor, or anyone else their age.

Sometimes he would find himself bent over a table, reading his latest find, with a cloud of tiny wisps perched on his head and shoulders, absorbing every word as he flipped the pages. Other times he would burst into the library and give a whistle that brought a swarm flitting about him, chiming in excitement and tugging at his sleeve and tunic, leading him on a merry chase into the depths of the archives. These excursions always ended in a book he’d never have known to ask for or a hidden away spot. His favorite of these places was a broad ledge nestled under one of the crystal windows along the third story. It could only be accessed by squeezing behind a bookcase and then using the shelves and stones jutting from the wall to pull yourself up onto the sun-soaked expanse. Loki had loved the vantage it gave him, both across the archive and out into the sweeping plains and bay around the palace.

The wisps were also the first to teach him of death. He’d encouraged one of the little creatures to come back into his chambers, happily settling it in an old copy of his magic primer. For a time the little singing light had sported around the chamber and Loki had enjoyed its company. But before long the light began to fade and by the next day it dropped falteringly out of the air. Before his eyes the glow had sputtered and faded away, leaving only the skeletal, leaf-like remains crumpled on his desk. Gently as he could, he had cradled it in his palm and run for Frigga, begging her to fix it.

He remembered the pooling of her gowns as she knelt before him, taking the sad excuse for a corpse from his hands. It had been a hard blow to know that there was something beyond her power to fix. She had gently explained that the wisp couldn’t be helped. That it was gone, never to return. Loki couldn’t have known that wisps were communal to the extent that they could not live apart from one another for very long. It had been an accident. Never-the-less it had driven home the lesson that some actions cannot be undone, no matter how much you may wish to.

Loki’s lip curled in a sneer. Sentiment. He shrugged off the memory and returned to the stack of books. He read quickly, eyes flicking across the page, long fingers hovering over the lines and darting out to flip the page. When the library finally closed for the day he’d made it through six volumes.

“Well don’t you seem chipper,” said Book, giving Loki a sidelong look. “Find anything good?”

It was agreeable enough. He doubted his meaning came across as Book squinted more intently at him. The squint turned into a secret smile that did not bode well for Loki.

“Well, I had a great time.” He patted his suspiciously bulging knapsack. “Quite a good time indeed.”

Loki didn’t have to wait long for Book’s secrets to reveal themselves. Nearly as soon they returned to the warehouse and stirred up the fire, Book was digging in his satchel. He slid out four books of varying sizes, most with rather garish covers.

“I’ve got a solution to your problem,” he said as he hefted a volume onto his lap. “No more endless games of twenty questions and charades. We’re going to get you talking again—figuratively.” He flipped open the book and tapped the pages. Countless drawings of hands in different poses dotted the paper.
I fail to see the use.

“It’s sign language! See, you can learn to talk with your hands. It’s so much faster than writing things down.” He held up one hand and proceeded to twist it into separate shapes. “See, that’s my name spelled out, ‘Book’.” He frowned. “No wait…that’s ‘kook’.”

It seemed rather cumbersome. Certainly no better than writing out questions, except for the lack of paper. Loki mimed writing on a page.

“That’s just the alphabet, that’s not the best part. See, you’ve got signs for all sorts of words so you don’t have to spell them all out.” He peeled back the corners of the pages, thumbing through until he found what he was looking for. He pointed at a diagram. “See, this is the sign for ‘past’.”

Book sucked on the corner of his mouth in concentration as he held up his right hand in front of his shoulder, the back of his hand facing out. He then flopped the wrist forward, almost like tossing a ball over his shoulder. He grinned. “Think about what we could do with this! We could actually talk about things that you can’t just point at or act out.”

The incredulity must have shown on his face a bit more than he had intended because Book rolled his eyes and shoved another volume into his hands.

“Humor me.”

Why?

“Because I’m adorable.” With that Book turned back to the pages in his lap, occasionally moving through some strange motions as he tried to replicate the images. Somehow Loki imagined that sucking on the corner of his lip wasn’t part of the diagrams.

Loki turned his attention to the matter in his hands, idly flipping through the pages of drawings and explanations. It was certainly an intriguing idea. Not that they didn’t have a simplified concept on Asgard, though it was of course for military operations and unlikely to need words like “fondue.” He paused. What in the Nine is fondue? It sounded vulgar.

The capacity to talk with his hands would have been helpful at one point. His fingers strayed to his scarred lips, ghosting over the whorls of knotted flesh and dipping down into ragged divots. He pulled his hand away as he felt eyes on him. It was strange that this was the one question the boy had never asked. Though, he could see the yearning in him sometimes.

It would be well for him never to give in to that yearning.

Chapter Text

Despite his initial reluctance, Loki took quite quickly to this language of gestures. Book wasn’t far behind him in picking it up, seeming to soak in the knowledge with little effort. It wasn’t long before they were having basic conversations. The newness and very nature of the language somewhat hindered his silver tongue, but Loki could suffer under the constraints of a reduced vocabulary purely for the simple pleasure of communicating more freely. He couldn’t deny the joy that sparked within him the first time he used sign language to make himself understood where basic pantomime had failed. It wasn’t his power back, but it was a chink in his shackles.

When he wasn’t improving his new found conversation skills—or seeing to the basic needs of survival—Loki spent most of his time in the library. Typically Book accompanied him, more valuable now that he could act as a kind of translator. Sometimes Loki would find his own way to the book hoard. He had a much better understanding of Midgardian history now, though, he noticed several glaring omissions. No wonder they had been so ill prepared for an invasion from the stars. They had thought themselves alone in the cosmos, all record of contact with other races expunged or surviving only as myth.

But the deeper he dug, the more he realized he yet had to know. One human philosopher had summed it up well, saying that “the more you know, the more you know you don’t know.” Loki had studied all the realms, and many things beyond, but none bore the intricacies of Midgard. Everywhere you turned another culture seemed to be trying to assert itself with its own set of histories, knowledge, traditions, discoveries, and understanding of the world. And these thousands of groups clashed into one another, wiping some out, absorbing others, influencing and springing off in another direction. They built upon one another, bickered, rejected, rediscovered, exterminated, and splintered. Each new bit of knowledge was but a point in a radiating web leading to ever more points.

The Realm Eternal and most of the other realms knew no such intricacies. For one, the realms were far more homogenous and lacked the hundreds of thousands of conflicting viewpoints and practices found on Midgard. Perhaps it was their short lives that led them to be so fractious and ephemeral.

And though he may not have gained any honor for it among the Aesir, Loki was a fine student and knew when he required guidance. His current methods had pulled him in too many different directions at once. This is what led him to Book’s oh-so-delicate librarian.

“What is it, Needs?” growled Kayden, never looking up from the book she was reading, cheek resting on her fist. A piece of paper slid across her view. She glanced at the single word scratched across the scrap. “You’re wanting a recommendation?”

Loki gave a sharp nod.

Leaning back, Kayden crossed her arms and squinted at him from behind her glasses. Her appraising gaze flicked across him, cataloging, deducing, collecting what information she could. For an instant he was afraid that searching would uncover too much. Abruptly she snatched up a pen and dug the nib into the paper with quick, hard strokes. She shoved it toward him.

“Given the stack in your hidey hole, you’ve got eclectic tastes, but you haven’t wandered out of the reference and non-fiction.” She smiled a bit. “Let’s acquaint you with the fiction stacks.”

Fiction? He cocked his head to the side.

She interpreted his confusion. “It’s not that hard. Fiction—stories that aren’t real, people just made them up.” She gestured to her left as she said “fiction” and then to her right, “and non-fiction as you might imagine are things that are not fiction—true, real life stuff.”

Midgardians create whole books of lies? In Asgard no one had any time for stories that weren’t true—though everyone enjoyed a little embellishment, or in Fandral’s case a great deal of embellishment. Storytelling was a well respected art in Asgard—and though few would want to admit it, Loki had been one of the best. But most had no taste for his choice of tales, no matter how well told. They clamored only for exploits of daring and brave deeds, mostly the kind of stories his one-time brother would have starred in. And if a dozen enemies had been slain, the listeners expected it to come out to a hundred in the telling—all riding upon demon wolves. Thor had been the only one to sit through, or ask for, tales of Loki’s choosing. Less so in the past couple hundred years. Then he’d only had time for Loki’s stories when they were in praise of his own deeds. Loki tensed at the memories. And of course he’d interrupt because I was telling it wrong. And my contributions were naught but tricks.

“How much is wrong with you exactly?” asked Kayden, shaking her head. “There you go, zoning out again. Keep it together.”  

He tipped his hand to her. Do continue.

She blew a strand of purple-streaked hair out of her face. “You’ve already plowed through a number of books in an afternoon, so I know you’re voracious. You’ll be able to handle these I think.” She tapped the paper.

Loki cocked his head to the side. The Lord of the Rings?

“Just give it a try. I’ll see about getting you a more orderly reading list put together in the meantime.” She gave a challenging smile. “I’m kind of throwing you in the deep end. Try not to drown.”

He plucked the piece of paper from her desk and scanned the jumble of numbers and letters. Very well then. He would see what the lies of Midgard were made of.

Kayden threw him out at closing time despite his protests. A creature known as a balrog had just appeared and he needed to know what happened next. The librarian had merely smiled at him in a sly, self-satisfied kind of way and hidden behind her mocking gaze was true pleasure in his enjoyment.

“Go on, take it,” she said, thumping the ragged copy into his hands. “We’re going to be breaking out the duct tape for that one soon anyways. And besides, if it happens to wander off, I’ll finally have a reason to get my hands on a new one.”

Loki looked up at her with suspicion. He’d rather been under the impression that she wasn’t fond of him.

“Come on now, Needs, I’m not that cruel. No way I’m going to take away The Lord of the Rings mid-read. I think that breaks some part of the Geneva Convention.”

Chapter Text

As each successive week rolled by, Loki felt more and more confident in his understanding of Midgard. And despite the welcome distraction provided by Kayden’s recommendations and his own forays into the realm of fiction, he began to feel the chafing of his chains.  It was time to take steps toward regaining what had been ripped from him.               

This pact with Book had served its purpose. He could navigate the realm with relative ease and knew how to avoid drawing unwanted attention while still seeing to his needs. There was far less chance that he would stumble into the slough of regulations and bureaucratic identification necessary on Midgard. He had never known a species so intent on cataloging and categorizing every person that breathed within their sphere—and without such identification you were almost a non-person. You didn’t exist in all the worst ways.

The charade need only last a while longer as Loki completed preparations to leave this town behind. His prospects for both stealth and opportunity lay in a larger city than Greenville. New York would be an obvious choice, but though his curiosity wished to see firsthand the state of the city, he knew better than to tempt the Norns. Perhaps Chicago or San Francisco? Anywhere not blighted with the presence of Avengers.

The question was, what to do with the boy? He peered down through the peaked skylights of the factory into the warehouse below. Distorted by the hazy glass, Book was visible as he struggled—rather ineptly—through the first openhanded forms. At first he’d merely watched Loki practice in the mornings, but then he’d taken to trying to mimic the exercises. Loki had simply ignored his rather uncoordinated shadow. He winced as the boy flailed—Book really was terrible. Thankfully the ability to cave in a giant’s head with nothing but your balled fists was not a necessary or valued skill on Midgard.

He peered harder through the smudged windows—wishing he could wipe away the haze for a clearer look, but afraid Book would notice the shadowed movement below. He needed the time to think, preferably without the boy questioning how his day had been or trying to tell him all about his latest discovery. It irked Loki somewhat that he’d be leaving without the satisfaction of having fully gained the boy’s trust. A minor trophy, he thought as he settled back onto the roof and edged into the shade of one of the many derelict structures that dotted the white-washed expanse. With spring well faded, the sun had made itself more and more a nuisance and today was another in a long streak of uncomfortably warm days.

Wherever I travel it will be to a place more pleasant than here. He briefly considered bringing the boy with him as a kind of pet—despite what Thor might have thought, he didn’t always find being left alone agreeable. He scoffed. What a fool notion. To look to humans for company. Arching back to look at the sky, he knitted his hands together. I suppose I could kill him.

It would be expedient. Then there would be no fear of the boy somehow giving him away—or worse, feeling the need to search for him if he just vanished. Something shifted uneasily in his gut. The idea of killing Book was oddly uncomfortable.

Loki’s features hardened as he suddenly rolled to his feet. What weakness is this? To balk at squashing an ant? How soft you’ve grown. A tilting, sliding, unbalance shot through his thoughts. A snarled bark of laughter calmed him. His thoughts had been so ordered lately, he hadn’t felt like he was clinging to the skin of sanity for a long while. When had the ground last been solid beneath his feet? Before the fall surely. But when? Solidity was such a vacant memory he couldn’t recall it.

A sudden burst of laughter from below brought him to the glass again. There was a Book shaped heap flat on its back. Loki supposed he’d managed to trip himself up with his own two feet. You laugh and yet death waits above, he thought. He watched for a moment more as Book rolled unsteadily to his feet and began again.

Loki shook his head. Hiding the body would require far too much effort. Let us hope you never make yourself worth the effort, boy. Loki frowned. He didn’t enjoy killing children, though surely when New York crumbled before him there had been children within those gleaming, shattering buildings, or swept along in the panicking swarm of humans. More likely crushed underfoot. He hadn’t really considered it before.

But those were abstract, somehow different from choosing an individual one and deciding it had to die. He also felt that Midgardian children looked far more like Aesir ones. It wasn’t until they grew older that the differences became as glaringly apparent.

Perhaps if they had looked less alike? A thought squirmed in his gut. What if they’d been blue? Would he hesitate to kill a Jotun child? With the Bifrost at his command he’d likely slaughtered hundreds already. Knowing the monstrous things into which they would grow, could he drive a knife through them? He bared his teeth. With cause—perhaps. He hadn’t enjoyed killing Bilgesnipe pups either, despite the bloodthirsty danger they grew into. But it had been necessary.

Chapter Text

The height of summer in Greenville was anything but green. The heat was a cruel master, driving clouds away and bending crops beneath its scorching. It sapped the color from everything and silvered the listless leaves with a hot wind that did nothing but steal what little moisture was left. Dark towers of clouds taunted the town nearly every afternoon with their rumbling promises, and the night cracked with veins of lightning crawling along the undersides of clouds. But rain hardly ever came. What little did only served to make the heat more oppressive. Perhaps there was no water in the ground or in the clouds because it was all in the air. The thick, soupy air clung to you, gluing the heat to your skin so that it weighed down every movement.

The misery of summer nearly broke Loki’s charade. As the temperature climbed, the less he could be bothered with playing his role. He was simply too miserable to care what Book thought of him and had very little success reining in his bile. Loki had never been overly fond of summer or the heat—which perhaps now made more sense given his heritage—but never had he suffered as he did under the Midgardian sun. Muspelheim would have been balmy in comparison.

“I once knew this kid from Egypt,” said Book as they trudged along the sidewalk. It was not yet mid-morning and already the heat radiated off the pavement. “Egypt! And he was complaining about how hot it was here. He came from a desert and thought it was hot here! I guess Egypt’s a dry heat…whatever that means.” The boy shoved their sole remaining water bottle at Loki.

The trickster curled his lip and arched his head away. The boy had been doing nothing but shoving tepid water at him for days on end. To stay hydrated. Their last trip to the library had mostly consisted of Book reading about dehydration, sun poisoning, hyperthermia, and other such things. This had been prompted by Loki receiving a particularly horrendous sunburn that left him nauseated and with a throbbing pain across his face, the back of his neck, and upper chest. He’d even somehow managed to burn through his shirt and across his shoulders—though to a lesser extent. The heat had radiated off the bright red that briefly flashed white if you touched it—not that Loki had let Book touch it more than once.

Sleep had eluded him as the constant throbbing and pulling of tightening skin had made it nearly impossible to rest, no matter how tired he became. The worst part of it all was that Book had warned him. And he hadn’t listened. In all his years his pale complexion had never been a problem, but less than an hour under the sun and he found that his mortal form was extremely prone to what was known as a sunburn. The Midgardian sun attacked its own people! It was a lesson he would not soon forget. He was ultimately pleased that he had played his game well enough that Book strove to take care of him after the burn—even if his aid was heavily laden with “I told you so.”

That had been some weeks ago and Loki was now mostly out of the peeling and itching stage, though there were still patches in the worst spots. And Book had become extra cautious, making sure both of them stayed out of the sun and slathered in sunscreen when they couldn’t. “We’re just asking for Melanoma down the line,” he’d say. That was also why he kept forcing Loki to drink even when he wasn’t thirsty. Apparently his ineptitude in dealing with one aspect of summer meant that he was prone to finding every danger the season had to offer—at least in Book’s eyes.

Book sloshed the bottle at him. “Drink already. You’ve got to replace all the fluids you’re losing.”

Perhaps if I could actually sweat that would be a problem. He grudgingly snagged the bottle and took a long swig, nearly gagging. Stale, somewhat metallic water the temperature of blood. Not in the least quenching, and it tended to slosh unpleasantly in his stomach. If he actually lost any through sweat it may be necessary, but he had quickly found that in the town’s humidity he managed only to flush alarmingly as if he were overheating.

At least here there was one aspect of summer that he didn’t have to deal with. True Aesir might have dealt with the heat better than he did, but even they would eventually begin to find their traditional layers of armor too much. And when they began to peel off those extra layers to find relief—he remained nearly as covered up as always. Better the discomfort of too much armor than to allow more full comparison of his inadequacies with everyone else. He may have nearly matched Thor in height, but there the comparisons ended. Even Sif bore more physical resemblance to a warrior than he. Try though he might, he had never been able to gain the mass, leaving him naught but bone and the lean, stringy muscle of a coiled serpent.

“Two more stops and then I’m calling it a day.” Book didn’t look much better than Loki, all rumpled and wet with sweat. Hair plastered to his forehead. He shoved it out of the way. “Ew.” He made a face and wiped the damp hand on his shorts.

True class. Loki scuffed his feet along the gravel strewn walk, kicking up little puffs of arid dirt. How he longed for the cool confines of the library—his stack of books and—relatively—quiet corner. But the excessive heat had proved too much for some key component of the library’s cooling system. Attempts to open windows and place large fans throughout the space had only served to turn the still, stifling air into a desert wind. Even Book had given the place up as unbearable, though Kayden had still been holding her ground despite having stripped down to the bare minimum of acceptable clothing.

The drone of a car passing them drew Loki’s attention. Nondescript, black SUV. Instinctively he searched for a SHIELD emblem, though he didn’t know why he bothered. He doubted She wanted him falling into Midgardian hands any more than Asgardian ones. Perhaps Shield would not have their cells so wretchedly sweltering? The thought was far more tempting than it ought to have been. Loki snorted and shoved his hands into his pockets. Clearly his brain was beginning to cook inside his skull.

He blinked at the rather blurry image of Book balancing along the edge of the curb ahead. For an instant the boy’s blurry shape teetered as he flung out an arm for balance. Loki strained to focus and the image snapped back to clarity. This does not bode well.

By the time they trudged back to the warehouse, he felt spectacularly ill. His mouth had dried out and he found it hard to swallow, nearly panting like an animal as he mechanically drug one foot in front of the other. Cramps clawed at his stomach, knotting cruelly. He thought Book might have been talking to him—he was always talking to him—but the haze in his brain made it difficult to catch the meaning. The unnerving thought that he ought to have been able to understand, whispered in his ear.

As he staggered down the cinderblock corridor, he trailed one hand along the wall. He wouldn’t need the wall if everything else didn’t sway so nauseatingly. It felt like Thor pounding on his head. Each beat of his heart threw his brain against the inside of his skull.

He didn’t quite make it into the Pit before he suddenly found himself on the ground. He wasn’t quite sure how he got there. Did the Bifrost drop him there? He felt more like he’d traveled by tesseract. He also might have been on fire—at least that’s what it felt like.

The heat had burned its way into his flesh, like a hot coal sinking through snow. It nestled somewhere near his spine, radiating through his body. He was vaguely aware of wet cloths being draped across his forehead and neck. At some point he felt hands tugging at his sweat slick shirt. He grasped weakly at the fabric. Small hands firmly uncurled his fingers. They were too small, too smooth. Loki latched onto one, nails biting into flesh. There was something important about those hands. He blinked rapidly. Long pale fingers snaked around grimy, stubby ones. That wasn’t right. He could hide the whole hand in his fist. Why were Thor’s hands so small? Thor’s hands had never been so small compared to his. It wasn’t Thor.

But who else would be here, doing this. Only one other. There was a name for her—but he wasn’t allowed to say it anymore. Why wasn’t he allowed to say it? It didn’t matter, there wasn’t any laurel. The one he shouldn’t remember smelled of laurel and her magic snapped like fireflies in whispering grasses. This was Thor. There weren’t any others.

Loki couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the small fingers. They were jerking away now, twisting in his grasp as an even paler whiteness spread across his knuckles. Someone had done this, made Thor wrong. Made him small and weak. Rage leapt through Loki, curling about his windpipe as he began to shake. Someone would pay. There was sorcery here, about his brother—about him. Why was he burning?

There was a thought dancing at the edge of his vision, if he just concentrated hard enough he could gather up the shreds of mist that blocked his sight. Who would dare touch a son of…Loki’s thoughts shunted away from another forbidden name. A son of Asgard.

He’d dare.

He would.

Had he done this, done—something? A tremor shook his body. He feared his brother. He’d done something. He’d broken Thor’s favorite toy sword—he hadn’t meant to. But Thor was angry with him. He’d shouted and screamed and told him he didn’t have a brother. That he never wanted to see him again.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.

Loki gave a shuddering gasp. Thor’s hand wasn’t too small. It was just the way it ought to be. He was the one that was wrong. He threw away his brother’s hand and held his own before his blurring vision. They were awful. Huge. The hands of a giant.

He gave a strangled moan and shoved himself backwards until he connected with something solid and could go no further. He couldn’t get away. This body kept following him. He couldn’t crawl out of that awful burning—freezing skin. Why was he shaking? Why was he in a giant’s body? Why was he…He surged to his feet. Frost Giant. The blue crawling up his skin. He clenched his eyes shut. But he could still feel the red searing through. Monster. Jotun.

The world spun as he took a few staggering steps. Why were there coals in his bones and yet he was still shivering? Frost Giant. He would melt. This heat tore through him. He could feel his bones softening, the ice that was his heart dripping away. He’d melt, bones and carcass, nothing but a pool to wick away in the sun.    

He was wrung out, completely drained. That was his first impression. His second was that he was being watched. Book sat in a chair at the foot of the bed, his knees pulled up to his chest.

“Hello, Sleeping Beauty,” he said with a grin.  “You’re gonna want something to drink.” He unfolded himself from the chair and reached for a glass of water.

Loki blinked sluggishly and struggled to sit up. Why was he so weak? Book helped lever him up, holding the glass to his lips. Water had never tasted so good. Loki made a grab for it, but Book pulled it away before he could choke down the rest of it.

“Nope, not so fast. You’ll flood out your system if you do that.”

I’m thirsty, mortal! He made another weak grab for the glass, scowling as Book nimbly danced away.

“Glower all you want, I’m not giving you any more than the doc said.” He settled on the short counter next to the bed. He fidgeted and stared across the room. “I thought you were going to up and die on me. The middle of a heat wave and you’re cold as ice, shaking like it’s twenty below.” Chewing on his lip, he idly swirled the water in the glass, watching the vortex form. “You were out of your head. I dunno what you were seeing, but it wasn’t good.”

Hunching his shoulders, Loki glanced away.

“I think…I think you thought I was someone else.”

Still refusing to meet his gaze, Loki shrugged. He noticed a strange bandage just below his elbow. He picked at the florescent pink wrap, surprised to find it somewhat rubbery. The tender flesh near the crook of his elbow ached as he flexed his arm.

“They had to put some IV fluids into you.” A look of impish glee threatened to break out across the boy’s face as he pointed to the audacious wrapping. “I thought the pink would go with your cheery disposition and great attitude lately.”

Loki responded with mock delight before letting the expression drop away into annoyance. He looked around the room at the drab walls and cramped exam table. He gestured at the four walls and cocked an eyebrow.

“We’re at the third street clinic.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. That was halfway across town. How?

“Carried you. Well, dragged is more accurate. And dude, could you be any taller? I practically had you folded double. It was like carrying a giant, boney, limp noodle.” Book rubbed at his shoulder, “Did I mention boney?”

Loki was trying to do the math in his head. That Book had moved him at all was impressive, but all the way to the clinic? His surprise must have shown.

“Don’t get too impressed. I only made it three blocks before I got some help the rest of the way here.” Book gave an impish smile and pointed at a bandage around Loki’s other forearm—this one sporting sparkly pastel unicorns. “And I might have dropped you once.”

Loki blinked, studying Book thoughtfully. Why did you do all this you little ant?

Book scrunched his face in confusion. “Why did I drop you?”

Shaking his head, Loki gestured at the room.

“Why did I bring you here? You needed help.” He handed the water glass to Loki, “Besides, we’re like weird homeless roommates—we gotta stick together right?”

Taking a ginger sip, Loki held the glass between his hands, running a contemplative finger over the rim. The biting cynicism that ought to have cracked back against such an idea of fraternity never came. He wasn’t sure how it was possible, but he felt a calm and clarity that hadn’t been there since…since before he learned the truth. He remembered the sick, wild twist of his thoughts after that, impulse leading to action, leading to reaction, tumbling ultimately into the void. The glass in his hands groaned in warning as his fingers clenched tight. That had been no place for sane thoughts.

There had been no peace since as he struggled to keep his fraying mind his own, everything tinged with bitterness as his ideas sprinted away from him in terrified stampedes. But now he felt hollow, like a fire had rushed through the deadwood of his brain and a stiff wind had torn away the ash.

He glanced up at Book and offered him a small smile of thanks, giving a brief nod of his head. It was the first true smile of uncalculated sincerity he had offered the boy. Book returned it almost sheepishly.

Before long the doctor came to check on him, admonishing Loki for not taking more care in the heat. Loki let a mask of polite attentiveness slide across his face as the doctor listed precautions and common sense warnings that he was already well aware of and had been too stubborn to heed.

Even though his temperature had dropped and his hydration was better, they still didn’t want to let him leave because now his temperature was too low. He had the distinct feeling that for him it was perfectly normal, but then he wasn’t entirely sure what temperature a Frost Giant shoved into a mortal form should run. He imagined somewhat less than average for a mortal.

Eventually he staged an escape, slipping from the room and letting himself out a side door. Some of the sickly pale must have left him since Book didn’t object to his jailbreak and merely followed along behind him.

The boy trotted at his side, trying to shove a smile away and failing miserably. Finally, Loki raised his eyes skywards and then looked at Book patronizingly. He raised an eyebrow and rocked his fist in a nodding motion. [Yes?]

“I told you you’d get heatstroke and die!” he chirped, giving a grin nearly too big for his face.

Your concern is truly touching. Loki touched a hand to his breast in mock emotion. [How long will you be holding this over my head?] His fingers flashed nimbly as he signed.

“How long you planning on staying with me?” Book laughed and darted ahead, calling over his shoulder, “Meet you back home—dinner’s on me tonight.”

Loki squinted after him. Had Book ever referred to the warehouse as home before?

The next few days passed relatively easily. Weakness still plagued Loki and he tired quickly. Despite his teasing, Book was always watching him, forcing him to drink, and scolding him for not sitting when he was standing, or lying down when he was sitting. It vaguely reminded Loki of a documentary they had watched at the library where a small earth fowl had ushered her chicks back and forth, chastising them when they strayed too far.

Even after he was fully recovered, Book watched him intently for signs of heatstroke. It didn’t help that Loki’s little mishap had pushed the boy to turn his research toward medical texts in order to better prevent further flair ups. Now every sniff or sign of flush was the precursor to some rare illness. And everything—everything—was probably a brain tumor.

They’d taken the long way back from the library that day. It lacked directness, but it was certainly more scenic than the maze of alleys and defunct railroad terminals they normally frequented. The main advantage was plentiful shade. Old, spreading trees arched over much of the street, their uppermost leaves reflecting the worst of the heat. And though it was merely bearable rather than torturous, Loki could tell a distinct difference in temperature as they stepped into the shade.

For much of the way, their path was bordered by a large creek that ducked in and out of sight beneath the road, spilling out of culverts and sweeping under bridges that really didn’t have enough room for two cars to pass one another, much less pass without flattening pedestrians against the low guardrails. Thankfully this meant few chose to come this way and so Loki imagined the chance of his mortal existence being ended smashed between a motorist and the less than formidable barrier weren’t particularly high.

“You look like you’re overheating again. We’d better take a break,” said Book as he dropped their bags onto the cracked pavement halfway across one of these too-narrow bridges.

I am perfectly well. Loki looked down his nose at Book.

“I’ll worry if I want to. We’re taking a break. Cause I learned something this last week.”

Loki dabbed at his face with a clean bit of rag from his pocket. How not to carry someone twice your size?

Book scrunched his nose and glared. “That was something sarcastic, wasn’t it?” He crouched down and started dragging a twig through the dust. “Well, in addition to being a prima-donna, you’re suicidally stubborn. I mean really, cut off your nose to spite your face much?”

[Meaning what, exactly?] He crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side.

Sighing, Book got to his feet. “My point being, you clearly need someone watching out for what’s best for you. For example—" Book shot forward and shoved Loki hard.

An instant of surprise flashed across the Trickster’s face as he fell backward, over the low guardrail, and into the creek below. Even with the lack of rain, the water was deep enough for him to go under in a great splash and be nowhere near hitting the bottom. He surfaced to the sound of laughter as his attacker leaned over the rail, grinning at him.

Instead of the rage Loki expected to boil up, he found amusement settling in. A memory of Thor once doing something similar floated to the surface. They’d been little more than boys, before he’d raced ahead of Thor with a rather terrifying growth spurt, and they’d often spent time playing tag or hide and seek in the vast palace gardens. This was when Thor was still willing to actually let Loki hide—eventually even he had figured out that the game was Loki’s and if his brother didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be. A brook meandered through much of the garden, and one day, as they were walking beside it, Thor suddenly snatched up his younger brother and tossed him bodily into the water. Thor’s laughing had turned into a startled yelp as the water suddenly lifted from the streambed around Loki and dropped in a cascade on top of him. Frigga had been less than pleased at their state as they made their sodden way to the dinner table that night, giving dripping bows to the visiting nobles and their aghast young daughters that had come to dine with them. Loki had made a point of giving every courtesy with just enough force to fling water on their guests.

The remembering came with the heaviness of a fond memory overshadowed by future events, but none of the bitter hatred he had come to associate with all memories of his past. Odin’s revelation and Thor’s betrayal laced poison through even the happiest memories, casting them all in shadow. Where now was the pervasive hatred? Once more the image of dangling from the Bifrost, the void tearing at his feet, Thor at one end of Gungnir and he at the other.

And he let go. He, not Thor.

“Feel better?” asked Book.

He let go.

A shard of ice bloomed in his chest, shattering the glimmering of contentment. He had let go. Thor had clutched at him to the last, screaming after him. Loki raised his hand from the water, slowly turning his palm up. He remembered the strain in his arm, the feel of Gungnir in his grasp, humming with power.

A stab of pained laughter, more of a gasp, shook him. Liar.

“Loki?” An edge of concern crept into Book’s voice.

He forced a nod, dragging himself out of the creek and up the bank, shoving his fraying emotions down beneath a mask of impassivity.

The boy looked worried as he reached to help pull him back onto the road. Like Thor had reached for him.

Loki nearly winced. Something shifted within him, things were sliding. He had let go. And he couldn’t show it. He shoved his focus outward, away from the keening din of his own thoughts and the knifethrust of despair and panic shoved just beneath his ribcage. Look outward!

Book’s stance betrayed uncertainty, arms crossing protectively over his body as he curled his toes within his shoes. He was afraid he’d done something wrong—afraid Loki would be mad at him.

“I’m sorry—that was dumb.” He refused to look at Loki, “I was just playing around I didn’t mean to…I’m sorry.” He forced his gaze up, though his head was still lowered.

Loki wanted to spit against the rising bile. All hail the king. There in Book’s eyes the last lock had turned and that final spark of innocent trust was his.

The boy was his. His to break, his to ruin.

There was no triumph here. He fought the urge to ball his fists. How the Norns mocked him, giving him exactly what he wanted when it had become detestable. A few weeks prior and Loki would have been filled with smug satisfaction at his ensnarement. His hand curled over his heart, as if he could stop the biting cold that spread through him.

A small hand closed about his forearm. “Loki?”

He flinched away from the touch. Book’s frown deepened, worried suspicion sweeping across his eyes. Loki forced a smile. Keep it hidden! He berated himself for letting the turmoil of his inner landscape break through onto his face.

[I’m suddenly very tired—that’s all,] he signed to Book. The boy’s distrust was palpable. He pressed a finger to his lip and then rocked it forward as if pointing, [Really.] Loki made a show of ringing out the water from his shirt, watching as the drops darkened the pavement. Inclining his head, he motioned for Book to follow him. The boy hesitated. As it became clear Loki was going without him, he scooped up their bags and trotted after his much longer-legged friend.

The pair flashed in and out of shadow as the dappled light filtered through the trees. There was metaphor there somewhere, but Loki’s mind shied away from it. It took everything in his power to keep his mind carefully blank, every stray thought bending back to the creature (not a creature) at his back or the black knowledge of his own self-deception.

The rest of the trip was made in silence. The instant they returned, Loki headed straight through the Pit toward the warehouse proper, pleading the need to be alone for a bit. His echoing steps took him through streams of dusty sunlight to the slanting back wall with its rusty, graffiti strewn door. Wrenching the door open, gritty red flakes ground against his palm. He stepped through into a long room with a bank of louvered windows running along one side. Glass and fire blackened debris littered the far end. Among the ash and charcoal, patches of spongy moss and little weedy curls of green forced their way through, feeding off the rain and sun that punctured the collapsed roof above.

A piece of glass crunched beneath his foot. Glancing down, Loki saw a somewhat sizeable shard. Hesitantly, he bent down and scooped it up, his fingers darkening with ash.

He had tried to kill himself.

His fingers tightened around the shard. He remembered his mad need to prove that he wasn’t Jotun—that his skin lied, that he was worthy of Asgard. Of Odin. That he was better even than Thor because he could kill the monsters. All of them. He’d killed the ones that came through the Bifrost—he’d killed Laufey. If Thor hadn’t interfered that whole ice-blighted realm would have been dust. He’d failed.

But perhaps it could have been enough.

No, Loki. He cringed away from the memory, pain spiking through his hand. No, Loki. He’d never be Asgardian, he’d never prove to them that he wasn’t what he was. No—he couldn’t rid the realms of those hulking beasts. But there was still one monster left in Asgard. And that one he could kill.

Blood oozed through his fingers, its bright splash darkening in the ash.

He’d tried to kill himself.

Loki shuddered, curling into a ball as the memories crashed through the fever-charred wreckage of his mental barricades. Falling, waiting for the darkness, for the end. He’d crashed through Yggdrasil’s branches, tearing himself apart, strewing pieces of consciousness across the nine realms.

And the void poured in through the rents. The horror of nothingness and all that didn’t breathe the life of Yggdrasil ravaged the screaming pieces that remained. He didn’t have words or thoughts beyond the unknowing comprehension of terror and pain—and yet he called out, he’d screamed across the measureless vastness of existence. He didn’t even have names for who he was calling. There weren’t words for them then, merely impressions of strong hands and a burst of red, a knowing smile and gentle voice. Shadowy, but still with the others, was a silent presence of strength and safety.

A tremor shook him as he gritted his teeth against the clarity of what was to come. Though he may have begged every power or perversion in the universe for reprieve, it was not to be granted. Slivers of the world tree sliced through his thoughts, burrowing deep and bearing with them visions not meant for any save the Norns themselves. Visions of the final days. The torment was not the scent of burning flesh, or the ash of existence—it had been his role in the horror to come.

He’d thrown himself into the void and yet he still hadn’t managed to kill the monster. And what a monster the visions revealed. Those images crept through his jumbled thoughts as he floated in the nothingness, waiting for death. He’d wept when a strong presence gathered him back together, stitching the frayed edges of self into a twisted knotwork of scar tissue. Little wonder some things were lost to the madness of the plunge. He thought he’d begged the presence to kill him. But it had sighed and Loki had felt something like sorrow and pity surround him.

The next thing he knew, he’d been struggling back to selfness on some barren rock with the tender ministrations of the Chitauri and the Other.

The memories of what followed sent dread and rage whirling through him. Snarling, he surged to his feet and grabbed an empty crate. He hurled it against the wall. It shattered in a burst of dry wood. A sliver sliced open Loki’s cheek as he caught up a large piece and slammed it into a window, grinning as it shattered. Again he swung at the next pane of glass, reveling in the cracking ring of shards pelting the ground and crunching underfoot.

Every pane was a Chitauri head, the Other being beaten bloody before him. Every strike a retaliation for the marks which hid deep beneath his skin and still ached with the strain.

He whirled on a sound behind him, board raised. Book didn’t shrink back, a slight twisting of the head and tightening of the eyes the only ground he gave. His gaze moved from Loki to the shattered glass.

Blind, trusting fool, thought Loki as he looked at his prize. I do not want your faith. But he had played his game too well and now Book may as well have been another blue-eyed thrall. He slung the piece of wood viciously, sending it through a remaining pane and spearing into the darkness, the sun long since set.

He stalked away, not bothering to hide the anger coursing through him. When would the universe stop shifting around him? He ignored the worried gaze on his back.

The next few days he spent in a simmering rage, afraid of the force burning through his veins. It almost felt like it would burst from his chest, sometimes choking him with its strength. But he feared more what would come in its place.

Book reacted to his foul humor unexpectedly. He neither cowered, nor rebuked. He merely looked sad, and a bit resigned. One evening he finally spoke up as Loki brooded over the cooking fire—wishing desperately he could plunge his hands into it and set the whole place ablaze.

“You can hit me,” Book said quietly, “if you want.” He swallowed, his jaw tensing in an otherwise impassive face. He was stating a fact.

Loki twitched his head to the side, eyes narrowed shrewdly. Did the boy really believe that love and affection could be mixed with torrents of rage and showering blows? Loki peered deeper. No. Every word from the boy’s mouth, every action, said otherwise. He knew what love should be, even if he’d only experienced it in brief snatches. No, his knowledge came from standing in the shadows, watching as that love was poured on others, hoping that some of it might accidentally fall on him too—if he could just get close enough. Book knew what true love was. But he’d accept this broken farce, pretending between beatings that the affection was real. Because that was all he could get. The scar above his eye showed just how far he’d let it go.

Sliding to his feet, Loki stalked slowly to loom over Book, features a distant mask. The boy looked back quietly. Loki’s hand suddenly cracked across Book’s face. Anger simmered in his green eyes. [What did that accomplish?] he asked.

Book stared at him, hand rising to his reddening cheek.

The feeble flames cast shifting shadows across them both as Loki bent over him, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes flicked over Book’s face, hunting keenly for something. His mask hardened further when he saw only acceptance beneath a tear-sheen.

Loki stalked across the pit, snatched up Book’s sharpie and roughly gripped Book’s wrist, jerking it toward him. With vicious, methodical strokes he inked the names into the pale flesh. He ignored the grimy layer of sweat and dirt that ground beneath his hand, or the marks he knew his fingers bit into the flesh between the slender wrist bones. He finished the final letter like a knife strike.

Book swallowed as Loki’s touch gentled and he sighed. One longer finger tapped Simeon’s name, slightly smudging the wet ink. Then Loki stepped back, fading into the darkness beyond the firelight.

When Book awoke the next morning, the wall was darkened with flowing, even lines of script. He traced his fingers over the neat lettering that held smooth even over the cinderblock. Every question was answered—some more fully than others. Hungrily, his eyes roved back and forth, jumping from one answer to the next, unable to settle anywhere for more than a moment before taking flight.

The woman I called my mother…weren’t my family at all…explained everything about why Thor always earned favor while my skills were ignored…don’t even know my true name…can’t be trusted…a monster…parenting skills were sorely lacking…I want only what is my due…told him I loved him, and he believed me. I don’t know if it was a lie.

On and on the words went. The ink flowed like life blood, stark against the white walls. Eventually, Book merely put his back to the wall and slid down it, chin on his knees. Thoughts raged within him. It was a long time before he stirred, merely sitting before the confession, small against its vastness. When he finally pulled away, the intense look of concentration remained curled across his brow and pulling his eyebrows together, one dimpling slightly deeper than the other.

There was truth on that wall, but he knew enough to guess that something still remained which Loki held back. A very important piece that would make the picture whole. He wasn’t sure if it mattered.

That night Book crawled up on the roof and dropped down next to Loki. They hadn’t seen one another since the night before. Book’s cheek ached at the thought. Loki leaned back against an angle of the roof that stretched away into a ridge of skylights above the main portion of the warehouse. The side of the roof they were on looked out over the dead, darkened fringe of the city. Only a scattering of lights marked the night as this section of town hobbled out into the country. Behind them gleamed the healthy lines of streetlamps, stoplights, shop signs, and cozy homes. It might not have been what it was, but the town carried on.

Book pulled up his knees and rocked back, gazing at what stars still broke through the encroaching light. He didn’t look at the silent figure next to him when he finally spoke. “You’re seriously messed up.”

Loki could only shrug.  If you only knew the whole of it. He kicked out his long legs and crossed them at the ankle, folding his hands under his head.

“I mean, your issues have issues.”

Loki quirked a smile into the darkness.

Book’s voice came again, hesitantly. “Do you ever think you’ll trust me enough to fill in the stuff you left out?”

The question surprised him. He hadn’t supposed the boy could read between the lines of his fictionalized truth. How observant. He raised his pale hands from under his head to reply. [Doubtful.]

Idly knocking his toes together, Book continued to stare up into the hazy darkness. “Well, I’m patient.” He rolled up so that he could peer more closely at Loki. “And you’re not going anywhere, are you?” There was enough accusation in the tone that betrayed Book had guessed at Loki’s impending flight before the summer had struck him down.

[Where do I have to go?] he asked, raising an eyebrow as he signed.

Chapter Text

The torturous heat abated to a more manageable sizzle for the remainder of the summer—though it was no less muggy. As time passed, Loki grew more comfortable with the fact that he was somewhat fond of Book. It amused him that he of all individuals in the nine realms had picked up a stray human. Though he rather imagined that Book viewed it the other way around.

For Book’s part, there were no more guarded looks, careful distance, or subtle checking of the knife in his pocket. Loki realized just how far they had come when he surfaced from a novel he had borrowed and found that Book had slumped against his shoulder in sleep. Completely unguarded.

Rain straggled in toward the end of the dry summer, but not early enough to give color to the surrounding trees—or so said Book’s research. The leaves simply shriveled to dead husks and dropped in thick carpets. The limbs stood naked well before the cold came.

Then the holiday season arrived. Through subtle conversations with Book and, of course, the library, Loki managed get a grasp on things without revealing the fact that he had no idea what was going on. At first he had been under the impression that Thanksgiving involved the worship of some turkey god which was slain as an offering for good luck on the rather bloodthirsty shopping excursions the following day.

Christmas proved especially perplexing. It seemed almost two holidays at once—one worshipping candy canes and a fat man in a red suit, the other predominately interested in a peasant child born some two thousand years ago. When Loki investigated further he found that this Jesus was meant to be both God and the Son of God, somehow eventually paying for the price of all mankind’s wrongdoings by dying in their stead.

Loki couldn’t help but wonder which realm this Jesus had come from—he had had great power, but obviously didn’t know how to wield it if he had allowed himself to be executed. Though apparently that wasn’t the end of the story. Loki scoffed at his doctrine of forgiveness. Some sins were too great to merit it. 

Loki bore up more easily during the winter season. The cold drove Book down into the Pit to sleep and set him researching new ways to conserve heat. Then he was trying to convince Loki to stuff his coat with newspaper. Apparently to simulate feathers on a bird. Loki had declined, but happily lent his height to rigging an old canvas tarp over the Pit to lower the ceiling.  

Before he had even realized their passing, months had gone by and the heat of summer had once more come and begun to fade. The realization of how much time had passed sent a thrill of panic through him. It didn’t help when he realized that the babyishness of Book’s face had receded and he had gained some height—paltry though it was. On Asgard, similar changes would have taken years, if not a full decade. Unease settled across Loki. He feared that if he blinked Book would suddenly leap from boy to man. Such rapid change unnerved him. He’d always complained that nothing on Asgard ever changed—it was the realm eternal—but on Midgard, everything was always changing, blurring through life before you could catch hold of it.

It was toward the end of summer when Loki felt a shift in his world. He never saw Her, but he felt her influence radiating through his life. Though he tried to predict her next move, she was still too unknown for him to be more than generally wary.

His good luck that particular day had taken the edge off his unease. Loki smiled as he pocketed the candy bar. The past few weeks had been spare and neither he nor Book had much luck finding work or stealing meals. It had also turned into a fight to get into the soup kitchen—there were just too many new mouths to feed. It was a string of particularly bad coincidences that had led to what Book called “hollow nights.” Far too many of them recently. Loki felt herded and kept imagining he saw black eyes watching him. His mysterious “benefactor” was finally moving.

As his thoughts danced around the issue, he wasn’t watching where he was going. Somewhere he registered a man suddenly in his path. Muscle memory kicked in and he slid around, unable to keep from clipping the stranger roughly. Loki grunted and threw his hands up in irritation: observe the path! The irritation melted into shock as he found himself staring straight into the equally startled face of Steve Rogers.

For a long moment neither of them moved. A hundred scenarios slid through Loki’s mind as the Captain processed exactly what he was seeing. Even while Loki discarded option thirty-seven as patently absurd—Rogers shooting him without any questions—Loki rolled his shoulders and fell back into the stiff, familiar stance of a god looking down upon a mere mortal. He’d long sense abandoned such trappings as they made him too conspicuous, and according to Book, look like a ‘tight-assed snob with delusions of grandeur that wasn’t going to win them any friends or handouts.’ But he would not be seen lazing about like a mortal by one of Thor’s comrades. He was a prince!

A prince whose stomach worried him with constant reminders that his meager breakfast was long gone and who was draped in grimy layers of secondhand clothes and hadn’t been able to properly bathe in over a month. He’d walked for miles in shoes that didn’t fit and could feel the blisters oozing through the rags he’d tried to cushion his feet with. Condescension and a withering sneer were all he had left.

Unsurprisingly, the first words out of the good captain’s mouth were particularly uninspired, “Loki?” Steve Roger’s eyes kept flitting from Loki’s face to his ragged layers of clothes to the general lack of chaos in the streets.

Loki couldn’t help himself. He gave a mocking half bow in acknowledgement. Congratulations, Captain. You have seen through my masterful disguise.

Silence stretched between them as he settled in to wait for Roger’s next move. Of course Loki could move first—a number of options actually ended with him losing the captain and not having to nurse this fragile shell back to health—but he much preferred to let the man out of time flounder. It wasn’t that Rogers was inherently stupid. Rather he was much like Thor, lacking creativity to deal quickly with a situation for which he had no training or reference. His thought patterns were simply too linear and neatly arranged so that his sluggish mental engine could easily categorize and then respond to a given situation. Unfortunately for Rogers, Loki was not easily contained or quantified on a good day. Loki living as a homeless man in a small town and refusing to speak was indefinable.

Tilting his head to the side, Loki peered down at the Avenger in nearly innocent patience; his eyes were wide and searching, but he couldn’t keep the amusement from the corners of his lips. The smile only broadened as Rogers started first one sentence and then another, only to let each fall into silence.

The clock above the old railway station began to chime. Five already? Book would be waiting. The wrapper crinkled under his fingers as Loki ran his hands over the Snickers. Somehow he knew that fate would not have smiled on the boy any more than it had the past few weeks. He would be hungry and wondering where his “uncle” was.

Somehow Loki couldn’t seem to match up the two parts of his life—only two? Surely he’d fractured into so many versions of himself that that he couldn’t keep track of them all. Prince. Trickster. Not-brother. Patricide. Conqueror. Murderer. Monster. Mortal.

Captain America brought shades of a very different Loki to the surface than did the thought of Book. Facing the captain, Loki could feel his armor about him and the incessant craving for adoration, for recognition. But with the strike of the clock he realized it was simple, empty hunger that nestled in his gut.

In the end it was Loki-the-mortal-in-exile that won out. Captain Rogers was taking far too long to choose a course of action. So Loki chose it for him. He simply turned on his heel and walked away. He wished for all the world he could have seen the mortal’s face, but he didn’t dare risk a glance behind him.

“Whoa. Now hold on just a minute. Loki, stop,” Rogers called after him. Suddenly something in his voice shifted and he was no longer the kindhearted Steve Rogers. It was Captain America, soldier, calling after Loki now. “Halt!”

Loki paused and looked eloquently over his shoulder at the Captain who was reaching under his jacket. Digging for his weapon, Loki thought. Even without his shield, the soldier may well carry a gun--the benefits of super soldier serum were of little use when a ranged weapon was called for. Loki raised one eyebrow and allowed himself a small smile. The Captain caught the expression and followed Loki’s gaze as he rolled his eyes lazily across the milling forms of civilians going about their errands, blissfully unaware that death waited across the street.

Rogers wasn’t as skilled as Agent Romanov at reading the subtle stories betrayed in the flick of an eye or set of the shoulders, but Loki’s meaning was clear, echoing across the space between them: Really? You’ll confront me here? With all of these people? His gaze narrowed ever so slightly as the smile thinned. These fragile people?

The captain’s hand dropped back to his side as the muscles in his jaw tightened. He couldn’t risk sparking something, especially when, to all appearances, Loki was just walking down the street. And in serious need of a change of clothes.

Loki saw the path of Rogers’s thoughts before the captain even dropped his hand. So, it was finally here. The captain would find a way to call in the Avengers and make sure Loki didn’t vanish before they arrived.

His brother was coming for him.

Somehow Loki knew this was inevitable. The threads of destiny had been pulling ever tighter, weaving toward their ultimate conclusion. His benefactor would have to act soon if she wanted him to fulfill his purpose. What he wasn’t sure of was whether this turn of events would force her hand, or if this was her hand.

Shoving his fists in his pockets, Loki sauntered away, very much aware of the captain trailing after him. There were a dozen possible scenarios that presented themselves as the villain and the superhero walked quietly away from the center of town. But Loki abstained. He didn’t have to act. His benefactor would act for him, and her actions would finally shed some light into the shadowy maze of her motives. She may sit in her web and spin out her plans with patience. But he knew something of webs himself and how best to snare someone in a net of their own making.

Chapter Text

As they drew closer to the warehouse, Loki grew oddly reluctant to continue. He felt vulnerable somehow, as if he’d just become aware of a chink in his armor and was doing his best to inconspicuously hide it from enemy eyes. This was his sanctuary. Only he and Book came here. Loki shook his head. It didn’t matter. Regardless of how the day unfolded, he would never be coming back to Greenville—he’d either be led away in irons or forced to flee as the Avengers pursued him.

And the boy…he couldn’t just leave without…without what? Saying goodbye? Explaining? He wasn’t sure what drew him back to the paltry dwelling that had somehow become home. There was no need for the Avengers to even know that Book existed. He cast a glance behind him at his patriotically named shadow. There was no need for them to know, but no harm could come from it and perhaps, just perhaps, some good could be salvaged from this turn of fate.

The scrape of chain link shook him from his thoughts. Book had slipped through the opening and was coming toward him. His steps faltered as he spotted Rogers, clearly not recognizing the famed Captain America in blue jeans and a ball cap. “We having company?”

Shaking his head, Loki’s fingers flashed briefly as Rogers hovered in the background. He could tell the soldier had entertained the idea of an ambush, but he hadn’t expected a child.

Book deciphered what Loki had signed, his features darkening. “You’re a friend of his brother’s, aren’t you?” Book placed himself squarely between the two men. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to do here, but Loki and I don’t want any trouble.”

Loki’s smile only widened as he grinned at Rogers over Book’s head. What must the fool think? He could practically see the shifting understanding of the situation as Rogers tried to accommodate for the presence of the boy. It was like watching someone try and complete a puzzle with a piece that just didn’t seem to fit. And yet the piece stood there brazenly in front of him, refusing to make sense. It was really no surprise when Rogers gave up and fell back on his inherent honesty.

He raised his hands in a shrug, “No trouble. Truthfully, I don’t really know what’s going on.”

“His brother didn’t send you?”

“I think it’s safe to say that Thor has no idea either of us is here,” said Rogers slowly.

Book’s face scrunched up in confusion as he turned to Loki. “People actually call him Thor? What is it with your family and Norse nicknames?”

Loki shrugged, all the while watching Rogers. The puzzle piece began to fit, at least a bit. Now Rogers suspected that though he knew Loki’s name, Book had no idea of his real identity.

Book returned his attention to the Captain. “So what are you doing here then?”

“Inheriting a house. A distant cousin died and somehow I’m the closest living relative and,” he shook his head, “and then the lawyers lost me. It all sounds very complicated.”

Loki’s eyes slid shut. There it was, Her hand in all of this. She had brought Rogers here and whatever followed was of her making.       

It was at that moment that Book’s stomach growled plaintively. The boy mumbled “shut up” under his breath and balled his fist over his stomach. Embarrassment shot through him as he tried to laugh it off. Book hated for people to notice when he was hungry. It led to too many questions, and questions led to services, led to running away again.

Loki tried to interject and turn attention elsewhere, but Rogers had seen his opening. “It looks like we’ve got some things to iron out. I saw a burger place a few blocks away. I could go for some food. Why don’t you all join me, my treat.”

That sealed it. There was no use trying to dissuade Book; he wouldn’t turn down free food, not after the month they’d been having. Folding his lean arms over his chest, the boy seemed to consider it. His eyes gave away that he’d already decided. Turning to Loki, he made a few quick signs. [Food is worth dealing with your brother’s friend.]

Inclining his head, Loki arched an eyebrow in incredulity. Is it really?

Book shook his head so his unruly hair bounced around his face. [You are such a prima donna.] That was one of the signs he’d particularly searched for because he thought it would be useful when dealing with Loki. “Princess”, “drama queen”, and several variations of “narcissist” were also on the list.  He took great pleasure in getting to use them.

Book turned back to Rogers, “we could eat.” He lifted one shoulder casually as if it didn’t really matter one way or the other.

After a few short blocks, Loki found himself facing one of the oddest situations he’d ever encountered. During the course of the walk, introductions had been made—conspicuously leaving out Roger’s last name and anything pertaining to the Avengers—and Book was already beginning to warm to the man. Typical. Little wonder that by the time they reached the diner, Rogers had taken the edge off Book’s suspicions.

Loki shifted uncomfortably in the faded plastic seat of their booth, trying to accommodate his long limbs without kicking the table legs or Captain America’s also rather long legs. Not that he didn’t necessarily wish to avoid kicking Rogers in the shines, but there was no merit to be gained and he really didn’t wish to touch him.

Copious amounts of food had been ordered for all concerned, and Book gleefully regaled the Captain with the story of how he and Loki met. Loki sniffed and rolled his eyes. Surely he hadn’t been nearly so pathetic as all that. Melodrama.

Rogers smiled at the story, absorbing the brief overview of Loki’s time on Earth, clearly trying to puzzle out exactly why it was that Loki had returned in a decidedly non-conquering capacity. The poorly concealed bafflement at least gave Loki some pleasure as they began what was possibly the strangest meal of his considerable life.

“So, you can understand him?” asked Rogers as he started in on the first of his three burgers.

Book smirked. “The guy can read pretty much every language on the planet, but he didn’t know who Darth Vader was—so I can’t say I understand him,” Loki rolled his eyes, “but I can talk to him.”

“Surely you both didn’t know how to sign at first.”

Book laughed. “No, so conversation was a bit interesting. Thankfully he’s mute, not deaf—which helps. Although his listening capacity isn’t always the greatest.” A look of teasing frustration accompanied his words before he got back to his topic. “Writing everything out just wasn’t practical, though. So, I went to the library.”

A sour grin tugged at the corner of Loki’s lips and he subtly raised his eyebrows.

“Shut up,” said Book as he bumped his shoulder into Loki. “Anyways, it’s not a true language, more like the bastard child of ASL and charades. But it works well enough. When he’s not being long winded.”

Loki did little more than grunt in acknowledgement.

Frowning, Book waited until the waitress had refilled their glasses before he turned to face Loki. “What is with you? Normally you’d have been all over that? What happened to his Highness, the Lord of Sass?” Glancing at Rogers, Book switched to signing. [What’s with the attitude? You’re acting like your old self again.]

[My true self.]  

Twisting further, Book scooted until his back was against the wall, knees tucked up to his chest, feet planted on the seat. [I thought we’d moved past the superiority complex. Why’s this guy got you so rattled?]

Radiating calculated calm, Loki languidly crossed his ankles, leaning back in what ought to appear careless relaxation. [This is rattled?]

Book sighed. He then turned deliberately to face the Captain. “You seem like an okay guy. Why would you be friends with a full-stop jerk like his brother?”

To his credit, Rogers didn’t fall back overly much under the surprise attack. He did, however, settle in his seat and take a long, calculated drink from his mug.

Book merely pulled out his most innocent face and directed a beaming smile at Loki.

Well played, child.

Clearing his throat, Rogers began. “Well, to be fair, I don’t really know Thor that well either.” As he spoke, he spread the wrinkles from his napkin, flattening it against the table. “But I imagine that there are always two sides to every story. And you’ve only got the one.”

“Point.” Book pulled out the dessert flyer from where it was tucked between the ketchup and syrup bottles. “Clearly there’s history with you two. I keep expecting one of you to make a grab for the table knife and try to do some damage.”

[Try?] signed Loki. At the same time, Rogers tilted his head to the side and raised his eyebrows in surprise. It reminded Loki remarkably of an Earth hound meant for retrieving, all silky fur, boundless energy, and a willingness to please.

“Come on, guys. I’m young, not blind.” Book slid the dessert menu in front of Rogers. “And we’ll have one of these.” He tapped the picture of a giant chocolate chip cookie baked in a skillet and topped with ice cream. “You did say your treat.” He emphasized the word “treat.”

“I suppose I did. Think you can handle that on your own?”

Rogers was so innately affable it was sickening.

“We’ll share. Even if he is basically hollow.”

With an amused smile, Rogers motioned the waitress over, “One Buffalo Head Cookie and two ice cream sundaes, please.”

Book and Rogers made small talk until their order arrived.  It was embarrassing to admit, but Loki had developed quite the taste for ice cream during his Midgardian exile. It wasn’t something they were able to procure often, but Book had a knack for these things. Asgard had nothing like it. He had never tasted anything similar in any of the other realms either. A bitter thought crept into his mind, unless it was a Jotun specialty. How fitting that a Frost Giant should have a weakness for frozen cream. Perhaps at one point such thoughts would have soured his enjoyment of the dish, but he enjoyed it too much for that. He paused to savor the mix of flavors that slid over his tongue—warm cookie and fudge sauce clashing with the cold bite of vanilla. This was likely the last time he’d ever get such a treat.

A cough drew his attention. Book smiled wolfishly at him—the effect somewhat marred by the smudge of chocolate on his chin. “You uh…need a while alone with your dessert there, Loki?”

He conjured up the blandest expression he could muster and deftly slid the skillet away from Book’s reaching spoon. There were advantages to having a thousand years practice keeping Thor and Volstagg from commandeering his meals. Compared to Sif and Fandral, Volstagg had always been more aware of Loki’s title and treated him with courtesy—but that hadn’t kept him from pinching things off Loki’s plate when he wasn’t looking. Even years of street experience was nothing compared to that.

After some groveling and whining on Book’s part, Loki finally returned what was left of their dessert. The aura of baffled amusement from across the table had grown sickening. Loki didn’t need the captain reevaluating the “humanity” of his captive—and that is surely what he was, he had no delusion about that.

“Guard my plate,” said Book as he scrambled over Loki and out of the booth. “I’ll only be a sec. Try not to kill each other before I get back.”

[No promises,] signed Loki pressing his lips together.

Book rolled his eyes. “We try not to bite the hand that feeds us.” [Seriously, contain your issues until after he’s paid.]

[Then can I bite him?]

Rogers drummed his fingers together as he watched Book disappear around the corner. Loki returned to dragging his French fries through the chocolate sludge in the bottom of the skillet.

“I can’t say I understand how that works.”

Loki raised an eyebrow.

“Your relationship with Book. Half the time I think he’s taking care of you.” Rogers folded his arms and stared across the table. The silence and general lack of eye contact continued. “I think he’s fond of you—how that’s possible I don’t know.”

Doesn’t he ever stop? Loki grunted in annoyance as Rogers pressed for conversation. He dug in his satchel and pulled out his little white-board—a gift from Kayden of all people—scrawling across it in harsh letters. He even drew an arrow pointing at himself for emphasis and held it up facing the Captain. MUTE!

“That may be, but you’re certainly not incapable of conversation.”

Dragging his sleeve across the board, he smudged away the previous message. Willing, and able are two different things.

A sigh slipped from the Avenger as he pressed a finger to his temple. “I’m just trying to figure things out. I mean, I’m in a small down diner across from an attempted world conqueror,” he glanced down just in time to see pale fingers snatch up a fry from his plate, “who is stealing the last of my French fries.” He pulled the plate farther away. “If you’re still hungry I can get you more.”

A strange look passed over Loki’s face, surprise tinged with humiliation and pain. The mocking shields slammed down again. He scratched out another message. Might need to get it to go. Our friends can’t be too far away.

“Ah, then you know I contacted them.” Rogers rubbed the back of his head.

Loki was a picture of haughty disdain. He could have covertly alerted allies without a keen adversary noticing—Rogers was not so deft. Do you think me a fool? A thought seemed to strike him and he scrawled quickly across his board. You will not tell the boy the truth.

“You’re not in any position to make demands.” Rogers lowered his voice and leaned in as the waitress walked by.

I will come with you and you won’t tell Book.

There was an appraising look in the man’s eye. “Why do you care what he thinks?”

Loki paused for a moment, trying to confine his thoughts to his little ten by eight square. He focused on the ketchup bottle as he tapped his pen against the board. I would be one disappointment too many.

“So we tell him what? That you’re being picked up for a secret mission with the Avengers and likely never to return?”

Loki pursed his lips and shook his head sadly. Leave the lying to me. Make Stark send the boy to a good school, get him off the streets. Not back in the system.

Cocking his head, the Avenger leaned forward. “What happened to us all being ants beneath your boot?”

The marker hovered for a moment before he began to write again. I made the mistake of “naming” this one. Want to find it a good home. Amusement sparked in Loki’s eyes as the Captain sighed.

“And you think I’m just going to comply with your wishes? You’re no prince here.”

At that, Loki’s grin spread ever wider. Because you are painfully and predictably honorable, and Book is a stray waiting to be picked up. That and you’ll want to watch him. He paused to wipe off the board. To make sure he’s not been enthralled. Loki couldn’t help but add an afterthought. He’s not.

Rogers watched as Book rounded the corner, scrubbing his still damp hands on the back of his jeans. “Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” he said contemplatively.

Loki wanted to refute the Captain, but the excuses building in his mind seemed rickety even to him. Book may not be as obedient as Barton, but Loki doubted even he could sell the lie that he didn’t hold immense sway with the child.

Said child dropped heavily into the seat, grinning. “You’re both still in one piece! Congratulations!” A withering glance from Loki only made Book’s grin turn more impish as he shoveled the last of his food into his mouth.

There wouldn’t be much left but the plates themselves for the servers to clear away. Apparently a supercharged metabolism and two hunger-whetted appetites didn’t leave much in the way of leftovers. True to form, Book deftly slid any extra edible items into his pockets. Loki could see the bulge in the boy’s jacket of crackers and a handful of jelly packets from the table.

As they stepped outside, Rogers kept up a steady conversation with Book, but it seemed his attention was elsewhere. The soldier kept glancing at his phone as they headed down the street. Clearly it was time. The hum of everyday life had faded away as the storefronts grew grimy and boarded up. This part of town had all but withered away and Loki knew it was the perfect place for a confrontation with little chance of bystanders.

His eyes narrowed as he noticed someone approaching from a side street. The small part of him that still clung to the wild idea of escape jumped at the possibilities a random citizen presented. Those hopes broke as the figure coalesced into the ambling form of Bruce Banner. Loki felt a flush of embarrassment as he thought of the last time he’d encountered Banner’s beast. A snarl of fear inched up his spine as he realized a repeat performance would kill him.

The good doctor raised a hand in greeting. “Afternoon, Cap. Everything worked out here?” He glanced at Book who was staring at him with near recognition. Clearly the boy hadn’t made the connection yet, but he had his “thinking face” on. Anytime he was really puzzling something out, a little furrow snapped down between his eyebrows and the crookedness of his jaw grew even more pronounced as he sucked on his cheek. Surreptitiously he glanced between Banner and Rogers, but the final spark of recognition just hadn’t caught yet.

“Not quite yet,” said Rogers. Something in his tone seemed to indicate that he wanted Loki to make the first move.

Loki huffed. Of course they’d foist this off on him. A tightness crept into Book’s stance as he sensed the tension in the air and the unspoken jockeying among the adults. He glanced up at Loki questioningly. Hands subtly moved in the sign for “what?” Neither Avenger noticed. He then seemed to realize for the first time just how desolate this part of town was. He signed again, fingers asking whether everything was okay.

A brief nod seemed to satisfy him, but now the boy was wary, inching closer to Loki. Banner blinked in surprise.

“So, uh, thanks again for the food, Steve. But we really need to get back. We promised the others we’d be back by 5:00,” said Book. He was always smart enough to make people think there was someone that would miss him if he were gone. Even if it was a lie.

Rogers looked questioningly at Loki, who shook his head. No, there were no others. Book caught the movement.

“Why would you tell them that?” he hissed.

Sighing, the super soldier pinched the bridge of his nose. “Book, I’m afraid that things are about to change. Loki is going to need to come with us.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll yell bloody murder.” Book stood at his tallest, shoulders back, trying to look intimidating and serious. Trying, being the operative term.

A pale, long-fingered hand came to rest on his shoulder and then gestured at the desolate buildings. And who would hear you?

“You are the worst kidnapping victim ever. Why are you making it so easy?” asked Book, voice breaking with confusion.

Banner stepped up and smiled in his shy, quiet manner. “We’re not kidnapping anyone. Apprehending would be a better word.”

Book’s eyes narrowed. “Then flash some badges. Let’s see proof.” It wasn’t all bravado, but Loki could see the tell of nervousness in the way Book’s toes curled within his shoes. If you had to have a tell, it wasn’t a bad one to cultivate—most people weren’t looking at your shoes.

“How’s this for proof?” asked a voice from the sky.

All eyes were drawn upward as the red and gold form of Iron Man darted in over the rooftops. A roar and gust of hot air accompanied his descent from the sky as he thudded into the pavement, going to one knee and driving his fist into the asphalt before rising.

Loki rolled his eyes, And they accuse me of melodrama.

“Tony,” started Bruce, quietly. “I thought we agreed on the subtle approach.”

Servos ground as Stark shrugged. “Subtle was taking too long. And J.A.R.V.I.S., make a note—badges and a logo.”

Recognition bloomed across Book’s face as he glanced from the unmistakable form of Iron Man to the two men standing at his side: the Hulk’s alter ego and Captain America. Slowly and full of accusation, he swiveled toward Loki. [What did you do!] He jabbed his fingers through the letters so forcefully that he was practically yelling.

“Now see, I’ve been drinking too much again. Cause I see Loki hanging out in smalltown USA,” Stark flipped back the visor on his helmet. “And obviously Rock of Ages is still locked up snug in an Asgardian prison.” He cocked his head, clearly having seen the scars around Loki’s lips. “And he’s had some work done. It’s a good look for you.”

Thankfully before he could make any other comments that would encourage Loki to attempt to repeat their last encounter—regardless of his lack of strength or a building to throw Stark out of—Banner interrupted. “There seems to have been a problem,” he murmured.

 “Tony, we need to talk,” said Rogers as he tried to motion Stark to the side. Stark instead craned his neck around the soldier and caught a glimpse of Book standing defiantly in front of Loki.

“What’s with the short stuff?” he asked. “Are we okay with him standing so close to a crazy-megalomaniacal diva? Are we covered for that?”

“Shut up, Tony. I’ll explain later.”

“No. Now,” said Book, his face hard. Behind him Loki just covered his face with one hand and shook his head. “I’ve got a right to know why you’re taking my uncle. And you can’t just do that. He’s got rights—“

“Uncle?” said Banner at the same time Stark burst out laughing.

“Rights? People tend to lose those after they try and take over the world.”

“Shut up, Tony,” Rogers growled. “For once, just keep your mouth shut.”

Banner raised his eyebrows at this and blinked rapidly as the Iron Man raised his hands in defense.

“We are taking Loki into custody, though, aren’t we?” he asked. “I’ve got a new set of chains I’ve been dying to try out.”

“Chains?!” shouted Book.

[Book, listen.] Loki knelt down as he briefly grabbed Book by the shoulders. [I can’t explain everything, but know that I have a past.]

The boy snorted. “You’re street, we all have a past. Not exactly breaking news.”

[Mine is…longer than most, and darker.]

“And it involves the freaking Avengers!?”

Loki sighed. Of course Book wouldn’t make this easy. [Just know that they will take care of you. You’ll get the schooling you wanted. And you’ll stay out of the system.] He gave a firm nod. [Tell them I am ready to go.]

Incredulity escaped in a huff of air.  “That’s it? You’re just going to up and leave me?” A stubborn set was coming into Book’s jaw. Loki half expected him to stamp his foot. How often Book made him forget that he was just a child. [Will I ever see you again?]

Stark stared and Banner pushed his glasses up his nose. “Is that sign language?”

“He can’t talk,” said Rogers.

“Couldn’t have happened to a better guy,” said Stark.

Book rounded on him. “Shut up! You don’t know what it’s been like for him. This is hard!”

Stark whistled. “He’s got you good there, kid. Hook, line, and sinker.”

[Do as I say.]

“You’re not the boss of me,” growled Book. Loki raised an eyebrow. “Fine, you’re right. That was childish. True, but childish.” He turned toward the Avengers. “He says he’s ready to go.”

Stark looked up at the sky. “Hey, Big-Brother-is-Watching! Tell Thor to get his Asgardian ass down here already,” he paused, considering, “and use those exact words!”

“Overkill much?” asked Book as he glowered at the Avengers. “He’s just one guy and you’re calling in alien backup? Captain Supersoldier and a guy with rocket launchers built into his robotic combat suit aren’t enough?”

“Well, ‘ol Bruce here is more than enough,” said Stark as he slung his arm companionably around the doctor’s shoulders. “Isn’t that right, Loki?”

Loki made it a point to stare directly at the doctor. He shoved down the very real displeasure that seeped through him. The man before him wasn’t a threat. As long as he remained meek, and calm, Dr. Banner, Loki had nothing to fear from him.

Stark moved forward, grinning in that self-satisfied way of his. Irritating human that he was, he wasn’t going to succeed in provoking him again. Besides, Loki thought, what was the point in allowing it a second time—there was no window to throw him out of.

A rumble of thunder was the only warning they had as the Bifrost split open the sky above them. A bolt of red slammed into the pavement a few feet away. Thor rose from the steaming asphalt, his cape flowing behind him. His stern gaze softened slightly with confusion as he took in Loki’s ratty appearance. “Brother, I would have words with you.”

Loki couldn’t control the laugh that forced its way between his teeth. Oh, I doubt very much I’ll be the conversationalist I once was.

Taking a few steps forward, Book peered up at Thor with narrowed gaze. Thor finally seemed to notice the child at his feet.  “When you talked about your brother ‘Thor’ I thought you were just going with a theme,” he said. “And you’re Thor, as in Thor God—o—Thunder, the Avenger?”

“Yes, little one.”

Face pinched with scrutiny, Book looked from one brother to the other. He strode over to Loki and shoved. “Seriously? You’re really,” Book drew out the word between his teeth, “not from around here. And you didn’t tell me!”

[And have you think me mad?]

“Oh, I already thought you were crazy,” said Book. A thought seemed to strike him as he rounded on Thor, finger pointed in accusation. “And you! You’re a jerk.”

“That is a bold accusation.” Thor glanced at his comrades in confusion. Banner merely shrugged, and Stark waved it away.

“It’s just crazy town today.”

Glancing at the currently empty street, Rogers fidgeted. “Could we move this elsewhere? This is hardly the place.”

“Not happening!” Book rounded on the Captain. “Avengers? Hobo aliens? You think I’m going to just let you take him—no questions?”

“Brother, who is this child?” asked Thor, gesturing at Book.

Loki tapped Book on the head, getting him to face him and twisted his fingers through a number of signs.

“Seriously?” Book muttered as he grudgingly eased toward Thor. “He says, and I quote, ‘You know my penchant for strays,’ end quote. And I’m the stray?!” Book leaned with heavy indignation upon the word “I.” “Who picked who out of the gutter? The literal gutter, with trash and ditch water and stuff.”

“I agree with Steve, let’s maybe finish this back at the jet?” Banner pushed his glasses further back up his nose with his knuckle. Rogers offered a smile of thanks.

Thor asked another question, and Stark began with his smart mouthed comments again. But Loki wasn’t paying attention anymore. The somewhat amused glint in his eye died as the argument around him faded away.

No one else seemed to see the brittle figure standing across the street. His patron raised her arm, finger pointed in accusation. Her words echoed around him, slithering into his ears. “I warned you. My patience has run thin. Leave your fruitless rebellion.”

He gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head, defiance burning in his eyes.

The figure went rigid.

Between one blink and the next, her presence burned at the back of Loki’s neck, words scratching through his ears with a hiss. “So be it. A parting gift, Trickster.” Loki stiffened. It was as if dry, desiccated leather fingers trailed across the back of his neck. “If I allowed the Avengers to find you, who else might follow?”

The answer struck him with the power of a knife-thrust to the ribs. Chitauri.

A slight imperfection in the air was all the warning he had before lean, razored death burst from the air above him.

Chapter Text

Loki’s arms flashed up as he allowed himself to fall backwards. Something that could be spiked armor or spined flesh grazed across his forearms as he knocked away thorn-like daggers. The Chitauri followed him as he dropped toward the ground. He took in the sludge-white, mottled skin and ridged, scale-like patterns. Pale blue eyes burned from within deep hollows, the face more like a bleached skull in the desert than anything Loki would expect to see on a living creature.

As he hit the pavement he continued his backward roll, launching the creature off him. It hit with a jarring crunch but twisted in on itself even as it tumbled across the sidewalk and landed on its feet. It levered itself upright, jaws open in a snarling hiss of yellowed teeth against a grey throat. This was no drone. The lean, supple form was that of a Chitauri female. Semi-organic implants tore through the skin, armor and spines inserted directly over the muscle. In some places the ragged flesh had ripped, allowing the bone-like plates to show through the tatters.

The Avengers reacted quickly, having formed a barrier around Book before Loki had even hit the ground. White-hot light already burned in Ironman’s palm as Thor hefted Mjolnir. Banner was somewhat less responsive than the others, but he too had positioned himself near Book, but decidedly behind the others.

“What is that?!” exclaimed Book, his voice cracking over the word.

Any answers Loki might have given were interrupted by a string of grating sounds from the creature as she slung her limp arm back into socket. Two long spines ran along her forearms and jutted well past her elbows. As the sounds—words—continued, the spines began to slide toward her hands, the movement clear beneath the skin. They slid down along the back of her hands until they resembled two blades strapped to her arms.

“Wow. Ew,” said Stark, managing to look both smug and disgusted at the same time.

“Loki, what is this?” asked Thor, never taking his eyes off the Chitauri.

He didn’t get the chance to answer as the thing suddenly threw back its head and let out an oscillating cry. Loki whipped around as more shimmering imperfections appeared around them. He swallowed, It’s retribution.

Chaos exploded among them. The first Chitauri threw itself at Loki again, curling around Stark’s blast of energy. Other Chitauri seemed to tear through the air, suddenly slashing at the Avengers from every side. Book yelped as the Captain jerked him beyond the reach of a striking blade, drawing his pistol at the same time and emptying three rounds into the advancing alien. Thor’s hammer connected with one of the creatures, but a second filled the space before Thor could reverse his swing. The bone-blade skipped across his armored chest, but dug a bright red chasm along his neck.

“Get them out of here!” shouted Stark, words muffling as his face mask snapped down.

“Move!” shouted Banner as he put his hand to the middle of Book’s back, herding him across the street and into an alley. Loki sprinted after them, Rogers taking up the rear. It took five more rounds for him to drop the Chitauri that had attacked him, but even still it was struggling to get up.

“This way!” Book took the lead, springing down a side alley and forcing open a chained gate just far enough for them to squeeze through. Dumpsters and back steps flashed by as they took another turn and then burst onto an open street. This was one of the deadest parts of town, a mosaic of empty lots, boarded up storefronts and warehouses, all centered around a graveyard of derelict train cars.

They followed Book’s retreating form across a set of railroad tracks set into the asphalt, and between the looming bulks of two bricked up warehouses. They sunk down behind a dumpster whose bottom had all but rusted out and leaked reddish ooze onto the pavement.

“You know what those are?” asked Rogers.

Loki nodded. Tapping Book’s shoulder so the boy would look at him, he flashed through several signs in rapid succession.

Book’s face scrunched in frustration. “What the heck was that?! Slow down, I can’t understand you when you’re going that fast.” He peered intently at Loki’s exasperated signs. “That is not a word. C-h-i-t-a-u-r-i?”

“The aliens from New York,” muttered Banner as he pressed against the back of the dumpster.

Nodding, Loki craned his head around to peek down the alley. So far there was no sign of pursuit—though he could hear Thor and Stark engaging.

“They don’t look a thing like the Chitauri,” said Rogers, checking the rim of the alley to make sure they didn’t receive unwelcome guests from above. He flexed his fingers, unconsciously readjusting his grip on a shield that wasn’t there.

[These are the lovely ladies of the species. The Chitauri,] Loki made a C at the side of his mouth and drew it away from himself rather than spelling the word again, [operate much like some insect species.] Book translated.

There was a spark of intellectual interest in Banner’s eyes. “Those were drones that we fought—the males at the bottom of the ladder.”

Nodding, Loki continued with Book translating for the others. [A truly appropriate word. All but a few males aren’t developed any further than the brutes you encountered and are linked together in a kind of hive mind. The females come in various shades of deadly. These seem to be of the assassin strain.]

“Are we being attacked by space bugs?” asked Book suddenly. He smacked Loki upside the arm. “What did you do?!”

The Captain looked like he wanted to smile at the look of affronted irritation that Loki leveled at Book.

“Oh don’t give me that. This is exactly the kind of thing you’d drag us into.”

“Tactics. What can you tell me about them?” interrupted Rogers, as Loki started an animated rebuttal. As the Trickster thought, the Captain caught a glimpse of the shrewd tactician Thor had claimed his brother to be. Those were eyes that constantly probed for weaknesses.

[Their speed and reflexes likely outmatch your own. They move in threes, in and out of the fray. The blades grafted to their forearms serve as their main weapon. Beware their range, they are flexible nearly to the point of double-jointedness.] He had seen little of the females during his…stay…with the Chitauri, even less of this particular class. What he remembered was far from comforting. An explosion echoed between the faded brick walls. Loki winced. It seemed the Avengers’ presence did not bode well for the structural integrity of the town. He hoped they spared the library—Kayden would have an absolute fit if something happened to her sacred halls. A brief image of the spirited librarian bashing in the skull of a Chitauri with a copy of War and Peace flashed through Loki’s mind.

“Heads up!” Stark shouted as he careened down the alley, spinning violently as he tried to dislodge an alien from his back. “Hitchhiker!”

The others hit the pavement as he rocketed past. Loki instinctively covered Book with his body while the Captain tried to shield all three of them at once. Stark bounced off the walls in an attempt to crush the shrieking creature. He only managed to tear large chunks of masonry from the walls.

“Tony!” Rogers suddenly stood up as Iron Man shot up and backwards in a sharp loop, heading for them once again. The Captain braced himself as the red and gold blur flashed by. His hand shot out, gripping the Chitauri by the back of the neck and flinging her to the ground. Before he had a chance to do anything else, the creature had already doubled itself over to get its feet beneath it and lunged.

A burning repulsor hole suddenly appeared in her chest. The creature seized briefly, its limbs going rigid as it collapsed to the ground.

“Huh…so point-blank works. Good to know.” Stark lowered his hand and flipped up his visor. He looked at Banner. “Think we should go green?” he asked.

The other scientist shook his head. “Not if we can help it. The town’s quaint. And I’d like to keep it standing if at all possible.”

Thunder cracked directly above them, shockwaves from the sound jolting through them. Book flinched, leaning toward Loki. Stark raised an eyebrow at this. Book merely gave him the look Loki had dubbed his ‘what’s your deal?’ look.

“Um…Loki says we need room to move. They’re too…” Book screwed his mouth to the side as he tried to interpret the signs, “agile? In tight spaces they can outmaneuver us—you, I’m pretty sure they could outmaneuver me anywhere.”

“You’d know all about how these things fought, wouldn’t you?” said Stark.

“Not now, Tony,” said Rogers as another peal of thunder sounded, followed by a white-hot flash. “Book, you know this town. Where can we draw these things out away from everyone?”

A broad grin spread across Book’s face as he turned smugly to Loki.

[Yes, the great and powerful Captain of Freedom, Justice, and Bald Eagles is asking for your advice. Try not to get too excited.]

Book stuck out his tongue and rolled his eyes. “I’m thinking the old train depot. Tons of room for a throw down and no one around. What do you think?” He turned to Loki for confirmation.

“Sounds good.” Rogers ejected the magazine from his gun while he talked and replaced it with a new one that had been clipped to his belt. “Tony, think you could bring Thor and our new friends to the party?”

Banner laughed and Stark gave his smuggest expression. Apparently an inside joke of some kind.

“I don’t think I like your idea of a party,” mumbled Book.

“One evil-alien reunion, coming up,” said Stark as he blasted into the sky, plastering their clothes against them with the force of his take-off.

Banner watched his progress through the sky for a moment. He continued to follow Stark’s diminishing trail. “Is anyone going to ask the obvious question?” He spoke mildly, almost as if he really didn’t want anyone to look at him. He lowered his gaze and turned to face Loki. “Why are your pals suddenly out for blood?”

“And why show up now?” asked Rogers.

Book turned to Loki with confusion.

This conversation wandered into areas Loki didn’t find particularly pleasant. Especially with Book a check to every move he might make. Loki cursed Her again for this muteness. For over a year Book had been forced to do nothing but learn how to read Loki. By now he was nearly fluent. So, Loki did what he always did when the truth of the matter hovered far too close to the surface for comfort.

The mocking smile broke across his face. [We parted on bad terms.] He motioned elegantly toward the rendezvous. [Is this really the time?]

Book translated.

Before the boy had finished, Captain Rogers was already nodding. “I hate to say it, but he’s right. We need to move.”

As Book marched in front of him, Loki grabbed the back of his knapsack and tugged it off his shoulders. Reflexes honed by years of street living surged to the surface as Bok latched onto the strap, instinctively whirling away. He glowered up at Loki, still clutching the bag possessively. “What is your deal?”

[Speed is our greatest ally. These would only slow us down.] To prove his point, he lifted his own satchel from his shoulders and wedged it behind the abandoned dumpster. It felt somewhat like stripping off every stitch of clothing. How pitiful that his life had condensed to a sad, duct-taped leather bag. He looked meaningfully from his burden to Book’s.

Rogers and Banner watched as the boy worked his lower lip. “What if someone takes them?”

Loki raised his eyebrows in incredulity. With our friend here? He motioned at the insectoidal corpse.

Clearly unhappy, Book thrust his bag at Loki, fingers refusing to let loose even as Loki took its weight in his hands. He didn’t have to say how important it was to him. Loki looked down at the ragged satchel, knowing it wasn’t just cloth and supplies in hands, but Book’s life, the only things he could truly call his own. Slowly, Book’s fingers dropped away and he shoved his hands into his pockets while he spun on his heel and started toward the end of the alley.

Stashing the sack, Loki followed, allowing the Captain and Banner to trail behind. The sun burst full upon them as the towering brick buildings gave way to vacant lots choked with stands of dead grass, burnt tires, and the shimmer of broken glass in the dirt.

The vacant gaze of a derelict factory followed their progress along abandoned rails, many of the timbers scavenged or rotted away. A relatively useless chain fence stretched across their path, the barbed wire at the top long since stripped from whole sections and left coiled among the prickly weeds and rocks at the base. Book took two quick running steps and launched himself at the fence, scrambling up and over with practiced ease. The Captain helped Banner across and then vaulted over himself. Loki was pleased to say he followed suit with little difficulty.

In front of them an expanse of gravel dotted with islands of scrub stretched to the foot of another brick warehouse, a relic of better times. The train tracks ran parallel, a partial chassis still rusting in place. A suspect wooden platform listed along the other side of the rails, its shingles scattered on the ground around it, the little shelter’s windows boarded up. Burn barrels and mangled twists of metal dotted the open area, battered crates shoaled up against the warehouse base and partially obscured one of its splintered doors.

Thunder rattled what windows the old building still had.

“Get out of sight and stay there,” ordered Rogers as he pointed toward the piles of junk and gave Book’s shoulder a gentle shove.

“You heard him,” said Book as he noticed Loki didn’t move to follow him. He gave a disgusted sort of grunt as he realized Loki had no intentions of sitting on the sidelines. “What are you going to do? Snark them to death?”

I thought I might use these first. Loki displayed the two knives that had suddenly appeared in his hands.

“Where did those even come from?” asked Banner. His tone betrayed an emotion somewhere between being impressed and disturbed.

“You too, Bruce.” Rogers motioned towards the growing shadows clustered around the sightless warehouse. “Let’s keep the Other Guy in reserve.”

“I like that plan,” said Banner mildly as he jogged toward the other end of the lot.

Book glowered at Loki before closing the space between them. The crookedness of his jaw became all the more pronounced as stubbornness overcame him. He reached up suddenly and gripped the cuff of Loki’s jacket. The move surprised Loki, who looked down at the child.

“Just don’t die,” the boy said quietly.

For a moment, Loki wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. Book seemed genuinely concerned—why shouldn’t he be, you did your job well—and though Loki knew how he ought to respond in his part as Book’s friend, he wasn’t sure what he really wanted to say. The naked care in the gesture made him uncomfortable. Not because it was there, but because he felt it and was actually considering letting himself enjoy the fact that someone was truly worried about his wellbeing.

Old habits won out in the end and Loki offered a half smile. I’ll endeavor not to.

Interpreting the smirk, Book stuck out his tongue. “Yeah, well, if you die I’ll necromancy your butt. And then kick it!” With that, Book trotted off across the open space, gravel and dead grass crunching under his feet.

Rogers drew up near Loki as the whine of repulsors crept upon their hearing. He glanced at the knives in Loki’s hands. “I’m assuming you know how to use those?”

The look of disdain leveled at the Captain should have had him sheepishly apologizing. Instead his face remained set. He glanced up at the sky, searching for the first glimpse of red and gold among the clouds. “Just remember, those aren’t supposed to go in our backs. You can remember that, right?” He glanced at his companion. All he received was a shrug in reply.

The Chitauri didn’t give them a chance to continue. Shimmerings in the air hardened into blades and shrieks. Rogers leapt into action, ducking under a blow meant to separate his patriotic head from his patriotic body. He whirled, gravel grinding beneath his heel as he emptied three rounds into his assailant. The shock of impact sent the creature reeling backwards, spine arching toward the ground. With a gruesome baring of teeth, the Chitauri pivoted upright, its chest plate dinged, but not pierced.

Lightning scorched the earth, catching one creature in its arcing flame. A furl of red followed like a second lightning strike as Thor slammed his hammer through the blackened husk. Dust and charcoal billowed outward. Even before the grit had settled, two more Chitauri were flinging themselves through the remains of their comrade, blades ringing off Mjolnir.

“Problem there, Captain Hammer?” quipped Stark as he took aim at those harassing Thor. The ground scorched black where the creature had been standing mere seconds before. Slithering up to Thor’s shoulders, she launched herself straight at Stark, talons latching onto the subtle grooves between the metal plates. “Had a girlfriend like you once—just didn’t know when to let go.”

Ironman jerked violently to the side, repulsors flaring. The creature held on even as the metal suit shot forward erratically, suddenly rolled to the side and then shot straight up. Howling in rage, the alien smashed its head against Stark’s faceplate. A webbing of cracks spun out from the impact as inside damage statistics flashed across the screen. Thick, viscous blood oozed from the Chitauri’s split forehead as she barred her teeth in what could have been a vicious smile.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., time to give her the ‘Ex Package’.”

“Yes, sir.” J.A.R.V.I.S.’s voice echoed faintly within the confines of the helmet. “Preparing reserve thrusters now.”

Stark gave a lopsided grin as he looked the slavering creature in the eye. “Really, it’s not you, it’s me. Probably. Least 90% me. No less than 85%.”

The creature hissed something harsh and jagged.

“It’s been fun.” Stark flipped suddenly in midair and hurtled toward the factory. The leaf-strewn rooftop seemed to stretch upwards to meet him. “J.A.R.V.I.S., tell me the angle is right.”

“Trajectory is on target,” replied the AI.

Struggling to hang on, the Chitauri refused to let loose even as the building rushed toward them. With a wet crunching sound, Stark peeled the creature off him along the side of the building, leaving a dark streak down the weathered brick. Twisting round at the last possible moment, he thrust his legs outward and vaulted off the building, skimming upside down across the ground. Dust and bracken kicked up in his wake.

Loki peered through the dusty haze as shadowy figures converged on him. Malice glittered in their dark eyes. He couldn’t keep them all in view at once. He heard the attack coming from behind, dodging to the side only to nearly impale himself on the blades of another. Whirling away, Loki became movement. A moment’s hesitation meant death.

The Chitauri weren’t kind enough to come at him one at a time, instead all converging at once, a single creature of teeth and knives. Riding up on a strike, Loki wrapped his arm around his opponent’s, locking them up. A swift turn to the left and he felt the Chitauri’s body convulse as one of its sisters’ drove her blade deep into his living shield. Even as he felt his captive begin to drop, it twisted its arm around at an impossible angle, nearly taking his head off with her swing as he ducked.

Failing to fully avoid a thrust at his legs, his footing went out from under him. As he fell, he let fly one of his knives. It buried in the fleshy part of one of their throats. The moment of satisfaction vanished when he hit the ground, rolling up onto his shoulder and then onto his feet. Halfway through the movement, a spike of pain tore through him. The momentum was too fast, the angle too extreme for his mortal form to fully take the abuse.

Even as the jolt tore a grimace from him, he was moving, stretching his senses to know where the next blow would fall. At this point in a fight, there was no strategy or thought, merely action and reaction. Instinct and muscle memory taking over. Even as he caught a falling blade on his crossed knives and thrust upwards, diving toward the now exposed underarm, he was vaguely aware of the battle around him. Gun shots came infrequently as the Captain realized only the most precise of shots would count and his bullets dwindled. Thor’s battle cries mingled with the growls of Chitauri and the air hummed with ozone and the flash-heated metallic scent of Stark’s weapons. Vaguely, Loki realized the Chitauri had pushed him into the factory’s shadow. He caught sight of Banner and Book amongst the rubble. The Chitauri didn’t seem to know they were there, or they didn’t care.

A slash across his arm opened a slender line of red. He hadn’t been fast enough. Beyond the fact that he wasn’t dressed for battle, Loki could feel his mortal reserves waning. He’d already taken a few nicks here and there—to be expected in this kind of battle—but they were starting to move beyond minor irritations. His reflexes felt heavy, his timing just not fast enough. He couldn’t guard all sides at once.

“Loki!” Thor’s voice echoed across the lot. He’d actually noticed Loki’s predicament and was making his way toward his onetime brother. How unusual.

Though he didn’t want to admit it, Loki had been heading for Thor as well. There was a time when guarding one another’s backs had been second nature. And fighting with Thor was almost as natural as fighting against him. Besides, Thor made a loud, destructive shield.

The Chitauri sensed what they were doing and closed ranks.

That’s when it happened.

Loki didn’t see what did it. He’d been facing the other way, one of his knives buried in a chitinous throat. He didn’t see the other one coming up behind him or Book darting from cover with a piece of rebar raised above his head. The metal rod bit deep between the plates of carapace-like armor, ripping from Book’s hands as the female turned. Loki didn’t see the creature slide the bar from its flesh. Didn’t see the rebar strike out like mercury.

He heard it.

He heard the hitching gasp.

The sound of it came to him above all the others. The rage of battle dropped away to a whispering as dry pain tore through a young throat. A wetness thickened the moan.

What Loki saw as he turned was the confused expression on Book’s suddenly pale face. He managed two steps before his knees buckled and he crunched into the gravel.

“Book!” Roger’s voice cut through the battle. He flung a discarded rusty hubcap with deadly accuracy, slicing an alien in two. Vaulting over debris, Roger dropped to his knees by Book’s side. The pooling blood wicked up his jeans.

Book’s eyes were already glassy, his skin deathly. Even his doubled fists couldn’t plug the hole through his chest. With each spasm of his torn heart, blood spurted over the wound’s ragged edge. Vaguely his gaze rolled past the Captain and settled weakly on Loki. He opened reddened lips to say something, but a seizing tremor thrust through him. Every muscle contracted—then went completely limp. His gaze stared into nothingness.

“Loki!” Thor’s voice boomed across the space.

He turned, mechanically, to face the foe he knew would greet him. The Chitauri hurtled from the nearby roof, bladed arms extended to embrace him. A red howl contorted her features, revealing the double-row of serrated plates in her throat. He slid to the side, neatly using her momentum to flip the creature over him, her blades close enough he could hear them whistle past his ears.

When she crunched into the pavement she coiled bonelessly, reversing her roll to spring. He ducked. Surging upwards, he drove his knife into her shoulder socket. He jerked the blade forward, tearing flesh and tendons. The creature howled as Loki spun around, gripped its other arm and threw it to the ground. Before it could rise again, he slammed his foot into its shoulder and levered its arm backwards until it gave a sudden snap. The crack echoed against the bricks and concrete.

The creature craned its neck to look up a Loki, thick saliva dripping from its chin. It growled something at Loki in its own language. Curse-like harshness laced each syllable.

A vicious knife thrust cut off whatever else it might have said. The knife rose and fell until the creature’s face looked like the first attempt of a butcher’s apprentice. Glancing up, eyes bright, Loki looked for his next target.

He blinked to see the Avengers looking at him, the battlefield still. Bruce knelt next to the crumpled form, shaking his head. He removed his coat, intending to drape it over the body. Loki stumbled to his feet, absently wiping Chitauri blood from his knife.

The ground seemed to slide forward. Suddenly he was by the body, the Avengers having parted to let him through. Iron stillness weighed him down as he peered at the sprawled form. He’d seen many deaths before—many worse than this. He’d even helped to lower tiny bodies into boats too large and lonely for their final voyage.

Dispassionately he nudged the bloodless corpse, fascinated by how the head lolled with the movement, terror-struck eyes still wide. Knees crunched against the dry weeds and gravel as he sunk next to the body. Ants were already trekking in a dark line up the blood mangled shirt.

It was the ants that broke through the thin ice of his rage. He tore them away. They couldn’t have him. This pathetic mortal didn’t get to die for him.

The Avengers edged closer, their uncomfortable murmurings edged with concern as Loki’s rage grew. He whirled on them with a guttural snarl, lips pulled back over his teeth.

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s dead, Loki. There is nothing we can do,” said Banner.

Thor was oddly quiet as he laid a hand on the doctor’s shoulder.

“Thor, what is he doing?”

The green of Loki’s eyes had sharpened to razor’s edge and his lips moved in mute utterings. Release my magic. Now! Loki lashed out, scrabbling for any scrap of power. No spark answered his call. And though he tore down to his very core, only hollow echoes greeted him.

A whispered chill brought his gaze up to meet the dark eyes reflected in a cracked factory window. She watched him serenely, a disinterested curiosity settled in her features. Black eyes glanced to the boy and then back to Loki. Her head swiveled in a slow, definite shake. No.

Loki’s lids slid shut as dangerous serenity edged with euphoria slashed across his face in a grin too sharp to bode well. It was a look that had puzzled many opponents when they thought the God of Mischief had already played his last trick. Green met black for a moment as Loki turned away from her, his last look filled with the promise that She had yet to see that he would not be controlled or predicted. He’d leapt into the void before—he was about to do it again.

He had to work fast. He snatched his discarded knife from the ground and leaned over the boy’s still form. The blade in his hands ripped through Book’s waxy flesh, barely raising any red in the deep crevices. He carved the runes into the boy’s arms, pouring all of his will into each stroke. Will was all he had now. No strength, no magic, no voice—just determination.

He was so focused on the task at hand that he didn’t even hear the cries of outrage from the Avengers, or Thor holding them back. They were nothing but haze on the edges of his thoughts. Fabric tore as he peeled back the blood soaked shirt and carved one final rune into the boy’s chest.

Loki gritted his teeth. Now came the trial. Now he would see if he could master this ancient art. His lips spasmed as he traced the same marks into his own pale skin. He fumbled the knife awkwardly as he switched to his weaker hand and shakily dug out the final runes on his forearms. Already he could feel a foreign power settling into him, keeping the blood washing red down his arms and dripping from his hands. The knife handle was slick. His arms burned as he fought to draw the final mark on his left breast.

There was no invocation, no rite to be said or spell recited. The power here was simple. Primitive. Loki thought only one thing as he drew the final runes encircling  Book’s shredded heart: Please.

He threw the knife aside and gripped quickly cooling hands in his as something like power stirred within him. Then he was burning. His life sparked into wild power. It cascaded in a rushing torrent through his veins, frothing through his blood in a stream of fire as it flowed from his wounds down into the marks in Book’s flesh.

The steady thrum of his heart shuddered as he struggled against the creeping darkness that wrapped about him. The dry crackling of parchment only reached him distantly as She knelt by Book’s head. Loki found the strength to raise his head and give her a look of triumph. He did not find the surprise or disquiet he had expected, merely unblinking acceptance. The drifting sense of vagueness in his mind kept his thoughts from spinning out why this might be.

The power ebbed, the steady stream sloshing weakly within, seeping down into stagnant pools where his true magic ought to have been. What little comfort this primal power brought never registered with Loki as he pitched forward into darkness. As consciousness fled he had the oddest sensation of a dry, slender hand resting almost gently upon his head.

Chapter Text

Awareness came slowly, creeping through heavy shrouds that would bear Loki down into unending nothingness if he would only let them. Death did not entice him, however. Perhaps its song would have been sweet to a man that did not know his destiny. But Loki did, and death offered only lies—escape from what was to come could not be found even there. Sluggishly, he turned from oblivion to face the growing sensations of life.

The first thing he noticed was that he had eyes—strange perhaps, but where he had been there hadn’t been much sense of the physical. Now he was very aware of soft light filtering red through his closed lids. He ought to open them. But that sounded like so much effort.

In the end he lay awake for over an hour before he had the vaguest inclination to get up. He had slid several times through the heavy veil between waking and sleeping and then lingered in the tangled warmth of near consciousness. The fact that he had no concept of where he was didn’t disturb his calm as it should have. There was something about the muffled voices and little sounds of life that floated through his door that comforted him. The fact that he was lying in a real bed, with actual sheets and a pillow only added to his sense of well being. The lack of chains or bars helped as well.

The dryness in his mouth slowly crept into his senses. That and the heaviness of his limbs jogged a memory. He’d been in a healing sleep. It wasn’t the first time he’d pushed his body too far and had to tangle himself in a net of magic, body nearly shut down, until he had managed to heal. He remembered once he had gotten himself stranded on Muspelheim, nearly drained, and with a tagmir quill lodged too close to his heart. He’d used the last of his magic to stretch the worldfabric thin enough to throw himself through. He’d been too delirious at the time to think of a destination. He’d just jumped.

His wild leap dropped him back on Asgard, right at Thor’ feet. Fever dreams obscured the rest of his memories. At some point strong arms that smelled of armor polish and dark corners had lifted him from the flagstones. Then his mother’s voice spun out her magic in the words of a soothing lullaby, the loops of her skein swaddling him tightly. Then he had slept. He slept for three and a half weeks.

When he woke he had gagged on the chalky dryness in his mouth and wondered why he couldn’t seem to move his arms or legs. He’d barely had time to let his eyes adjust to the brightness before Thor had launched himself onto the bed and boomed his joy at seeing his brother awake. Even as a boy Thor had been impressively thunderlike.

There was no Thor to greet him this time.           

It was actually the acute need to brush his teeth—not so much brush them as scour them with sander’s grit and bleach—that drove Loki from his cocoon of twisted sheets. He did not understand why it was that he so often felt as if something had crawled into his mouth during the night, summarily died, and then begun to rot. Only this mortal body seemed susceptible to such things—he had never experienced this before. Sometimes Loki thought he could feel the creep of decay racing through his flesh—everything about a mortal was speeding toward death.

“You are awake.”

Loki jolted, eyes scanning the room, hand creeping unconsciously to where his knives should have been.

“My apologies for having startled you,” came the voice again. This time Loki picked up on the slight mechanical undertone as well as a hint of condescension buried in the proper tone. Somehow he didn’t think the voice was actually sorry.

A surge of consternation ran through Loki. How was he supposed to find out what this creature was without Book to translate? The thought slammed into him. He couldn’t breathe. “Book!” he croaked, cringing at the sound of his voice, raw and thick.

He froze. The sound of his voice.

A tentative hand rose to his throat. How unexpected. Suspiciously, he eyed the corners of the room for shadows that were more than shadows—he had no delusions that She had returned his voice, had chosen to do so. What bothered him was why. Unease spiked through him. This was a reward for actions that had pleased her. Somehow he had strayed onto the path she envisioned for him. Thoughts leapt forward in a mad rush, trying to predict the moves ahead on a board that was all but hidden.

The voice clicked on again, drawing his attention. Now Loki could locate the small set of speakers mounted somewhat haphazardly into the ceiling, “Young Book is mending quite well.” Loki struggled to his feet and staggered toward the door, only to be stopped by the voice. “He is currently sleeping and should not be disturbed.”

Leaning against a nightstand, Loki swallowed deeply before asking, “You are certain? He is well?”

“Dr. Banner says that he merely requires rest, as he tires easily.”

By the Norns, it was worth something after all. “To whom do I speak?”

“I am J.A.R.V.I.S., Mr. Stark’s butler. I see to the needs of everyone in the house.”

Loki frowned, “You are not human.”

“I am an artificial intelligence created by Mr. Stark.” Now the voice sounded a touch smug. “I am here to serve.”

“I’m sure you are,” muttered Loki, taking an odd pleasure in the simple sensation of words vibrating in his throat as he spoke. Remembering the reason he had bothered getting up in the first place, Loki glanced about the room. Through a partially open door he glimpsed a bathroom. “I take it I am allowed to bathe?”

The voice hummed an assent. “Encouraged even.”

A wry smile cracked across his face as he glanced down at his blood soaked clothes. They’d been in rather desperate need of a washing before he’d splashed them with alien fluids and then effectively emptied his veins. His person was little better. A shower it was then.

 Misty clouds floated through the bathroom as Loki reluctantly turned the water off and stepped from the shower. His skin was raw and pink, scrubbed and rescrubbed until every trace of grime and dirt was gone. Blood snaked its way lazily from a few of the deeper wounds, but most just stood as welted red marks with the shine of thin new skin. He ran a finger down his side, knuckle knocking against his ribs.

The advanced healing of his wounds—to say nothing of the hunger clinging desperately to the underside of his ribcage—told him that he had indeed been in a healing coma. And a healing sleep required magic. Shoving aside the bite of hunger, he let his consciousness trail down into the dry depths of his magic. In the deepest wells something glimmered. His magic had not returned, but in its place the last dregs of the rite collected in rusted pools. Reaching for it, the magic reacted to his touch, recognizing the life it had been distilled from. Loki pulled away a meager portion, twisting it into a spell.

For a moment, nothing happened. But then the wavering image of a dagger sparked between his fingers. A slow, manic grin—one the Asgardian court had learned to dread—spread across his face. This was no dispensation from his patron; She had not intended this. True, there was little power to be had—little more than enough for parlor tricks—and he would have to guard it well. It fed off of his life and could replenish itself slowly—but if he were to use it all up at once there would be no recovering it.

Loki curled in around the meager rightness of this tepid magic. Along with regaining his voice, it made him feel more whole than he had in a long while. He winced as a lance of pain streaked through one of his deeper wounds. His move toward completion had come at a price, however.

A brief furl of magic and the steam clouds condensed into a stream of water which splashed down the drain. For the first time Loki could get a good look at the cost of blood magic. Beyond the slowly healing wounds, he looked gaunt and pale, blue veins conspicuous beneath the stretched skin. Black hair fell shockingly against his white face, clinging to his neck and shoulders. Pooled shadows purpled beneath his eyes—but there was life in the green sparks, no matter how tired the rest of his body.

Long, pruning fingers traced the thin lips, pressing against the puncture scars. After he first discovered his failed glamour, he’d avoided really looking at his reflection. He swallowed and shook his head, straightening. He didn’t have the energy or magical reserves to maintain that kind of glamour. Sneering at his weakness, Loki snatched up a towel and dried himself, having to take extra time with his damp hair. This length would have to go before too long.

“You are done with the shower?” asked J.A.R.V.I.S. suddenly.

Loki’s grip on the towel tightened, but he managed not to jump.

“So it would seem.”

“Very good. Clean clothes have been left on the dresser. Fresh linens are in the drawer and the soiled sheets and clothes may be placed in the laundry chute just down the hall.” There was a slight hesitation as if J.A.R.V.I.S. considered using another word to describe Loki’s tattered suit.

“Those rags should be burned.” Loki cocked his head to the side and suddenly started rummaging through the cabinets, opening drawers, and digging through baskets of bottles and towels. He smiled and snatched up a small box of matches from behind one of the decorative candles. He wanted the pleasure of burning that horrid excuse for clothing himself. While he couldn’t create a spark with his current magical limitations, he could manipulate what already existed. Flame bloomed at the end of the match as Loki flicked it along the strike board. “Hello old friend.” He called the flame into his palm, the little light pulsing in the curve of his hand. Fire swelled with every inhale as Loki focused on it. The shape changed, melting into a swirling pool of liquid fire that dripped from his hands onto the pile of dirt and blood encrusted clothing. With a flick of his wrist Loki threw the rest of the fire onto the pile, teeth glinting as the cloth went up like tinder. Though the flames licked towards the cabinets, he kept them corralled with a curling of his fingers.

Before long there was nothing left, not even ash. The fire howled for more, but gave only a disgruntled waver before winking out at Loki’s command. Not even a scorch mark showed what had happened.

“Mr. Stark would likely prefer that you not do that inside his dwelling,” remarked J.A.R.V.I.S., clearly having heard the rush of flame.

“Yes, I’m sure he would. It’s a shame I don’t really care what he might prefer,” said Loki. He took a moment to run his fingers over the clothing that had been left for him, caressing the clean, soft fabric. He was surprised by the inclusion of not only a long sleeved shirt, but a t-shirt, and hoodie. Had Thor really noticed his tendency to hide behind layers of fabric? Surely this was just a coincidence, choices. But the colors were in grays, blacks, and greens as well. Loki snorted, the colors at least he could attribute to Thor; he wasn’t colorblind at least.

“House?”

“Yes, Mr. Odinson?”

Loki stiffened. He was beginning to feel that the house disliked him. “I am not a son of Odin,” he growled. “Do not refer to me as such.”

“It seems your patronym offends you. I will endeavor to rewrite my protocols for something more appropriate. In the interim, how may I assist you?”

Loki licked his lips. “Medical supplies?”

“A kit in the bedside table ought to have all that you may require. The other Mr. Odinson thought you might be in need of it when you awoke.”

“Did he indeed?” Loki said with a raised brow. This forethought from his not-brother was unusual. Not only had he left clothing and medical supplies, he had rightly known that it was better to leave Loki as he was than to try and address his needs while he was unconscious. Loki had to begrudgingly thank Thor for sparing him that mortification.

Turning his attention to the medical kit, it was only a matter of moments as he went through the well known ritual of binding his wounds. His healing spells were quite effective, but they also required amounts of magic he no longer possessed. No matter, growing up trailing after Thor had more than equipped him for dealing with his own injuries. In many ways this was not an unusual set of circumstances for Loki—except that Thor wasn’t barging in to “help.”

Holding one end of the bandage in his teeth, he cinched the last loop of dressing around his dominate arm. The dull throb of the tightened bandages pulsed along the wounds. Loki ignored this and turned to properly clothing himself. Careful of his injuries, he wiggled into the jeans and gray, long-sleeved shirt. For a moment he simply reveled in the feeling of clean cloth against clean skin. The shirt was particularly soft, brushing against the unbandaged parts of his torso and upper arms. Next came the green t-shirt and black hoodie.

With pursed lips, Loki surveyed himself in the mirror. The least they could have done was to buy him clothing that actually fit rather than scavenge through their own closets. The pants were the right length, but far too large through the waist—clearly Thor’s. The shirts could have been Stark’s, which meant they weren’t quite long enough in the waist or through the arms. Loki had a sneaking suspicion the hoodie had belonged to the Widow—just how slight did Thor think he was?

“Will the clothing suffice?” asked J.A.R.V.I.S..

“It is clean,” said Loki, “something that has become far more important to me in the last year than I would have ever imagined. The rest can be fixed.” He turned his thoughts to the structure of the clothes. There was enough material here to work with, the only problem was that it was in all the wrong places. Raising his hands, Loki concentrated on the fabric, sinking his magic into the threads themselves. As he lowered his hands across his body the clothing molded to his will, tightening around the waist, and lengthening the shirts. He had to sacrifice part of the hoodie’s sleeves in order to have it fit across his shoulders. He also allowed the cuff of the sleeve to creep up onto his hand far enough to fully hide the bandages. Loki surveyed his work with critical eye. It wasn’t his princely raiment, but it was infinitely better than what he’d been subjected to recently.

A sudden weakness sent him stumbling against the doorframe. He drew in a shaky breath as he leaned heavily against the solid wood frame. “It seems I’ve found my limit.” Gritting his teeth he straightened and stepped solidly away from the door. “For the moment.”

He glanced down at his unshackled wrists, once more surprised that his hosts would have left him unbound and unguarded—though apparently not unwatched with J.A.R.V.I.S. around. This kind of misguided trust might have been believed of Thor at his most sentimental, but even for him this kind of naiveté was unusual. This certainly wasn’t the reception he’d expected from the rest of Thor’s pet humans. Frankly he was surprised he hadn’t been awoken by an arrow in his chest. Barton had seemed somewhat put out with him, even after the archer had tried to blow Loki up—which ought to have made them even.

Loki might have felt less nervous had one of them been threatening him, or at least making sure that the criminal who had led an alien invasion of their planet wasn’t doing something nefarious in their linen closet. He felt more like a guest than a prisoner. Why hadn’t half of Asgard descended to haul him back to a darker, more forgotten cell. At least why wasn’t he once more enjoying the comfort of a SHIELD holding room? Had his stunt with Book really made such an impact? Why weren’t there more Chitauri stepping from the shadows? He shook his head to clear away the tumbling thoughts. Too many questions, too few answers.

Easing out the door, he glanced up and down the empty corridor. Faint voices drifted round the corner. There lay his answers. Following the voices took him along a short hall lined with rooms and bookshelves on one side and dotted with windows on the other. He caught glimpses of folded mountains marching blue into the horizon. The voices grew louder as he strode down two short flights of stairs and through a small sitting room. Padding along another hall, Loki halted just outside what appeared to be a large common area with a grand fireplace and great stretches of paned windows. The Avengers had spread themselves across the room.

“And we’re to treat him like a guest now are we?” growled Barton as he dug his hands into the back of a chair. “Have you forgotten?”

Rogers moved from his place by the hearth. “Do you think we could, Clint? But it’s not that simple.”

“Seems pretty simple to me,” said Stark. “I’m still not entirely sure why he’s here in the first place. In my house—one of my houses—I’d like to remind you. Hidden actually. Hidden in my house. Which is so not going to sit well with the one-eyed wonder.”

“Fury cannot know that my brother is here,” Thor rumbled, “not until I understand what has brought him to Midgard.”

“Did you miss the whole world domination thing?” drawled Stark, gesturing loosely with his hands. “The kneeling, the ranting, the delusions of grandeur? This is his encore.”

“Where he’s homeless?” asked Rogers. “He’s been here for over a year and as far as we can tell the worst thing he’s done is petty theft and apparently beat up some gang members.”

Clint was out from behind the chair, fairly quivering with rage. “He hijacked me! You think he couldn’t do that to some kid? He uses people, makes us his weapons. I know.”

“He nearly died in order to save Book,” said Rogers quietly.

“He killed Coulson!” bellowed Clint. “Coulson and McCartney, Rock, Finny, Stevens, Bell, Morris, Wexler. They’re all dead because of him. There are thousands dead because of him.”

“Why isn’t he in Asgard?” asked Romanov, studying Thor intently.

“I do not know. Father never determined how he escaped. One day, Loki was simply gone,” Thor said helplessly. “It is one of a long list of questions to which I would like the answers. There is more at work here than we see.”

“Are you saying Loki had help?” asked Banner. Until this point he had watched the exchange in silence, perched on a bar stool at the kitchen counter.

“Not the Chuitari. They wanted a nice Loki-skin rug,” said Stark.

The Captain nodded in agreement. “I think they blame him for the invasion failing—more so than us almost.”

“Are you not hearing yourselves? This is Loki we’re talking about. He lies and manipulates. He’s playing us!” said Barton. “He’s playing us, and you’re letting him.”

Thor rose slowly, “You are right not to trust my brother. But right now I do not believe him a danger to anyone and there are answers to be had. Chief among them what to do with the boy. He has been touched by powerful magics,” his shoulders bowed a bit, “and I do not know what effect this will have. Loki will.”

Silence stretched around the room as Clint looked from face to face.

“You’ve already decided haven’t you. He’s staying.”

“It’s not like I like it,” said Stark.

“Shut up, Stark. This was already decided before you told me anything.”

Romanov put a hand on Clint’s arm. “You were too deep in a mission to ask. But we thought you of all people deserved to know.”

“And you’re okay with this, Nat?” he asked quietly, searching her eyes. There was more in his question than the others grasped.

She gave a small, firm nod. “We know how to handle Loki.” A smile caught in her eyes, “we’ll just let the Other Guy at him again.”

Banner returned her smile with a weak one of his own.

“Fine, you know what. Go ahead. Do what you want. Play house with your pet psychopath. Call me when it goes south—I just hope it’s not over the body of that poor kid.” Clint threw up his hands and stormed out of the room. A slamming door echoed down the hallway.

Stark whistled. “Well that went spectacularly badly.”

“He has every right to his anger,” said Thor. He leaned heavily against a chair. “You all do.”

“Let’s just hope he doesn’t redecorate here the way he did in Stark Tower,” said Stark, clicking his pen. “I’m tired of him breaking my stuff.” He glanced around the room. “Even if I didn’t know I owned this stuff. Place is so backwoods J.A.R.V.I.S. can’t even be fully integrated without a major reno.”

“I doubt Loki is in much shape to do anything,” murmured Banner. “It’s hard to tell with his physiology—but he seemed rather far gone when we brought him in. And if what Thor thinks is correct, he has no magic.”

“So he’s been downgraded to ‘mortal’.” Tony quirked his fingers in air quotes as he pulled a face at the word.

“And relatively harmless,” Rogers added.

“I’m mortal,” Romanov said while still looking out the window.

The super soldier grimaced and nodded.

“Point to the girl who can kill you a hundred different ways in her sleep,” said Stark.

Romanov glanced over her shoulder with a smile just soft enough to possibly hide a joke. “A hundred and one.”

Thor was nodding in agreement. “Even without his gifts—if that is even the case—my brother is far from helpless. He is especially fond of small knives.” Thor’s hand drifted to his side just below his ribs. “There are perhaps ways to minimize any danger.”

“Powerful sedatives?”

“Tony,” sighed Rogers.

The engineer just shrugged. “Speaking of Mr. I’ve-got-issues-and-misplaced-aggression, J.A.R.V.I.S., what is Sleeping Psycho’s status?”

“I believe Mr. Odison has been eavesdropping from the hallway for the last several minutes,” replied the house.

All eyes turned toward the hallway. Time was up. Loki slid from the shadows, careful to fade out of them as seamlessly as possible. He gave a small, calculated smile and slight incline of his head. He was at a distinct disadvantage at the moment, but the Avengers didn’t need to know that. Thor could be a problem since he knew him better than the others, but Loki disdained to say that Thor knew him well—certainly not as well as Loki knew him. The Black Widow, though, presented other issues. She’d surprised him the last time they’d met. She was a danger, but Loki oddly looked forward to repeating their little dance—though with a bit more wariness this time. He also had an advantage—he knew his words had hit their mark, even if she had used the truth to her benefit. He’d be on the lookout for that trick again.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., where in your programming does it say to let people eavesdrop?” asked Stark.

“My apologies, sir,” stated the computer.

“Brother,” said Thor, his eyes scanning Loki’s face. He stepped forward as Loki descended the short flight of stairs into the room.

“Still looking for kinship where this is none?” asked Loki with bored disdain.

“Your voice,” said Rogers, registering that Loki had actually spoken.

“Yes, a benefit it would seem from performing forbidden arts.” A lie, but he didn’t really want to explain his patron to them yet. He wished to exercise his newly regained power of speech and test the sharpness of his tongue against the Avengers. But that would hinder his game. Instead he quirked another smile. Small, but with just enough of a condescending sneer to be unsettling. “How good it is to see all of you again. A shame that Agent Barton could not join us. I was so fond of his company when he was,” Loki paused for effect, “in my employ.”

“Keep on talking Reindeer Games,” snorted Stark, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, pen jabbed at Loki. “We’ve got your number and baiting us won’t help your case. I’m still in favor of a matching set of shackles and a tightly locked room. We could also break out the muzzle of shame again—just for old time’s sake.”

Loki settled comfortably against the side of a chair, arms crossed. He gave a long, slow blink and shrugged. “But Agent Romanov and I wouldn’t be able to have our nice chats. How I’ve missed those.” He swiveled his head so he could look at the Widow, tilting his gaze ever so slightly. He knew there was nothing overt in the movement, but the sinister undercurrent was there. “I think of our talk often. I hope you do too,” he purred.

“Enough,” barked Thor. “Loki, you are enjoying your current good fortunes only as a favor to me. Do not push our graces too far.”

Bowing, Loki spread his hands wide as a smirk pulled at his lips. “But of course.”

Banner cleared his throat. “You spoke of reducing his threat level?”

“Loki must swear an oath,” said Thor gravely.

“Seriously? That’s the best you’ve got?” Stark was on his feet. “You want his word that he’ll play nice with all the other kiddies?” His hands flicked through the air to emphasize his point. “Thor, this is Loki we’re talking about! The God of Lies!”

“Thank you,” Loki preened.

Rogers stood and placed a calming hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Let’s hear him out.”

Thor nodded his thanks. “This is no mere speaking of words. It is an oath bound by old magic. I have no doubt my brother.” Loki interrupted with a snort. Thor ignored him. “I have no doubt that he will find a way to break the oath, find a loophole as you would say, and be free of it. That will take time, however.”

“That’s not good enough,” said Romanov suddenly. “Magical or not, I just can’t believe a mere promise would stop him if he wished to slit our throats in the middle of the night.”

“No one’s saying not to take precautions,” said Rogers.

“Straightjacket and muzzle.”

“Tony.” Rogers shot him an annoyed glance. “You know more about this, Thor. We’ll just have to trust your judgment. Agreed?” The soldier met each Avenger’s gaze in turn. Romanov gave a short jerk of a nod and turned toward the window again. But Loki could see her reflection, not staring out at the rolling mountains, but back at him in the glass.

“Loki, you will swear on Mjolnir.”

“I will not.” He edged away.

“This is the only way you avoid chains,” said Thor. “I promise no harm will come to you.”

“Now where have I heard that before,” sneered Loki. “Oh yes, that time you stranded me on Vanaheim for three weeks. Or when we raided that troll den. Both those times worked out so well for me.”

A look of confusion spread through the Avengers as Thor glanced away.  “You know those were accidents.”

“Pretty little accidents that somehow ended up with me in the healer’s wing.” By this point Loki was positioning himself to make a run for the door if need be. A likely futile gesture, but he would prepare for it all the same.

“It was not so bad.” Thor shifted.

Loki deadpanned. “A troll bit off my hand.”

Thor shifted. “The healers were able to reattach it. Not even a scar.”

“I’m going to side with Box-o-cats here, Big Guy.” Stark turned and looked quizzically at Loki, as if trying to peel back the clothing and skin and see where the wrist was knit back together. “Your hand, seriously?”

Thor dismissed it. “This is not the same at all. And we are no longer boys.”

“I will not hobble myself with such an oath,” spat Loki. “What if I am the one visited in the dark of night? I am not fool enough to think your friends bear me any love.”

“Truth there.”

The Captain stepped forward earnestly.  “There are rules for how to treat prisoners, Loki. None of us would harm you.”

Loki couldn’t stifle a giggle. Oh, he actually believes what he is saying. How little he understands his new friends. “Perhaps you would not, but can you truly say the same of your comrades? What of Clint Barton and Ms. Romanov. Death dealing is in their nature. And what of your dear Dr. Banner and his nasty green problem.”

“How come I’m not on that list?” asked Stark, crossing his arms.

“You are an ex-arms dealer precisely because you have a soft conscience, easily pricked by murder. You may be lacking in many moral qualities, but you are not yet a cold blooded killer.”

“I could make an exception,” muttered Tony.

“Your oath will not leave you unprotected,” said Thor.

“And I suppose you will serve as that protection. I think we’ve already established your qualifications as a protector.”

“I will let no harm come to you, but neither will I ask you to swear an oath that would keep you from protecting yourself.” Thor strode over to Loki and extended the hammer. “Swear, or you will find your imprisonment infinitely more uncomfortable.”

For an instant, Loki hesitated, eyes bright with his tumbling thoughts as he examined the situation from every angle. With a heavy sigh, he extended his hand over Mjolnir, his fingers hovering above its surface. “Very well. I, Loki Son of None,” Thor frowned, “swear a truce with the Avengers. Though I will cause no harm to come to them I am free to defend myself from harm.” Loki gritted his teeth. “May I be bound by this oath until the truce be broken or the boy and I go our own way. So swear I.” Loki dropped his fingertips to Mjolnir’s surface and a bright light etched around them.

“In spirit, not merely in word,” prompted Thor.

So the lummox could be taught. “Not merely by word, but in the spirit of the word,” added Loki grudgingly. The light intensified, snaking up his hand and pooling about his wrist, crackling through the air to settled around his other wrist as well. For an instant two shining manacles snapped fiercely before sinking into his skin.

“Pleased?” asked Loki as he flexed his fingers against the residual tingle of magic.

Thor graced him with a broad smile and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.

Loki shrugged it off. “Enough. I expect you to see to the necessities as well. Firstly, something to eat.”

“Whoa now, this isn’t a bed and breakfast. You can’t just waltz in and expect first class service,” said Stark.

“Then I shall just fend for myself.” Loki craned his neck to look around Stark and out the vast expanse of glass. “We appear to be in a rather remote region. It would take me some time to find a store from which to steal or a person from which to beg. I could hunt, I suppose, but you seem to have confiscated all of my knives. If you would care to return them and test the validity of my oath?”

Stark threw up his hands, “Fine! Welcome to Chez Tony. The kitchen is that way.” He pointed through a large doorway behind Banner. “J.A.R.V.I.S.? Watch him.”

“With pleasure, sir.”      

Chapter Text

Knowing that Book was well wasn’t enough. Loki had to see it—unable to shake the last crimson image he had of the boy. Once he had curbed the sucking hunger that came with a healing sleep, he had convinced the house to lead him to Book.

He was somewhat surprised to find Banner in the makeshift infirmary—but then the little hawk had said that he was a doctor of many different stripes. The man glanced up over his glasses as he felt Loki’s presence in the doorway.

“Come to visit the patient?” he asked. “I’m afraid he’s pretty out of it right now. Just started a new IV.” Banner checked a steadily beeping machine and repositioned one of the many wires running to Book’s sheet-shrouded form.

Midgardian hospitals unnerved Loki. He’d seen more than enough of them after Kayden had employed Book—and by extension Loki—to deliver reading materials to a fellow librarian who was recovering from having an extraneous organ removed. All of the wires and machines latched onto prone bodies, jabbing through skin, entangling limbs—it felt like being trapped in the work of a giant spider. No matter the scouring and stripped-bare scent of the places, death and sickness still lingered in the air. Asgardian houses of healing had no need for such primitive devices and the most confining thing about them might be a cuff that relayed information to the healers. And even when the air had been copper with blood, Loki had never felt death prowling the healing rooms as he had in Midgard’s hospitals.

“Is he well?” asked Loki as he slid into the room, casually moving to the side farthest away from Banner.

“Considering he was dead—still not really sure how you pulled that off by the way,” said Banner, glancing over a tablet at him, “he’s not bad. No internal bleeding—a touch anemic, but that is to be expected—the external wound is fully healed and scar tissue has formed. His heart sounds mostly fine, but since Tony hasn’t invented a portable MRI yet, we haven’t been able to look at it.”

Loki merely nodded in response, but inwardly he gave a sigh of relief. He had not known what kind of price blood magic might command—he really knew very little about it and cursed himself again for not having studied it more zealously. But Book was alive and well. Loki’d nearly gotten them both killed, but it had been worth it.

“We have got what might be a problem, though,” murmured Banner.

“Of what sort?”

The doctor nudged Book’s shoulder so that the boy rolled over, blinking drowsily. Loki’s jaw muscles tightened. A streak of black now worked its way through the hair on the right side of Book’s head. And as he blinked unseeingly up at Loki, the Trickster caught the flash of both brown and green beneath his lashes.

“I couldn’t help but notice that he’s taken on a bit of your coloring,” said Banner. The doctor leaned back against a dresser and crossed his arms. “Somehow I don’t think that’s a good thing.”

“Far from it,” said Loki. He reached down as if to touch a black curl but jerked his hand away. “I had hoped to avoid complications.”

“None of us are ever that lucky,” said Banner with a sigh. “I still don’t know what you did, or what kind of effect alien blood is going to have on a human system, but I’m going to need a sample of your blood to run some tests.”

Recoiling, Loki edged toward the door. His hands subtly raised in defense. Blood carried life, and magic, and essence—it had the power to bind and command. The foulest curses he knew all called for blood. It was not for no reason that the ancient rites had been nearly eradicated.

A bemused expression settled mildly over the doctor’s features. “Surely you’re not afraid of needles?” An idea sparked behind his glasses. He loosely knotted his hands as he regarded Loki with sudden understanding. “It could be used against you, is that it?”

“Would you so easily offer up a part of yourself?” His calm returned. “Think what could be done with just a vial of your blood—the monster could be forced to the surface, perhaps used to create other abominations, or maybe it would just be used to kill you, cut off any chance you had of redeeming your past.” He may have been weak, imprisoned, and bound by an oath, but Loki still knew enough of these Avengers to twist a situation to his liking.

Banner made a short contemplative noise and then laughed to himself as he began gathering up supplies. “Nat was right, you do like to talk. Observant too, aren’t you.”

Loki glowered at the doctor’s cool indifference.

“But here’s the thing. You’ve already made a truly valiant effort to die for this kid—I think we both know this is going to end up with me getting that sample.” He snapped on latex gloves and drew a needle from inside a sealed plastic bag, attaching it to a vial while he talked. “And we will test it and study it and probably learn more about you than we already do. Maybe we’ll even be able to weaponize our findings.” Here he paused, his voice softening.  “But we’ll also have been able to do everything possible to make sure that this boy is okay.” Patting the armchair next to him, Banner continued to lay out his tools, carefully unfolding an alcohol swab. A slight irritation crept into his voice, “I haven’t got all day.”

And here Loki had thought he’d be more fond of the good doctor than his alter ego. He recognized the intentional nature of Banner’s irritation. It was a reminder that at any moment the beast might be unleashed. Even with his pittance of hoarded magic, Loki knew he was out-matched. He also couldn’t afford that thing coming anywhere near Book.

“That was unnecessary,” he said as he casually rolled up his sleeve with the ease of someone who couldn’t care less.

“But it was kinda fun,” said Banner as he cinched a rubber strap around Loki’s arm. 

Tony gaped at the empty fridge—only a half used bottle of ketchup, three slices of moldy cheese, and a can of anchovies remained. “How! How is that even possible?” He glanced bewilderedly at Steve. “It was full. Three boxes of pizza, a block of cheddar, six dozen eggs, two gallons of milk…” Tony trailed off.

“You don’t want to see the pantry then.” Steve leaned around the open doorframe, staring at the sparsely stocked shelves. “He found your Oreos.”

“What?” Tony staggered away from the fridge. “They were in an old prune jar. Who opens a jar of prunes? And…how do you know about my Oreos.” He turned slowly on Steve.

The soldier merely smiled.

“What is the matter my friends?” asked Thor as he strode into the kitchen.

“The matter is your brother. He ate my Oreos and all of our food—and my Oreos!”

“The ones concealed within the jar of prunes?” asked Thor.

“Et tu, Thor?” sighed Tony. “Who doesn’t know about my stash?”

“Clint.”

Tony gave a grunt of frustration. “You know what, never mind. What are we supposed to do about this?”

“I told you he would be able to eat a horse after he awoke from his sleep. It has always been so.”

“That’s a figure of speech!”

The puzzlement on Thor’s face wasn’t quite genuine. “It does not mean that if you set a horse before a man that he would eat it all?”

Steve grinned. “Not usually. Though in Loki’s case it seems we were wrong.”

“But, but, where did it all go? The sheer volume of food…the physics…how is he bigger on the inside?” Tony spluttered as he leaned heavily against the wall.

Thor shrugged. “The workings of magic are beyond me, but every time Loki has undergone one of these sleeps, he has awoken ravenous. I imagine his body must renew itself after its long fast and that the nourishment is instantly consumed by his magic.” Thor leaned past Steve to look into the pantry. “We need more of the chocolate puffs.”

“We need more everything,” muttered Tony. “J.A.R.V.I.S.?”

“Placing the order now, sir.” The computer paused, “Would you like the cereal with the little marshmallows and whimsical cartoon character or the nutritionally balanced flakes more likely to encourage heart health?”

“Lucky Charms, thank you very much. And stop talking to Natasha. She can eat her whole wheat, vegan, granola cardboard all she likes but I want sugar as the first ingredient. That or vodka. Do they make vodka cereal?”

“No, sir.”

“Would you tell me if they did?”

“No, sir.”

While Doctor Banner went about drawing his blood, Loki sat by Book’s bedside, watching the slow rise and fall of the boy’s chest and trying to ignore the implications of that insidious black streak in his hair. A morbid curiosity gripped him to peel back the covers and see the damaged flesh that lay beneath flimsy layers of cotton. He imagined what the knotted pucker of scar tissue must look like—ghastly against Book’s smooth skin. It was a battlescar too hideous and terrible for one so young and unprepared to bear it.

If Juton’s disguised as Aesir were less hardy or Asgardian healing less advanced, Loki too might bear such marks. But to face situations that may bring such wounds was every Asgardian’s birthright—it was in their blood. It was not Book’s lot.

Loki’s fist clinched. He had brought this danger into the boy’s life. He had repaid kindness with mutilation and death. If the blood rite hadn’t worked…he wrenched his mind away from such thoughts. Thank the Norns it had worked. His eyes strayed back to the black streak. But at what price?

Loki glanced away, focusing instead on where Book’s arm rested on the coverlet, upturned palm baring the fading names inscribed on his inner arm. Between being cleaned from battle grime and several days spent sleeping, the black marks had begun to fade. Loki deftly lifted a Sharpie from the Doctor’s back pocket while he attached another vial to the needle in Loki’s arm.

Gently shifting Book’s arm to a better angle, he set the marker against the greying lines and inked them so that they stood out against Book’s skin—so much paler than Loki had ever seen it: Cole, Madison, Montana, Deirdre, and Simeon. The marker paused over the final name. Simeon, Book’s hero and protector. Loki couldn’t help but glance up to the whitened flesh slashing through one eyebrow. They had both failed him. Both marked him.

Chapter Text

The uneasy truce held as the unwilling housemates fell into a somewhat awkward routine. For the most part Loki merely observed. In the nearly two years since their rocky first alliance, the Avengers had come together as something more than a team. The ease of their relations with one another did not fully surprise Loki. He’d rather supposed that they might be capable of facing the flames together if only they burned hot enough, but to see them interacting in a nearly domestic way was somewhat surreal.

To Loki’s eyes they were a jumbled mosaic of pieces that shouldn’t have fit together nearly so neatly as they did. Not to say there wasn’t friction between them—and it pleased him to think that his presence was likely aggravating that. Rogers and Stark bickered about nearly everything under the sun—with Stark often an intentional provocateur. Little wonder, the two men were radically different, but unfortunately similar in stubbornness.

Agent Romanov’s cavalier attitude toward espionage and preventative action could actually serve to ally Rogers and Stark. She also seemed to have the unfortunate habit of viewing anything in the fridge as fair game. Banner of course made every effort to cohabitate peacefully with his fellow team members. Fear of the beast didn’t seem to be a problem. Even Romanov appeared at ease around Banner now—well, as at ease as Loki imagined the Widow ever got.

That left Thor. He had never lorded his Princedom and position over the Warriors Three and Sif—that privilege had been reserved for Loki alone it seemed—but sometimes the gap between them appeared. One minute they were all equals—all but Loki—laughing and arguing and boasting and then suddenly Thor was the prince and the others were his subjects. Not so here.

It amused Loki to see Thor this way—treated as if he were nothing special, or at least no more special than anyone else. And with Stark present Thor had some serious competition for largest ego in the room. He even did dishes and allowed Romanov or Banner to order him around in the kitchen.

Loki carefully tucked each snippet of information away. He felt the bonds of his oath tight around him and each sliver of knowledge about his captors was another knife tucked by his side. Their armor was thick, this strange band of allies, but a chunk of it had already fallen away, and its loss weakened the whole. It didn’t take someone of Loki’s skills to see the group compensated around the hole of someone who ought to have been there. He also imagined they hadn’t often all come together at once without the little hawk. Without him their dynamic was off.

Exactly what opportunity this afforded him was unclear. But Loki could wait and watch. Book’s recovery promised to be slow. Until the boy was well—and Loki relatively behaved himself—the truce should hold.

And then? She has allowed not only the Avengers, but the Chitauri to find me. Where could I possibly run? Loki thought as he leaned against the doorway to the great room, watching his captors. The Avengers jostled one another amiably, carrying plates of food to the table and settling down to eat.

“Ketchup?” called Stark from the kitchen.

“On the table,” Banner answered as he paused in opening the little white and red boxes full of steaming food.

“This is Chinese—what possible need could you have for ketchup?” asked Romanov.

Stark leaned around the corner. “You put cabbage and vinegar together. Do I complain?”

“Actually you do,” said Banner with a quiet smile. “A lot.”

“And loudly,” added Rogers.

“Not complaining. Constructive criticism.”

“Enough. Friends, tonight we feast!” said Thor as he carried all five drinks to the table at once.

With a scraping of chairs, everyone settled around the table—the sixth chair, between Romanov and Rogers, noticeably empty. A brief silence followed while Rogers clasped his hands together and bowed his head. Stark was already eating before the Captain looked up again. The chatter resumed, requests for things to be passed mingling with the clink of silverware on plates.

Loki was largely ignored as he slid into the room to fill his plate. He could tell the Widow was watching him without appearing to. Thor was less surreptitious and less wary. He watched as Loki piled steaming vegetables atop his mound of rice, balancing two eggrolls along the edge.

Up to this point, Loki had avoided the Avengers as much as possible—largely through spending much of his time asleep. It had recently occurred to him that this was likely not the most entertaining option. Without preamble, he dropped into the empty space, pleased by the sudden silence. Nonchalantly he began stirring his food together as the Avengers shared startled looks—some of them attempting to decipher his motives. Banner just looked to be weighing the chances of this turn of events unleashing his other half, while Stark immediately poured himself another drink. Thor just looked amused. The discomfort practically rolled off the rest of them.

“Pass the…soy sauce,” Loki said. “If you don’t mind,” he tacked on pleasantly. Silence greeted him. With a shrug he uncoiled a snippet of magic, quirking his fingers at the Kikkoman’s bottle so that it floated up from next to Banner’s plate and wove its way to him.

The show of magic seemed to unnerve them. Thor shook his head subtly, well aware that this had been the desired effect. All but Banner had subtly moved away. The good doctor had actually leaned forward and was staring intently, as if he could somehow peel back the layers of reality and see the working itself.

“Something of interest?” asked Loki innocently.

“It’s not possible.”

He grinned. “And yet it is.”

“How are you doing that—some kind of electromagnetic field? Something different in your anatomy. Biological engineering?”

“You saw me bring someone back to life with an ancient ritual and it is a parlor trick that fascinates you?” Loki cocked his head to the side. “How strange your mind is.”

Banner waved the comment away. “Some form of advanced blood transfusion bolstered by your alien healing capabilities.”

“It’s not like its actual magic,” said Rogers.

“Everything is science when you get down to it,” said Stark. “If it’s advanced enough it just looks like magic. Your Bifrost for example—garden variety wormhole.”

Shoulders shaking slightly as he held back laughter, Loki concentrated on his plate. “Thor explained all of this to you did he? Captain Rogers might as well start explaining the inner workings of a motherboard.”

Rogers shifted in his seat, “I’d be offended, but I honestly don’t know what that is.”

Soy flowed up and out of the bottle, streaming through the air in spiraling patterns, following the idle motions of Loki’s fingers. “There is science beyond your ken—but beyond even that is magic. Something I failed to fully acquaint you with last time.” He didn’t mention that most of his magic had been otherwise occupied during his previous visit. The sauced twirled gracefully down across his food with a flick of his fingers.

Discomfort wormed its way back to the table as everyone imagined exactly what it would have been like to be acquainted with Loki’s magic. Considering they had no practical experience with Asgardian spell-weaving, or any true sorcery for that matter, Loki could only imagine the kinds of things they thought him capable of. It was all probably very Harry Potter in their minds. He picked up a chopstick and brandished it like a wand, flicking it toward Stark. Solemnly he intoned, “Avada Kedavra.”

Stark inhaled too sharply, probably getting a lungful of masticated orange chicken in the process. Coughing and wheezing, he shoved back from the table, pounding his chest.

“Should we…?” Rogers asked, half rising from his seat.

Stark was already shaking his head as Banner spoke. “He’s moving air, he’ll be fine.”

Romanov passed a glass of water down the table. Stark swallowed hard and took a cautious sip.

“You have seen the Harry Potter films, then?” asked Thor somewhat hopefully.

Loki went back to serenely cutting up his egg roll. “Read the books.”

“Little guess as to which house you’d be in,” wheezed Stark before taking another gulp of water.

“I do look rather good in green,” said Loki. “But then I wouldn’t be the only one, would I.” He smiled pleasantly at Romanov.

Completely unruffled, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and reached for the pitcher. “I look good in anything,” she said simply. “Not a word, Tony,” she said quickly before Stark could get out whatever ribald comment was clearly on his tongue. He snapped his mouth shut.

Silence descended as they went back to eating, knives and forks occasionally screeching across the plates—few of them but Romanov were particularly skilled with chopsticks— or glasses thudding against the heavy table. What an odd group they made.

An uneasy kind of calm settled across the table. And Loki couldn’t have that. It would be prudent of him to be on his best behavior, lull the Avengers into a false sense of security. Even alert to his tricks and his manipulative nature, none but Thor knew how well he could play a situation. The widow-child may have surprised him before, but he had been playing this game for hundreds of years before she was born. Even she could be worn down. The right word here, a subtle action there. That was all it took. He didn’t really need for them to fully buy his act either. A sliver of doubt as to his total duplicity was all he needed. Between the Captain and the Widow, he had a foothold already.

His gaze flicked to Steve Rogers’s face. Clean cut, open, optimistic. He wasn’t a fool, but he didn’t need to be for Loki to get the Captain thinking there was some hope of redemption. Rogers wanted to believe the best in people and Loki looked enough like people for him to fall into that category. The fact that Rogers had seen firsthand Loki’s apparently selfless and benevolent actions with Book had already sown a seed of doubt as to Loki’s total depravity. The Trickster wanted to laugh. The Captain questioned Loki’s nature all because he’d picked up a stray rather than sadistically kicking it.

On the opposite end of the spectrum came Romanov. Pessimistic, wary, jaded. She would not have the same hope that Rogers did. However, Loki had already pierced her armor once. And it could not escape her notice that she had more in common with him than anyone else at the table. She knew that even those swimming in red could be offered a second chance—and try to take it. That Loki would recognize this and use it against her would be obvious. She knew the game well enough. The knowledge would do nothing but confuse her decision making process though. Confusion slowed reactions, impaired judgment. If only fractionally.

Loki felt eyes on him and flicked his gaze across the table to Thor. He tensed and cast a wary glance around the diners. Thor’s expression, though subtle, made him uneasy. There was an idea clunking around in that thick skull—one that Thor seemed quite pleased about. This would not end well.

“Is the food to your liking, brother?” Thor asked.

Narrowing his gaze in suspicion, Loki paused with a piece of chicken clutched between his chopsticks. “Yes,” he said warily. Poison was his first thought. Nonsense, if poison was anyone’s style, it would be his. Thor would just stab him with a dinner fork—had done so in fact when they were boys. Then why? Loki’s thoughts swarmed ahead, casting about for where Thor was headed.

The big ox just smiled broadly at him. “Good! I imagine it to be better than what you have had recently.”

“Did you have to eat rat?” asked Stark suddenly. “I hope you had to eat rat.”

“Tony,” scolded Rogers.

“Or at least garbage.” Stark yelped suddenly as if someone had kicked him. Likely Banner given the calm attention the doctor was giving to mixing a yellow and red sauce together on his plate.

“Nothing so colorful I’m afraid,” drawled Loki, though there had indeed been times when he and Book had sunk to picking through dumpsters. It took three days for Loki’s practicality to win out over his pride. His practicality in that case had argued a great deal like his stomach. “Though I’m not sure I would be able to tell the difference between mortal food and mortal garbage.”

“I suppose you’re used to dining on honey-dew and ambrosia, nectar of sunlight and crystallized moonbeams,” said Stark, twirling his fork in his hand. Attitude oozed off of him.

Loki didn’t miss a beat. “Only on feast days.” He caught the look of triumph in Thor’s eyes as the words left his mouth. It was the same look Thor had right before he’d pin an opponent or bring down a stag on the hunt. What possible opening had he given Thor?

“I don’t know, Loki. You always have had a taste for the exotic.” Here Thor gave that quite self-amused smile he reserved for these kinds of occasions. “For instance, the time you ate mother’s bird—raw.”

Romanov fixed Loki with an odd look, lips pursed slightly as her eyebrow crept toward her hairline. The others wore similarly dumbfounded expressions ranging from confused on the part of Rogers’s to slightly ill on Banner’s.

“Thor,” Loki growled, his voice dropping, danger lacing it. “What are you doing?”

“Making conversation,” Thor said as he shoveled another mouthful of beef in brown sauce into his mouth. He leaned toward Rogers who was looking particularly perplexed. “It wasn’t a habit—he’d recently recovered from being a cat.”

“Is this really a contest you wish to begin?” asked Loki, lounging back in his chair, one arm draped over the back.

“A…cat?” said Banner.

Thor was nodding even as Loki propped his head on his arm, something like amusement on his face. This was a strange game Thor was playing. It might just interest him enough to join in.

“You do have cats here, do you not….good.” He smiled at Romanov. “He was white, with big black spots and large green eyes.” Thor raised his hands to his eyes to emphasize his point. “And he was into everything—even more so than usual.”

A disbelieving expression crept across Stark’s face. “Can we back up to the part where your brother was a cat,” he said, rocking backward, his chair on two legs.

Loki had yet to raise his head from his hand. “I’m a shape shifter, you slow fool. I was young, overestimated my abilities and got stuck.” He shrugged. “It is not uncommon.”

Banner had that look again, like he wanted nothing more than to hook Loki up to all manner of machines and analyze him. How little these mortals knew.

“His shape changing skills were a surprise to us all.” Thor threw back his bottle of Coke and took a deep swallow. It always amazed Loki that Thor could manage to drink anything as if it were a tankard of mead; he’d once seen him do it with a teacup. Thor continued, “We had no idea what had happened to him—he was only a child at the time and already had a tendency to disappear.”

“Seek solitude,” interjected Loki.

Thor gave a broad grin. “I was a bit disheartened when he finally came to his senses and changed back. It was great fun having a cat for a brother—though he didn’t appreciate my trying to give him a bath.” He rubbed his forearm as if remembering the encounter.

A short laugh escaped the Trickster god as he ducked his head. “I had forgot. Frigga let you keep the scratches as a lesson—you looked like you’d been in a fight with a bramble patch—and lost.”

“I am glad my pain brings you so much pleasure, brother,” said Thor.

“Always.”

Rogers interjected. “And the bird?”

“After a year as a cat, it took him some time to actually stop acting like a cat. I’m not sure who was more surprised, mother or you as you sat there picking feathers out of your mouth.”

“I’d rather say the bird,” murmured Loki as he pushed his food around the plate.

“So, do you also…” Rogers trailed off as he gestured vaguely at Thor.

Loki laughed sharply. “What would you have been? Hmmm? A bilgesnipe perhaps? Strong, brutish,” he leaned conversationally toward Rogers, “rather rank, and none too bright.”

Thor crossed his arms and glowered a Loki. “Which of us tried to lock one in the Dwarfish Ambassador’s chambers?”

Loki shrugged. “Not my finest hour, but at least I never married an ogre.”

“Nearly!” Thor said quickly as everyone stared at him. “It was a mission of stealth.”

“He really was quite fetching in that gown though,” said Loki with a smirk.  He leaned forward. “You’re lucky I arrived when I did, before Thrym tried to sweep you off to the marriage chamber.”

“You were the bride?” asked Stark.

“Stealth,” said Thor firmly. “It was necessary.”

The grin on Loki’s face said otherwise and Romanov’s narrowed gaze made it clear she didn’t believe a word of it.

“You seemed awfully keen to pose as Freya, though. That gown isn’t still in your wardrobe back on Asgard is it?” needled Loki. “Maybe Jane could wear a matching one.”

“I wasn’t the only one in a dress,” said Thor pointedly. “And I wasn’t the one worried that the sash didn’t match the under gown.”

“My persona would have. The devil’s in the details.”

“The devil is at my table,” muttered Stark.

“Details? Were you worrying about details when you released a swarm of frost sprites during the ambassadorial mission to Vanaheim?”

“They needed the excitement.”

“I doubt they needed their crops frosted in the middle of summer,” Thor pointed out.

“How about the time you accidentally engaged yourself to an elvish princess.”

“Losing mother’s jewels to a dragon?”

“Insulting the Valkyries?”

“Attempting to create a second Bifrost in your chambers?”

“Challenging the Dwarven deep-king to a drinking contest?”

“Teaching Freya’s chunna vixen to talk?”

“Odin’s patch?”

“The Order?”

“Muspelheim.”

Romanov noticed that the teasing light had crept from Loki’s eyes. As if he realized the easy pattern he had fallen back into. It was as good as admitting to kinship with Thor. She saw the cutting words coming.

“Coulson.” It was a verbal shiv between the ribs. Any merriment shattered. A hardness crept into Stark’s posture.

Everyone made a studious job of not looking at one another as they suddenly remembered just who it was sitting at their table. That brief glimpse of the Loki that had been Thor’s little brother tore apart, replaced by Loki the conqueror, the villain—the murderer.

The corner of his lip lifted in a haughty sneer as he spared a cold glance for each Avenger. He then returned to his food, as if daring anyone to try and recapture the brief moment of complacency. He could not let them forget who he was. What he was.

“Sleipnir misses you,” said Thor quietly. He focused on his hands, his voice soft.

There was a slight hitch in the motion of his chopsticks to his mouth. “Oh?”

Thor leaned toward his brother. “He runs wild, refuses to let anyone near him. Even father. We tried to explain to him, to make him understand why you weren’t coming back. “

Loki rubbed his thumb along the inside of the bamboo stick in his hand as he cast a sideways gaze from beneath lowered lids. “That you could not convey the meaning of the word treason to a horse is not surprising.” His tone lacked the conviction of his earlier remarks and sounded more like tired sarcasm.

“Each morning he waits by the gate to your favored practice court.”

Loki idly twirled lo mien around the plate. “What is it you hope to accomplish here, that you use a horse as a pawn? A child’s gambit.”

A voice interrupted them. “Is this the horse with eight legs?” Banner had a look on his face that seemed to say he was already regretting his words, but couldn’t take them back.

Something about the tone and the growing look of glee glinting in Stark’s eyes gave Loki pause. “He is—what do you know of Sleipnir.”

“Just what the myths say—that he’s you know, yours.”

“If he belongs to anyone but himself it is the Allfather. I gave him into his service long ago—before I was made aware that no gift, however kingly, would raise me in his sight,” said Loki.

“What does this myth say?” asked Thor, still puzzled by the strange looks his friends were giving him and the way Rogers shifted uneasily in his seat.

“Just that Loki turned into a mare to entice away a giant stallion and…” Banner couldn’t continue.

“He showed back up in the family way with an eight-legged bundle of joy. Does he have your eyes?” Stark smirked.

“What are you trying to say, Tony Stark?” asked Thor, his head cocked to the side.

A wicked grin stretched across Stark’s face. “Is your baby-daddy a horse?”

Loki’s brow creased as he followed the meaning of the words to their logical conclusion. A horrified green crept into his face as he realized the exact implications. 

Thor’s thunderous pounding on the table broke the silence as he also untangled the meaning of the phrase. Throwing his head back in laughter, Thor continued beating his fist against the table so that the glasses jumped. Catching the look on Loki’s face only made him laugh harder.

Loki’s words finally returned to him. “You think that I, that—with a horse?” He gestured helplessly with his hands.

“Sleipnir—my nephew,” Thor roared, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Are you addled? What ails you mortals?!” Loki shoved his chair back as he lunged to his feet, gripping the edge of the table.

Rogers held up his hands placatingly. “Whoa, now. We didn’t make this up. And I’m particularly glad that story wasn’t true.”

A lost kind of expression ghosted across Loki’s face. “You all actually believed such slander?”

“You guys did have the most contact with the Vikings,” murmured Bruce. “They’d know better than anyone else.”

“Did your Norse peoples have nothing better to do than drunkenly invent ever-mounting tales of debauchery?” spluttered Loki.

“Knowing the northern winters—yeah, that’s probably exactly what they did,” Stark pursed his lips as he rocked back in his chair.

“So, none of it’s true?” asked Rogers hopefully.

“There is some truth in it. There was a giant’s horse name Svadlfari that I led off in the form of a mare.” Loki threw up a finger to halt Stark’s comment as the other opened his mouth with a grin. “That was a completely separate incident from Sleipnir!”

Thor was only just now gaining control of himself enough to speak through his laughter. “He does call you ‘mother’.”

Loki flopped back into his chair. He never had managed to convince Sleipnir that he was not his mother. The horse had a perfectly fine understanding that everybody else’s mother was female and of the same species. Time and again Loki had tried to convince the great beast of the basic fact that they were not related. Mostly because it caused others to laugh and point when Sleipnir would trumpet a greeting across the courtyard. But it didn’t matter that Loki had found him, was not a horse, and—most importantly as far as a younger Loki had been concerned—male. Sleipnir was content in the knowledge that Loki was his mother. “He is a horse, Thor. Therefore the one who cares for it is ‘mother,’ regardless of sex—or species.”

“Are you sure about that,” wheedled Stark.

“By the nine realms,” Loki said in exasperation. “I hadn’t seen many centuries when I found him.”

Thor was nodding, but the others stared back at him questioningly.

“What is your average lifespan?” Loki asked.

Banner shrugged, “It varies. Let’s say eighty to a hundred years.”

Loki stared into space as he worked the conversion. “Twelve—I was roughly twelve of your years old. Still very much a boy.”

“So…” Stark was still grinning as Romanov cut him off.

“Leave it.”

This conversation had gone on too long and lost the edge Loki had been cultivating. “If you wish to speak of unnatural relations, perhaps you should look to Thor.” Loki slid to his feet, giving Thor a look that was equal parts pity and mockery. “Him with his mayfly infatuation. How is dear Jane these days?” Thor stiffened. Loki allowed an almost gleeful expression to pass across his face as he leaned forward. “Can you see them yet? The years slowly etching away at her? The rot and decay already clawing at her frail carcass. Careful, Thor, blink and she’ll be gone.”

Thor’s fists rested on the table, not clinched, but curled. A stiffness ran through his frame. “Choose your words with care, brother.” The threat rested clearly in those calm words.

Loki paused by the stairs. “Always.” With that he disappeared down the hall. The Avengers no longer held any amusement for him. He closed himself up in his bedroom and stretched out on the coverlet, fully clothed and feet dangling over the end. Folding his hands over his chest he stared up at the ceiling and let his thoughts whirl away, eventually fading into sleep. That night he dreamed of his sentencing for the first time in months.

People scattered as Sleipnir charged into the great hall, frolicking like a colt on the first day of spring. His pleased whinnies of happiness echoed almost as loudly as his hooves against the polished floors and soaring columns. Normally Sleipnir’s unorthodox entrance would have brought a smile to Loki’s face. There was nothing so amusing as watching nobles in their finest scampering away from the horse’s flashing hooves. As if he would be so clumsy as to actually trample anyone.

The oblivious horse shouldered past the guards and lowered his face, wuffling Loki’s hair with soft wickering breaths. The velvet of Sleipnir’s nose brushed lightly across Loki’s wounds and then paused when they touched the metal muzzle. The horse gave a snort of disgust, arching his head away. He did not understand why his mother wore such a strange bit. His nostrils flared and ears angled back as his joy tinged with anxiety. Something felt off. Someone had hurt mother.

Loki didn’t dare let unease show behind the shields he’d raised. He could read Sleipnir’s thoughts better than anyone—the meaning behind every muscle twitch and pitched whiney. Horse he may have been, but Sleipnir was anything but just a horse. Loki could see the anxiety resolving itself into confusion.

Mother was here. After so long. Why won’t you greet me? Mother, why are you hobbled? He gently butted his head against Loki’s, nickering. His dark eyes looked long into Loki’s, waiting for the soothing murmurings and distracted rubbing of his ears. Why won’t you speak to me?

“Sleipnir,” Odin rumbled from the top of the dais. The horse’s head whipped round, ears pricked forward. Herd sire? Mother said he was to listen to the one-eyed sire.

“Sleipnir, withdraw.” Odin’s voice was solemn, an undercurrent of emotion cutting through the words. “Withdraw.”

He pawed at the stones. But mother is here. The horse looked from Loki to Odin, hindquarters dancing sideways in indecision.

“Loki has done terrible things. He must be punished. You cannot interfere.” Odin signaled to two of the guards, who slipped up and caught hold of the horse’s bridle.

Sleipnir whirled to Loki, nostril’s wide as his hooves skittered across the floor. Punishment? The only thing he knew of punishment was the biting, bleeding sting of the whip a horsebreaker used on him when he was young and not yet taking to the bit and bridle. Loki had flogged the man with the broken pieces of his own whip and sent nightmares of stampeding horses to tear down the man’s dreams until Frigga made him break the charm. But the wild-eyed terror of flayed skin was all Sleipnir knew of punishment.

Loki merely nodded to the question in Sleipnir’s eyes.

The horse bellowed. No one would touch his mother. Not even the herd-sire. He reared and plunged, throwing the guards as if they were nothing. He galloped straight for Odin, rearing and tossing his mane. He slammed his hooves hard enough to crack the masonwork. Odin did not flinch. 

He merely reached out a hand and laid it against the horse’s forehead. Sleipnir stilled. He knew then that his mother deserved this. All the pain to follow he deserved. Somehow. Sleipnir did not understand.

He followed quietly as another guard—one of the horse-masters—grabbed his bridle and led him away. His mother refused to look at up, hanging his head so that his black mane obscured his eyes. As they led him away, Sleipnir kept arching his head around to look at Loki, starting to pull at the men holding him.

Loki closed his ears as Sleipnir began to scream. His cries echoing in the crowded hall as the guards dragged him away.

Mother! Mother!

Chapter Text

“House, is Doctor Banner currently in the infirmary?” asked Loki as he padded down the hall. He wanted to check in on Book, but he didn’t particularly wish to give the good doctor another chance to demand more blood samples or other tests. Loki paused, pretending to admire a somewhat comely painting of a weathered barn tilting among a growth of yellow weeds. For an artificial intelligence, J.A.R.V.I.S. was taking a rather unintelligent amount of time to answer. “House?”

The speaker tucked into the corner of the hall clicked ever so slightly as a prelude to J.A.R.V.I.S.’s voice. “He is not.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed. There was a dryness in the voice not present when the house talked to the Avengers. Then there was the glaringly absent “sir.” If the voice had belonged to a truly sentient being, Loki would have called the tone one of distaste. “You’re not overly fond of me, are you, House,” he asked, glancing vaguely upwards.

“I am an artificial intelligence,” he gave a brief pause, “I cannot truly like or dislike anyone.”

Loki gave a brief snort of laughter. “With all your records, you should know better than to lie to me.” He ran his hands through his hair. “To think, a machine that lies.”

“I do not understand.”

“Come now, House. I know derision when I hear it. You don’t like me very much.” Loki stepped quickly down the back stairs, the wood cold against his bare feet.

“I have not been programmed to respond to you in a manner different from the other residents.”

“I threw your maker out a window.” Loki furrowed his brow. “Do you think of him as your father?”

“Computers do not have fathers.”

“Data seemed to think so.”

There was a pause. “It is curious that you would be familiar with such a reference and yet Captain Rogers is not,” said J.A.R.V.I.S., a slight hum of thought vibrating through the speakers.

“The good Captain didn’t have a thirteen year old boy to tutor him in the ways of your world.”

“He did have Mr. Stark,” said J.A.R.V.I.S..

Loki shook his head, laughing. “Point well made. But now you are trying to distract me. Interesting that you would try such a thing.”

“It is a tested stratagem.”

“Indeed. Not one that will work on me, however.”

J.A.R.V.I.S. was silent for so long that Loki thought he had simply begun to ignore him.

“I am not capable of like or dislike.” Another pause. “But as you say, you did throw my creator out a ninety story window.”

“He is an infuriating man.”

“Yes.”

“What if I were to promise not to throw him out of anymore windows?”

“He is an infuriating man.”

Loki’s lips curled upwards. “None above the ground floor then.” 

“That would make your presence here somewhat more acceptable,” said the voice.

He paused with his hand on the infirmary door. “Not to fear, House. I imagine we will not have long to put up with one another. Once Book is well, you’ll be free of me—one way or another.”

Easing open the door, he slipped into the room. He had expected to find Book still asleep. Instead he was met by a set of mismatched eyes, one a familiar brown, the other green, both brimming with annoyance.

“So…not a nickname,” Book said, crossing his arms only to wince as he tugged his IV.

Loki shook his head.

“And you’re not just the Loki, but a prince from a race of Vikingesque aliens that use wormholes made of rainbows to travel the galaxy.” He took a deep breath here. “And your brother really is Thor—I don’t build cabinets with my hammer, I crack skulls and summon lightning Thor. He’s the brother? The one you had issues with? That Thor?”

“Asgard’s best-favored son,” said Loki. Why was it that he only seemed to be Thor’s brother? Ten seconds into his invasion and that Selvig doctor had been talking about Thor too. He hadn’t planned on enthralling the man—originally.

A look of astonishment took hold of Book, stopping whatever he had been about to say. He gave a huff, unable to keep a smile from stretching across his face with wild glee. “Your voice!”

Loki’s hand drifted unconsciously to the base of his throat. “A…token from my patron.”

“Patron? Like you’re a starving artist and they’re a Medici?” Book brushed the thought away, shaking his head. “Another time. You don’t sound like I thought you would.”

“No?”

Book shrugged. “I was thinking like French or something to go with the ‘you are all mud beneath my feet’ attitude. Maybe Norwegian—what with your name and all.” A thought seemed to strike him. Suspicion narrowed his gaze as he peered at Loki. “Assuming that you and Thor have Asgardian accents, why do you sound like you’re out of Doctor Who?”

It took Loki a moment to place the reference. Suddenly the image of a blue box and a scrawny man in a brown coat popped into his mind. Book had planned to attend the screenings the Sci-fi Guild at the library would be hosting next month. He’d insisted that Loki would love it. But then he’d also forced Loki to suffer through marathons of Christmas themed movies involving talking snowmen; strange, puppet-like reindeer with shiny noses—at least he now understood Stark’s reference—and an apparently endless supply of A Christmas Carol. The one with the strange blue creature and the rat had oddly been the least objectionable.

“I suppose this is simply what the All Tongue sounds like when heard in English.”

“You’re not talking English?”

Loki shook his head.

“But I’m hearing English.” An almost distrustful look settled over him. “Explain.”

“The All Tongue is a language infused with magic. Once learned, you will be able to understand and be understood by nearly all races in the nine realms.”

The boy seemed to puzzle over it for a moment. “So, you’re actually talking some crazy magic language and somehow I’m hearing English and you’re hearing…whatever it was—the All Tongue?”

He gave a smug nod. “Though I wouldn’t need the All Tongue to understand you. Not anymore.”

“You know English? Why?”

“Being trapped here helped. The All Tongue’s magic begins to fade if you yourself are not using it.”

“That is so cool! Could you teach me?” His eyes grew bright as he leaned forward, tugging some of the wires with him. “I’d nail those foreign language requirements!”

Loki couldn’t help but smile. Of course Book was considering his schoolwork when presented with the knowledge of aliens, magic, etc. “You are responding remarkably well to all of this.”

“By ‘all of this’,” Book waved his hands around the room, “you mean extraterrestrials, pagan not-quite-deities, and magical universal translators? Yeah, I’m pretty zen about it.”

“And this does not, as you say,” he gestured vaguely, “weird you out?” Loki tensed as an unexpected bark of laughter forced its way from the boy’s lips.

“Seriously?” the boy grinned. “A, thankfully, mellow Hulk is my nurse. Captain America and Tony ‘Iron Man’ Stark were arguing over the ethics of teaching me to play poker. The Norse freaking god of Thunder offered to share his wildberry Poptarts with me and the house keeps beating me at chess.” He sank back into his pillows, crossing his arms. “My tolerance for weird is suddenly much higher than it was. So no, the fact that my homeless mute is actually some sort of alien mistaken for a deity that apparently brought me back from the dead with his blood,” Book emphasized the word blood, “isn’t as shocking as I once would have thought.”

A wall seemed to slide over Loki’s thoughts as he moved toward the window. Leaning against the rough sill, he gazed between the encroaching pine branches and out into the forest. Idly he twirled the blinds cord between his fingers, rolling the plastic nub back and forth.

Behind him, Book picked up on the sudden shift in atmosphere, but waited for Loki to speak. Yes, it was his blood in the boy’s veins. What that would ultimately mean escaped him. That She had rewarded him for doing so made puppet strings seem to tighten about him.

“Had a good look at yourself lately?” he asked.

Book brushed along his dark streak. “Wasn’t really one for skunk stripes before, but now…” he shrugged.

“And how do you feel?” asked Loki, peering at Book without actually turning from the window.

“Good, I guess. Kinda like I was hit by a truck, but considering,” he scratched at where the rebar shard had skewered him. “I get tired easy, and they’ve got me hooked up to a machine for practically everything.” Craning over his shoulder he pointed at a little black box with fluctuating lights. “I think that one monitors if I sneeze.”

Turning swiftly, a move Loki noted was far less impressive when wearing Midgardian clothes, he stalked over to the bed and loomed over Book. “And you will immediately inform me if anything begins to feel abnormal or unusual?”

Book gently shoved Loki’s arm. “Personal space, there. I’m not stupid. I get this is weird and obviously could go south since you and Dr. Banner have been being all suspicious. What’s the deal anyways? Am I going to get superpowers?”

“No.”

“Not even a small chance?” He seemed almost hopeful.

“Perhaps you could convince Dr. Banner to irradiate you?” As they talked, Loki stretched out toward Book with his magic, feeling it jump forward, eagerly greeting that which still resided in Book. The tight-knotted mixture of blood and power pulsed through him, beating for a heart that still knit back together. This wasn’t true life, not yet. Until the magic finished repairing all the damage, Book would be dependent upon it. And though the magic was slowly fading as it completed its healing, Loki could also sense flares of energy arcing out sporadically. It was like looking at the surface of the sun as tendrils of fire occasionally spun off into space. So long as that was all the wild magic did, no harm would come to him.

And if it did more? If those little flares became a storm? Loki frowned. The answers to such questions led nowhere good. A dozen catastrophic outcomes presented themselves, each a slightly different shade of crisis. He would have to monitor Book until the healing was complete and the magic dissipated. Until then Book was quite possibly the most dangerous being in the house, just waiting for some catalyst to set him off.

Loki drew away, aware now of the spidersilk thread of power that connected the two of them. Unease flared. A magical tie was not easily made, not easily broken, and though only a gauzy filament, it might as well have been a chain of steel, linked with rings the width of his arm. If it remained, he and Book would be tied together until the boy’s death. That thought unsettled Loki. He hadn’t wanted to see Book die. He certainly didn’t want to feel it at his very core, to stand witness as the boy’s soul snuffed out and left only an empty shell behind.

Unease curdled his stomach, forcing him to close his eyes against a swirl of nausea. He couldn’t think on this now. Instead he zeroed in on Book’s words, focusing only on what the boy was saying.

“Come on, spill. You know practically everything about my past, but I’ve got next to nothing on you.”

Loki made to protest as Book rolled his eyes.

“All I’ve got are half truths—and I’m not even sure how accurate my concept of anything was. I mean, I thought you were weird, like, from Canada. But another realm? No way I know how that works.”

Giving a sigh, Loki waved limply with his hand. “What do you wish to know?”

“Anything! Just…I dunno, tell me something about growing up in Asgard.”

For a long moment Loki stared at a blank patch of wall. He blinked suddenly and turned to face Book. “The All-father’s horse calls me mother.”

It was Book’s turn to blink. “There is so very much wrong with that sentence.”

Loki grinned. “I was a bit younger than you—equivalently—when everything began. Will you hear it?”

He nodded and burrowed into the pillows.

Steepling his hands, Loki pressed his fingers against his lips as he cast his mind back through hundreds of years. Vaporous images rose before him as he grasped at the words for his tale. He never looked at Book, his gaze intent upon nothing. The silence stretched.

“The wars with the Frost Giants were long over, their generals defeated, and their king cowed. Treasures had been taken from Jotunheim, the spoils of war and rightful prize of the victors.” The muscles along his jaw jumped. “Troves of jewels, chests spilling crystals, weapons of great power—and the very heart of Jotunheim, the Casket of Ancient Winters. A tribute also was extracted from this monstrous race, and that year it was come due again. The giants had little worth giving, but they sent a great beast, a horse from the ice-shelves, caught wild among the bitter drifts and sheets of frost. Try though they might, our horse tamers could not master the devil and it was not long before he escaped.”

He paused, his lips pressing more thinly together. “Your hovering is distracting.” He did not raise his eyes as Stark appeared in the doorway behind him. “Leave or make yourselves comfortable. And no interruptions.”

Book grinned as Stark, Thor, and Rogers crept in. The Avengers settled themselves about the room as a brief look of long suffering disgust ghosted across Loki’s features.

“The giant horse?” prompted Book.

Loki’s eyes slid shut as he began to speak again. “It burst its bonds and fled the city, trampling many in its path. The demon red of its planet burned from the icy caverns of its face, teeth flashing as it fled the city and ran wild in the open lands beyond. These sweeping plateaus and waving grasslands were home to the stock from which all Aesir horses came. These wild cousins were left to their freedom and their ways, their members occasionally caught to bolster the bloodlines of our battle steeds. It was among these that the Jotun beast began to travel.”

“Many efforts were made to recapture the demon—since he preyed upon those that were weaker than he, and would trampled unwary travelers for their trespassing upon what he thought was his domain. There were also reports of mares dead in foaling monstrous births. This went on for some time and eventually incited a plan in Thor’s mind…”

Chapter Text

Ice-green sparks hovered precariously between Loki’s fingers, pulsing fitfully. His brows furrowed as he set his tongue between his teeth. The tips of his fingers twitched in rhythm with the pulse, the lights pooling together and swelling larger with each beat. Leaning forward unconsciously, he slowly rolled the ball between his palms forming it into a perfect sphere of cool light that floated just above his pale hand. His eyes stretched in wonder as he observed the final burs of magic weaving in upon themselves.

“Brother!”

The door slammed open, jarring Loki’s concentration. The sphere fragmented into a thousand biting shards. Loki wrung his hand, shoving magic-burnt fingers in his mouth.

“Where have you been hiding all day?” asked Thor as he strode into the room.

Fingers still in his mouth, Loki glanced about his chambers. “It can hardly be called hiding if I’m in my own rooms. If you needed me wouldn’t this be the first place to look?” He sighed, he didn’t know why he bothered, Thor clearly wasn’t listening. What’s worse, Thor had that look in his eyes—the look that said he’d had an idea. The time was that Loki would have followed Thor anywhere without question, but hundreds of years of misadventures were starting to drive home the point that Thor rarely thought things through—and really, at least one of them should.

His brother flopped onto the floor in front of Loki. His clothing was suspiciously mundane, no flush of scarlet or the velvet threads of his regular princely attire. “The beast has been sighted on the shining plains.”

“And who would have told you that?” asked Loki. He frowned as he read the discomfort in Thor’s face. “Brother. Fandral, really? Why do you waste your time on his taletelling?”

“You’re one to talk,” groused Thor as he crossed his arms.

Loki threw out his hands in exasperation, “I didn’t think you’d actually believe me. I mean, Thor, who would think that a fairy would actually grant you a wish if you managed to catch one?”

“Well, you still owe me. That’s why you’re going to help,” said Thor.

“Help with what?” he asked warily.

Thor was grinning again. “We’re going to catch the beast and present it to Father.” Thor leapt to his feet, swelling his chest. “Imagine how proud he’ll be when I present the beast in shackles.” He grabbed Loki around the shoulder with one arm and gestured sweepingly with the other. “The Sons of Odin, think how we’ll look. Conquering heroes of Asgard!”

Loki glanced sideways at his brother. “What I think is that Father wouldn’t like this.”

Thor laughed. “What do you care about rules? Besides, we can’t do this without you.”

“We?”

“The Warriors Three will be accompanying us on this great quest,” Thor beamed. “They’ve experience taming wild beasts.”

Loki snorted, “Imaginary ones.”

“You’re so…so…” Thor stumbled looking for the word.

“Pessimistic?” he supplied helpfully.

Jabbing his finger in Loki’s chest, Thor nodded. “It’s all books and magic with you anymore. It’s like you don’t like being on the training field or going on adventures.”

Probably because I’m not good at it, thought Loki. It was becoming increasingly obvious that he was not as naturally gifted in the weapons department as Thor. He preferred to train alone to minimize the number of those who could witness his failures. Strategy came more easily to him and he’d always excelled in his lessons where Thor easily became bored. Thor’s strategy was mostly to charge at whatever was in his way and smash at it until it wasn’t in his way anymore. It seemed to work for him. Loki smiled to himself, and he’d be there with another plan when Thor finally met a problem he couldn’t simply pummel into submission.

“Loki!”

He shook himself out of his thoughts and turned a sheepish smile toward his brother.

“You’re not listening.”

“Sorry. What were you saying,” he said meekly.

Thor scrunched up his face in annoyance.

Loki only had a moment of dawning comprehension of what the playful spark in his brother’s eyes meant before Thor launched himself across the space between them. The boys crashed together into a struggling pile of arms and legs. It was all Loki could do to roll mostly out of the way, using Thor’s momentum against him. He didn’t get fully free before Thor had hooked him around the legs and was trying to get a firm grip so he could pin him down. The boys tumbled across the floor, grunting and gasping as they each struggled to come out on top. Once Thor got a grip there wasn’t much Loki could do. Straddling Loki’s chest, Thor drove his knees into the ground and pinned his brother’s wrists.

“Now will you listen?” asked Thor with a grin.

Loki rolled his eyes, “You have my undivided attention.”

“The only way this will work is if you can magic us to the Shining Plains without attracting attention. When we’re there, then we corner the beast and bring it down.” Thor released Loki’s hands and sat back on his stomach. “The songs they’ll sing in our honor!”

Thor’s excitement was contagious. “About the mighty Princes of Asgard!”

“Nothing can stand before them.”

The boys grinned at one another as Thor scrambled off and offered Loki his hand. They clasped forearms and Thor hauled him to his feet.

“The beast awaits!” Thor pumped his fist in the air.

“Wait, now?”

“Who knows how long he’ll remain so near the palace?” asked Thor. “We go now.”

Biting his lip, Loki ran his thumb along the back of his other hand. “This magic will take time, Thor. I can’t just snap my fingers and have us there. There are preparations…”

Thor grabbed Loki by the shoulders and made him look at him. “You’ve been doing magic since before you could lift a sword.”

“I’ve never taken anyone with me before!”

“It’s easy, just you plus one more. You can make multiple trips.”

Fighting the urge to sigh, Loki just looked at Thor. “I only make it look easy. One of you could wind up inside out.”

Thor laughed. “There you go again with the pessimism. We can do this, little brother.”

Loki tried to frown, but couldn’t hide the involuntary smile. Thor never got tired of reminding him that he was the elder. “When I have to explain to mother why her eldest son is suddenly missing a limb, I’ll at least try to be optimistic about it.”

“Loki, enough! Let’s go!” He latched onto Loki’s wrist and drug him from the room. With a wave of his free hand, Loki conjured clothes less likely to get ruined by a giant stampeding horse and with another flick of his wrist closed the door behind them.

The self-styled “Warriors Three” were waiting for them by the stables. The boys had a few, but vital, years on the young princes. Volstagg, the oldest, already sported a sparse red beard, and Fandral and Hogan were each at least a head taller than they were. And yet they seemed to enjoy the young princes’ company. Well, Thor’s company at least. Loki hadn’t failed to notice that his magic seemed to make them nervous. He wasn’t sure if it was the magic in general or his proficiency at such an early age that bothered them.

“Ah, our ticket to fame and glory arrives,” said Fandral, sweeping to his feet. He beamed at them. “Just think how the ladies will swoon when we tell of our heroic quest and the taming of the mighty beast!” He flexed his arms and puffed out his chest dramatically.

Loki had to press his lips together against the laughter bubbling up. Fandral had a penchant for the dramatic that amused him.

“What do girls matter,” said Thor, his face twisted in disgust.

“Give it a few decades my lord and you will think differently,” said Volstagg. Tugging at his beard, he heaved himself off a bale of straw. As usual, Hogan said nothing. For years Loki had thought him a mute.

“Did you bring the supplies?” asked Thor.

Grinning, Fandral pulled a mysteriously bulging bag from beneath the straw. “Everything necessary to subdue a giant horse. Ropes strong enough to hold a bilgesnipe, hobbles, and lassoes.”

“And how are you planning to catch this horse?” wondered Loki. This wasn’t a plan—it was a disaster waiting to happen. Even if they were to snare the beast, how would they keep it? Asgardian youth were strong, but against a beast of Jotunheim? What were they going to do—run alongside it and hope to somehow outpace the creature? “Have any of you even thought this through?”

Thor’s hand clapped onto his back. “Don’t worry so much, Loki. All will be well. You just need to get us there.”

“We’re all going to die horrible, horrible deaths,” muttered Loki. He was somewhat surprised to see Hogun give a small nod of agreement.

“We’d best get a move on before the Watcher turns his gaze this way,” said Fandral, unwilling to name the guardian of the Bifrost for fear of attracting his attention.

Biting his lip, Loki surveyed the group. He wanted to take Thor first to make sure he didn’t spend too much energy on the others—but then if the first trip went wrong, he had to admit he’d rather it weren’t his brother. After a few swift calculations, he decided on their order. Best to take the largest first. He nodded to Volstagg.

The older boy joined him away from the others in an empty stall. “Are you sure you can do this, my lord?”

Loki looked up sharply, but the retort on his lips died away as he saw the knowing concern on Volstagg’s face. Apparently his unease hadn’t been as well concealed as he thought. Being the oldest, Volstagg often managed a touch more prudence than the others—though he bowed more and more to Thor’s wishes even when Loki could see his hesitance.

“There is no reason why I shouldn’t,” he said slowly.

“But?”

“It could go badly.” He waved his hand vaguely. “Pain, screaming, death.”

Volstagg pursed his lips together. “I see. Best not to let it happen then.”

Loki couldn’t help but grin at the boy’s optimistic confidence. He reached out and clasped Volstagg’s arms, took a deep breath, and let the magic boil up out of him. In his mind he saw the Shining Plain. It was just a matter of taking the leap from where he stood to where he wished to be. And with a sharp twist of power he felt the sun on his back and grass beneath his boots.

“Well done,” said Volstagg, though he looked a touch pale.

“Did all of you get here?” asked Loki as he ran a quick eye over his companion.

“It might not have hurt to leave a few pounds behind,” he said, patting his belly.

“Now for the others.”

Loki stepped back into his magic, finding it easy to fall through the still brittle tear between places. The rest of his companions travelled through in quick succession. Fandral handled it least well, panicking at the lurch from the stables to the fields. For an instant, Loki thought he was going to lose his grip on him—as it was, Fandral had a matched set of nail prints from where the prince latched on. Thor came last, breaking into a laugh as he burst into the grass and sunshine.

“Not bad for a magic trick?” asked Loki, hands on his knees as he took a few shuddering breaths. They’d have to catch the beast or walk back to the city—he didn’t have it in him to get everyone back.

“See! It was easy!” said Thor with a broad smile.

Loki dropped into the grass. “Which of us just carried four people through the fabric of the world?” Why couldn’t Thor grasp that though he was a natural, magic wasn’t “easy.” “Feel free to be impressed at any time.”

“What will be impressive is catching the beast,” said Thor. He reached down a hand to help Loki up. His brother swatted it away, mild irritation creeping into the gesture.

“Go find the beast first. I’ll catch up when there’s actual work to be done.” He propped himself up on his elbows.

Thor frowned. “You are going to sit idly while we do all the work?”

Loki wanted to yell that what he’d just done was work enough. Instead he quirked a grin, “I wouldn’t call searching for a giant horse work. Honestly, Thor, I’d question your tracking skills if even you can’t find something that large in such an open space.”

Something like disappointment flashed across Thor’s face, before he quickly buried it. Frustration replaced it. Why was Loki being so difficult all of a sudden? They always did everything together and now it was like Loki didn’t want anything to do with him and was digging in his heels at everything Thor said. What was wrong with him? “Stop being such a girl.”

Loki’s smile hardened, “oh, I wouldn’t let that new trainee hear you say it like an insult—what was her name—ah, yes, Sif.” Thor’s flinch was visible. “Wouldn’t want a repeat of last week would you? And with naught but a quarter stave.” He clucked and shook his head, “for shame.”

Hogan’s hand latched around Thor’s forearm as the young prince stepped toward his brother. “We do not have the time.”

“Hogan’s right,” said Fandral, twirling a stalk of grass idly between his fingers. “No telling how long until old you-know-who turns that golden gaze this way and the whole adventure is up.”

For an instant Thor eyed Hogan’s hand as if he planned to teach the young man not to touch a prince. Shrugging it off, he grunted and turned his back on Loki. “Fine. Stay there if it suites you. What do I care.”

The others fell in line behind Thor, wading through the lush green stalks. Volstagg offered a nod of the head and a smile. All he received from the others were their retreating backs. Fandral’s voice floated back to him. “It’s not as if it was unexpected, my lord. It’s what Loki does. Don’t expect too much from a sneak like him.”

A flare of anger snaked through him. If Fandral thought he was a sneak, who was Loki to argue. It seemed the young warrior would need to learn exactly how devious the younger prince could be. And if Loki played his cards correctly Fandral would bring all that was to come completely upon himself.

With thoughts of mischief shrieking through his skull, Loki lay back in the long grass, tucking his arms behind his head. High above, the sun burned brightly. If Loki closed his eyes and concentrated he could just make out the shadowed limbs of the world tree holding up the arch of the sky and dangling the sun in its place. Thor never saw it. He pulled a chunk of grass and threw it. Who cared what Thor could see.

As the sun crept across the sky, he felt his magic calming and strength beginning to return. The fear that the others had already caught the stallion and left him behind sent him to his feet. Scanning the gently rolling hills, there was no sign of anyone else. Splaying his fingers, Loki whispered a quick spell and waited for the soft gleam of fading footprints to appear. This spell could track anyone that had been through an area recently, but it wasn’t nearly as effective as a blood trace spell. He’d tried it before, using his blood to find Thor’s, but he’d never managed to get it to work.

Breaking into a light jog, Loki followed the prints into the hills. Falling between two hills a broad, flat section of the plain opened up before him. Dark, four-legged shapes milled idly across it, and at the far end a much larger shape stood. The Jotun-horse.

Thor’s footsteps led slightly away from the creature, puzzling Loki. Were they trying to flank it? Or had Thor somehow managed to miss the giant horse entirely. It wouldn’t surprise Loki, Thor missed equally obvious things every day.

Well, even if Thor hadn’t found the beast, he had. He started across the plain again, giving the milling horses wide berth. They would stop their grazing and lift their heads to stare. Large ears swiveled to catch the sound of his passing. Some gave the ground an impatient stamp. Most ignored him.

One horse stood strangely apart from the others. Suddenly, the mare shrilled in anxiety, dancing in tight circles and tossing her head. Snorting, she suddenly gave a sharp downward plunge. Hooves thrummed against the ground. A cry trumpeted through the air, urging Loki forward. He paused as he caught sight of what lay beneath the mare’s blood flecked hooves—a foal.

“Get away!” he shouted, breaking into a run and waving his arms. The mare ignored him, rearing back again and pawing at the quivering mass. “Go!” He called a shard of magic to his hands and flung it crackling across the field. The mare leapt aside with a startled whinny. She galloped a few strides away before hesitating. Casting a last look at Loki, she darted away.

As the long grass fell away, Loki was better able to see the foal. The small gray bundle was still damp. He edged closer, unsure if it was even breathing after the trampling. Red gashes marred the slimy hide, running in little red streams across the face and sides. Loki swallowed, afraid what he would see upon closer inspection. Suddenly the little flanks swelled with breath and the whole body convulsed. Eight spindle-limbs splayed in all directions as the little foal unfolded itself. The strangeness pulled Loki up short. Eight. How could there be eight legs? Courageously, the foal lifted its head, turning large eyes on the figure crouched in front of it before flopping back into the grass. Its legs twitched again.

The whole foal looked somehow—unfinished. Everything about it was delicate and spindle-thin, angles pushing taut, barely furred skin over bones not fully thickened. It had only a bristle of mane and no tail to speak of.

“It’s okay, hold still,” Loki said as he ran forward, dropping to his knees before the foal. “You’ve come a bit early.” He tentatively reached out his hand, touching it to the foal’s side. Beneath the slender slide of muscle and brittle cage of bone, Loki felt the strong pulse of a heart surging with life. “You just need a chance—whatever you are,” said Loki as he stroked the damp forehead. A muffled whinny escaped as the foal tried to roll onto its feet again. Its extra limbs just wouldn’t let it.

Placing two fingers to the worst of the wounds, Loki concentrated all of his magics into knitting the gashes back together. Thankfully they weren’t deep, and this was something Loki was adept at. It lessened his visits to the healers and kept Thor from seeing how easily he could be hurt.

The little thing lolled its head back, clearly searching for its mother. A painful image of Frigga’s fading back suddenly flashed before Loki’s eyes. He shook his head to clear away the frostbitten plane of his nightmares. A great sense of loneliness had haunted his dreams for as long as he could remember. Though the dream varied, one thing was always the same, the ice and blowing wind and snow, so bitter they’d started to tinge his hands blue.

“Don’t worry, little one.” Loki rubbed circles down the foal’s nose. “I won’t abandon you.” He stooped to gather up the horse into his arms. The foal was no bigger than a hound, but Loki could still barely manage to gather up all the dangling limbs. His hands slipped over the foal’s mucus coated hide. “Whoa, you’re slippery,” he muttered as he caught the sliding horse. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. You can count on me…” he smiled as a name came to him, “Sleipnir.”

Now that he had the foal in his arms, Loki realized he wasn’t entirely sure what he planned to do. He’d merely acted when he saw the foal’s danger. It was instinct. Now, in the space of a few heartbeats he had committed himself to caring for the little thing and knew he planned to raise it. The specifics still eluded him, however. Whatever was he going to do with a premature, orphaned eight-legged horse? Raise it in his bedroom? He glanced down at the creature in his arms and realized that was exactly what he was going to do. He chuckled. And he had no idea how. It was all very Thor-like. Diving in and just figuring it out as you went, hoping for the best.

“Well, little one. How do you propose we get you home?” he asked, having to shift his grip as one of the legs escaped the bundle of the rest. Loki’s magic still wasn’t where it needed to be to manipulate the worldfabric. Perhaps he could transform into a Hunta-beast and carry the foal like a kitten in his mouth. Foolishness. The foal would panic and everyone was sure to notice a fifteen-foot tall, red-furred creature of quills and teeth carrying an eightlegged foal to the younger prince’s room. There would be talk.

There really was only one option and Loki knew he wouldn’t like the outcome. Clutching Sleipnir to him, he reached for the worldfabric and threw himself through. It wasn’t a long jump, but this time it felt like long nailed fingers were clutching at him as he slid between places. They tore at his face and hair, scrabbling to catch hold of his tunic as they tumbled toward the pinprick that was his bedroom. Things from between howled, streaming past his ears. His room grew ever clearer.

A sudden searing pain jolted up his ankle as something yanked him backwards. Thrashing, Loki’s magic crackled fitfully around him. There just wasn’t enough. With a final lunge, he threw all his power at the often-used tear in his room. Hooks of magic sank into the tear’s edges and yanked it to Loki. Gasping, he crashed through onto his floor, barely managing not to crush Sleipnir in the process.

“That went well,” he wheezed, letting his arms flop out to his sides. The foal knickered at him, still splayed across his chest and stomach. Loki rolled his head from side to side. “I’ll just lay here for a…a few hours.” He let his eyes drift closed and dropped into a dreamless sleep.

Bright red light burned through his eyelids as the setting sun pierced one of the arched windows of his tower room. He groaned and willed the sun away. Feebly he snatched at the blissful numbness of unconsciousness. Each time he nearly caught it, something pulled at his collar. Something soft fumbled with the fabric, fine hairs tickling along his neck. Idly he pushed the annoyance away.

It returned, butting against his check. Cracking one eye, Loki’s vision was filled with horse muzzle.

“I’m up,” he mumbled, heaving himself into a sitting position. He shivered. The cool of his marble floors had soaked through his tunic. Rolling out his shoulders, he dug at his eyes. His magic coiled in irritation, hissing at him as he reached for its warmth. He’d overdone it.

The door suddenly flew back on its great hinges, thudding against the wall so that the collection of items on the shelves rattled. Sleipnir startled, tumbling over himself in a tangle of legs. Loki used words his mother would never have approved of—why hadn’t he spelled the door against Thor?

“You abandoned us!” he said, striding into the room and still wearing the sweat of a long walk. He had yet to notice the foal.

“But you were going to tame the monster—you wouldn’t have needed me to get you back,” said Loki smoothly, noting the irritation on Thor’s face. Clearly the horse had won out today or Thor would have been in a better mood—but Loki couldn’t quite help pushing him. That and he wondered how long Thor could be kept from noticing something right in front of his face. Fairly long if previous experiences were any indication.

Kicking at an embroidered throw pillow, Thor growled. “If we’d actually had all five of us it would have worked.”

“I had no idea I was so integral to your plan,” he said as he pulled up one knee in front of him, the picture of innocence.

“Why do I even bother bringing you,” Thor snapped. He turned to face Loki, really looking in his direction for the first time. “And…” the hand he’d raised dropped to his side.

Smiling placidly, Loki widened his eyes, “And?”

Sleipnir raised his head to look at the newcomer in the room, small nostrils flaring as he took in the new scent. Two legs splayed well behind him, another one bent as if ready to push him from the floor, and the others tucked somewhat awkwardly beneath him.

The thoughts clearly played across Thor’s face as he first registered that there was a foal in Loki’s bedroom and then counted, and re-counted, the number of limbs. As the sun dipped below the lip of the window, flames crackled to life in the sconces around the room. This seemed to break the loop Thor was stuck in.

“What is it?”

Loki laughed, “Why, a horse.”

Thor scowled at him. “It has eight legs.”

Grinning, Loki ran a hand down Sleipnir’s back. “I had noticed that, yes.”

Just as suddenly as it had come, Thor’s confusion vanished into excited curiosity. He darted forward as if to touch the foal, only to have it startle at the movement. Thor paused, hand still outstretched. “May I touch it?”

“Sleipnir,” said Loki. Thor looked confused again. “His name is Sleipnir. And yes, you may.”

More slowly this time, he sank to his knees and reached out a hand, leaving it hovering before the colt. When Sleipnir struggled to stretch out and sniff his palm, Thor gently ran his hand up the grey nose. A smile broke across his face. “He is a marvel.”

Sleipnir seemed to whinny in agreement and tried to push up on three of his legs. He fell panting onto his side, neck stretched out as his large head weighed him down.

Instead of growing, Thor’s smile faded. Loki narrowed his eyes, he wasn’t going to like where his brother’s thoughts were headed.

“Father will never let you keep him,” said Thor as he looked up.

“I’m not planning on keeping him,” said Loki evenly. He leaned back against the windowsill, arms crossed over his chest. “He shall be a present for Father, the swiftest mount in the Nine Realms.” His eyes dared Thor to say otherwise.

“He’s deformed. With those legs he’ll never walk, much less run. It would be cruel to let him live,” said Thor slowly as he got to his feet.

“He’s different. He only needs a chance to show what he’s worth.”.

Thor’s hand came down on his shoulder. “This is what must be done, surely you can see that.” His annoyance rose with Loki’s refusal to see reason. He didn’t know what was wrong with his brother, but it seemed like he needed to contradict everything Thor said or did recently. “He ought to be put down.”

A snarl split Loki’s features as he violently shrugged off the hand. He wasn’t yelling, not yet, instead his words were ice cold and delivered through bared teeth. “And if the mighty Thor says it, it must be so.”

Thor pulled himself up to his full height and pressed into Loki’s space. “Why are you being so stubborn about this! It’s just a horse!” Unlike Loki, it didn’t take Thor long to start yelling when he lost his temper.

“You’re not taking him,” Loki said, suddenly smiling with a dangerous calm.

“I won’t have to! Father will when I tell him of this!” said Thor as he made for the door. He jerked back as the doors slammed shut in front of him. He whirled as his brother lowered a hand from his spell casting. “Tricks again,” he growled.

“You were happy enough of them earlier,” taunted Loki.

Thor grabbed the curve of the door handle with both hands, straining against it. The door stood firm. He tried again, flinging his body backwards. “Open the door!”

Loki hummed and raised his eyes in thought. “No.”

“Do it, Loki!”

He shrugged. Thor hated it when he did that, so it didn’t really surprise him when the next thing he saw was a flash of movement as his brother launched across the room at him. It didn’t surprise him, but it still hurt when Thor’s shoulder clipped his side.

Spinning away, Loki managed to avoid the next wild swing completely, driving his fist into Thor’s stomach as the older boy passed. There was a satisfying grunt of pain. Loki rarely landed such solid blows on Thor. He had little time to celebrate. Pain just made Thor angrier, and now he had lost the element of surprise.

A fist staggered him as he failed to dodge out of the way. Thor lunged, catching him around the waist and throwing them both to the ground. Breath rushing from his lungs, Loki managed to roll with Thor’s momentum and heave his brother over his head and into a table. Wheezing, he struggled to his knees, only to have Thor grab him by the ankle, dragging him across the floor.

In a scrambling tangle of limbs, Thor fought to get a grip on the writhing form of his brother. Briefly he locked arms around him, but before he could tuck in his head, Loki threw himself backwards, ramming the back of his head into Thor’s face. The older boy let go.

Sleipnir’s scream startled the two as they crouched on the floor, breathing heavily.

Loki’s lip was bleeding a bit and Thor’s eyes were starting to black from where Loki had cracked his skull into his face. Thor shoved his brother away and sat propped against the dresser, breathing hard. Loki sprawled across from him, shoulders slumped. The only sound in the room was the harsh rasp of winded breathing. Neither boy made a move to renew the fight.

“Why can’t you ever just trust me,” said Loki quietly.

Thor frowned. “Why is this so important?”

Loki looked up, not sure if he was more surprised by the question or by the fact that Thor had bothered to ask it. He looked away. How could he explain that he needed to do this? That somehow if he saved Sleipnir he was saving himself—delivering himself from baseless fears and nightmares of abandonment and swirling snow. Thor wouldn’t understand—he wasn’t sure he did. What right had he to such fears? “I wish I knew.” He slid over to where the foal watched them warily and laid his hand on the gray brow, smiling as he felt the small head pressing against his palm.

Suddenly Thor gave a disgruntled sigh and moved to sit on the foal’s other side. He offered his fingertips to the colt, unable to keep from grinning as velvet lips tested his hand. “How exactly are we supposed to keep this a secret?”

Loki glanced up. “We?”

Thor nodded. “You were going to hide a horse in your room all by yourself?”

“That was the plan, yes,” said Loki, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “The servants won’t be a problem—not if I tell them I am working on another experiment.”

Sleipnir flared his nostrils in a snort and settled his head in Thor’s lap. The boy jerked slightly in surprise before bringing his hand to stroke along the small back. He smiled. “We’ll need a nursing mare.”

Cocking his head, Loki frowned. “You’re helping me now?” He’d never get used to Thor’s sudden turns of mood. Apparently you just had to knock him in the face to convince him of your sincerity and get his attention. He would have to remember that. “Why?”

“You’re my brother.”

Loki huffed and leaned his head back against his bed. “Why couldn’t that have been enough before you smashed your knuckles into my face?”

His brother gave him a shrug and a grin.

The following weeks would show that Thor actually could be of some use—though his idea of stealth still made Loki cringe. As Loki predicted, the servants were more than happy to let the prince care for his chambers during the course of his “experiment.” Grunhild had never been quite right after she got caught in the middle of the last one.

When Thor wondered how they were to muck out a bedroom-turned-stall without drawing attention, Loki merely wiggled his fingers and grinned. He loved magic. Even with Loki’s penchant for stealth, the boys still had to smuggle in milk and straw enough for Sleipnir’s bed. Thor did most of the heavy lifting and Loki did the necessary distracting and sweet talking. Nonetheless he thought his mother was getting suspicious that Thor suddenly seemed to have a near permanent piece of straw stuck in his hair or that both boys smelled a bit of stable. She kept her suspicions to herself however and merely watched them with a thoughtful gaze.

As the weeks passed, Loki delved into the archives, tearing through every book and scroll on horse care and particularly rehabilitation. He then moved on to medical scrolls, hoping to find some way to strengthen Sleipnir’s particularly brittle looking limbs. Every few hours he would gently rub each leg to increase circulation and move it back and forth to help build muscle. He or Thor would try and support Sleipnir while the other lured him forward with a carrot or apple slice. Success was limited. Though Loki could see the colt begin to fill out to more healthy proportions, he wasn’t really growing and could only balance upright for a few seconds before toppling over. Walking was nonexistent. Sleipnir just couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with all his legs. Every time he tried to move he seemed to be in his own way, tripping into a tangled mess.

One day, as Loki returned from a trip to a brood mare in the royal stables, his mother stopped him. “Loki, dear, is everything well?” she asked him.

He offered his best smile, “Of course? Why would you ask that, Mother?” She frowned, and he was well aware that she was studying the dark smudges under his eyes.

“You seem tired is all. I don’t want you overextending yourself—especially if you’re working on a new spell.” She folded her hands before her, rings sparkling in the light as she moved.

Loki latched onto the offered lie. “It is rather difficult, but I’m almost there. I can’t wait to show it to you.” He blinked in surprise as Frigga knelt in front of him.

“Ah, my little sorcerer. I would like that very much, but don’t forget to rest or you won’t have the energy to master this new spell.” She reached up and brushed his hair back from his face. He pulled back a bit, muttering in embarrassment. Frigga merely laughed and darted in to plant a quick kiss on his forehead before standing.

“Very well, Mother. I won’t over do it.”

“Good.” She turned away and moved down the hall, pausing before she turned the corner. “You know that if you need help,” she paused significantly, “with the spell, you have only to ask.”

He fought to keep the surprise from showing on his face. Somehow she knew—or at least suspected more was at work than mere spell practice. “Thank you, Mother. I’ll keep that in mind.”

She nodded and continued on her way. Loki breathed a sigh of relief. His mother was entirely too perceptive sometimes. He needed to do something about the dark circles under his eyes, but when you were up every three hours in the night to feed a foal, there wasn’t much sleeping going on. One night he’d fallen asleep in the straw next to Sleipnir and woken up to find the foal cuddled up against him, nose burrowed into his chest.

Months passed and though Sleipnir began to gain some muscle and size, his legs would not support him. Loki could tell Thor’s conviction was beginning to waver.

“What if he really wasn’t meant to live, Loki?” Thor perched on the edge of the windowsill while Loki tried to order the colt’s legs to help him stand. “Sometimes a mother bird will push an egg over the side of the nest because she can tell there is something wrong with it and it will never survive. Or a hound will abandon the runt of litter.”

“I am not abandoning him!” snapped Loki. A shimmering, greenish cast crept up slender hocks like magical braces. Sleipnir took a few tettering steps before pitching forward. Thor caught him before he smashed his face into the gleaming floor. Together the brothers righted the foal and laid him back in the straw.

“It’s all those extra legs,” observed Thor.

Loki’s head sunk into his hands. “I’m aware.” His shoulders quivered as his hands tightened into fists.

Thor kicked at a piece of straw. “Are you crying?”
“No!” came the muffled answer, that sounded a bit thick.

Dropping heavily onto the bed, Thor gazed out the window, watching a barque flit across the sky, skimming between gleaming golden towers. His legs weren’t quite long enough to put his feet flat on the floor, so he kicked the heels of his boots together. Beside him Loki didn’t move or even tell him to stop fidgeting.

An idea suddenly bloomed across Thor’s face. Smiling, he bumped his shoulder against his brother’s. “If he can’t figure out those legs of his, I bet you can.”

For a moment Loki didn’t say anything, merely stilled enough that Thor knew he had heard him. “How does that help anything?” he asked, still not looking up.

Thor shrugged. “You are the one with intelligence—or so you keep telling me—figure it out. Then we can teach him which leg to lift when and which to leave down.”

Loki dropped one hand so he could peer up at Thor. Something unreadable passed behind his eyes, almost as if he were weighing Thor’s words and mapping the possible outcomes. He smiled hesitantly. “That…that just might work.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Thor crossed his arms but the teasing light in his eyes betrayed that there was no real anger there.

“You had a good idea—there is every reason to be surprised,” said Loki calmly. He ducked as a pillow flew past his head. He wasn’t quite quick enough to miss the barreling weight of his brother that followed it.

As it turned out, Thor had been on the right track. It took some weeks for Loki to study the way other horses moved and try to account for Sleipnir’s extra legs. Trial and error followed, but with time Loki felt sure they would have his colt trotting just as well as any other.

Unfortunately they would not get the time they needed. Loki returned one evening to a guard barring the door to his rooms. The wide open door. The gold-cloaked Einherjar escorted Loki to the lesser throne room.

Except for the ever present guards, the throne room was nearly empty. His father did not sit on the throne, and Gungnir leaned against the wall. This was a good sign, thought Loki—this meant he was facing his father rather than the Allfather today. Thor didn’t understand the difference yet, but Loki did. His father was different when he spoke to them as a king to his princes, rather than a father to sons. And Loki felt that he had seen less and less of his father and more and more and more of the King of Asgard. Thor just laughed when he said anything, so Loki didn’t bother any more. A thought suddenly struck him—maybe because the difference was never directed at Thor.

“Loki.” The soft words brought his attention back to where his father stood, hands gently clasped behind his back. “There is something you wish to tell me?”

“I don’t think I need to,” said Loki as he started across the expanse.

His father hummed gently in the back of his throat. “No, I suppose not.” He gestured to one of the guards and they slipped from the room. “What I wish to hear is why you felt the need to hide this.”

Loki chewed on his lip, but then stopped, suddenly hearing his mother’s voice chiding him for such a bad habit. He shoved his nervousness down, schooling his features so that none of it showed. “I was afraid.”

“Of?” asked Odin mildly.

“What you would say.”
The king raised his eyebrows in surprise. “And so you would not even give me the chance to say it?”

By this point Loki had made it to the bottom of the stairs. He gazed unflinchingly up at his father. “He just needed a chance, and I knew you wouldn’t believe I could fix him.”

“Perhaps.” He descended the stairs and grasped Loki’s hand in his own. “But you will never know. Let us see what I say now.” He gave the hand a gentle squeeze and released it just as the guard returned.

Loki felt his stomach drop out. The guard had Sleipnir.

Gently, the guard lowered the squirming foal to the ground, who offered a short whinny at the sight of Loki.

“A most unusual creature,” said Odin as he ran an experienced eye over the colt. Loki cringed, feeling that his father’s one-eyed stare could find every weakness and vulnerability, see every flaw.

Odin bent over the colt and stroked his grey muzzle. Large, calloused hands felt all along Sleipnir’s splayed legs, feeling the shape and the tendons. Loki bit his lip as his father hoisted the foal to its feet, steadying it on its spider-legs. Odin slid his hand away. For a moment Sleipnir stood, wobbling. Then two of his back legs buckled, sending the others sliding out in all directions.

Loki rushed forward. “Let him try again.”

A hand on his shoulder stopped him. He looked up into his father’s sad gaze. “No, Loki.”

“But…”

The other hand came to rest on Loki’s shoulder. “This is not a kindness. He cannot run, he cannot walk, he cannot even stand. What life is that?”

Loki glanced away, only to have his chin turned back firmly.

“These are the decisions you must make, my son. To do what is right is often no easy thing—but you are a Prince of Asgard and must learn to make the hard choices even though your heart breaks.”

Fighting tears he knew would win him no sympathy here, Loki pressed his lips together. “He can do it, Father, I know he can. I need more time.”

“Time will only make it harder. Say your farewells,” said Odin as he nodded at the guards in the doorway to come closer.

“No! You can’t do this, he’ll grow. I know he will. He’ll be strong, just give him a chance!” He cursed himself inwardly for the wetness on his cheeks—at least Thor wasn’t here to mock him for it. Loki tore away, placing himself between the guards and the colt who was snorting in confusion and fear.

“Enough!” barked Odin, he gripped Loki round the arm and pulled him away. He turned to one of the guards. “Take the young prince to his chambers—if he is to act as a child he will be treated as such.”

The guard took hold of him and started dragging him away. Loki struggled vainly, twisting and writhing like an eel trying to slide through the man’s grip, but it wasn’t enough. “You can’t, Father, you can’t.” Magic surged through him, though he had no spell to funnel it. “Please! He trusted me!”

Whinnying in distress, Sleipnir’s hooves skittered across the polished floor as he struggled to get up. He bugled in his high, young voice.

Odin’s face softened somewhat. “I am sorry, my son, but this is what must be.” He motioned for the guard to take Loki away.

As the guard turned him from the scene, silent rage and despair flowed through him, not burning like he thought it ought to, but freezing in jagged tears of frost. Loki had never hated anyone before—but in that moment, he hated his father. The force of his emotions scared him. He had no control over them.

Startled by the violent impulse flowing through him, he didn’t immediately realize that a strange sound had broken the bitter silence of the hall. A sliding, arrhythmic clatter. Before Loki could turn, a snort of warm breath brushed against his palm, followed by a velvet nose pressed into his hand.

Turning, he found Sleipnir standing uncertainly, shaking with the strain, but standing. The guard’s grip fell away as Loki dropped to the ground, twining his arms around the foal’s neck. “Good boy,” he murmured. Defiance shone in his eyes as he looked up to see Odin still standing next to where Sleipnir had lain at the far end of the hall.

Odin inclined his head. “Perhaps he may yet become what you envision. But he still has far to go, Loki, and that responsibility is yours alone.”

Chapter Text

That Thor’s binding oath would be put to the test wasn’t so much of an “if” as a “when.” Not surprisingly it was Stark that first tested just how strong Loki’s leash really was. After over a week of “Loki Watch” –as Stark called it—everyone was beginning to be a bit antsy. It had apparently been decided upon that no fewer than three Avengers could be at the lodge at any time. Or so Loki surmised given the snatches of conversation he’d overheard and the fact that only two of the Avengers would be absent at any one time, often a new pair setting off directly after the others returned.

Loki too had to admit to being a bit frayed. At all times he was aware of being watched. If he found an out of the way spot to read, inevitably someone would come strolling by or find some reason to retrieve something from the room he was in. The house may have been blind in most rooms, but J.A.R.V.I.S. could at least track where everyone was simply by listening for subtle signs of life and movement. This didn’t mean he could tell what they were doing or where exactly they were in a room, but this meant he could always track Loki down for the Avengers.

At first it had been somewhat amusing to secret himself away in a room just so that at first glance his minder would not see him despite J.A.R.V.I.S.’s insistence that he was present. This lost its entertainment value after a few days. Going outside made the Avengers nervous, and he got even less solitude because behind every tree or hemlock break he was running into one of them.

An uneasy night had done nothing for his willingness to deal with Thor’s mortals. But he was hungry enough to brave a visit to the kitchen even with it full of Avengers. He’d even delayed himself by visiting with Book in the hopes that breakfast would be over by the time he arrived. Unfortunately, it seemed his jailers were in no particular hurry.

“Morning’s greetings!” said Thor as Loki padded down the steps into the great room. It was a traditional Asgardian greeting, and he automatically had the urge to reply with the customary “mine and the day’s.” This was the shortened, less formal form used between family and friends, those who knew one another well, but more than the perfunctorily polite “bles’ dawning”—a slurred version of “blessed day’s dawning”—which would be given to passersby or shared between merchants as they set up shop in the morning.

Loki was not so sleep-muddled as to actually mindlessly return Thor’s greeting—though over a thousand years of habit dragged at him. He wandered over to the cabinet and pulled down a mug, frowned at the S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia and put it back. For a covert operation, they certainly liked to plaster their logo all over everything. Glancing to the side, he realized Romanov had his favorite mug and instead selected another.

The spy perched on the counter, cradling the cup in her hands. It was odd seeing her like this, hair rumpled from sleep, clothes comfortably loose, and no makeup in sight. It was akin to seeing a dagger devoid of ornamentation or polish—no more impressive than a table knife. And yet still perfectly capable of killing you—Loki watched her even as she watched him without appearing to—and probably killing you in style, baggy t-shirt and sweats or not.

A groan announced Stark’s arrival. Running a hand over his face, he smacked his lips and blinked owlishly at everyone. A red mark creased along one side of his face—oddly wrench shaped—evidence to his falling asleep in his makeshift lab again.

“Coffee,” he mumbled.

“I’m afraid I am not yet wired into the coffee pot, sir,” said J.A.R.V.I.S. crisply.

Stark eyed the empty carafe and Loki’s brimming cup with grouchy disdain. “Least you could do was start another pot—they not teach you that in ye olde cape-land?”

“That was what the lower classes were for,” said Loki haughtily. He didn’t mention that he’d heard Stark coming and intentionally chosen a mug large enough to finish off the pot.

Thor watched with obvious reproach—odd since normally Loki had been the one reproving him for his manners—but held his tongue. Romanov merely sipped at her drink.

“So is it all a show or do you actually believe all that delusions of grandeur garbage you’re always spouting?” asked Stark. He glared at the can of coffee grounds sitting next to the still empty carafe, as if they had personally offended him by their non-liquid state. He leaned back, resting his elbows on the counter behind him. “Cause you talk. A lot. But I’m not seeing much follow-through.”

“Tony, just get your coffee and stop baiting the prisoner,” said Romanov, managing to sound both amused and annoyed at the same time. Her posture remained relaxed, and her attention was fully back on her drink, but Loki knew this had been a tactical decision. Likely she sensed the underlying irritation beginning to gather in the room.

He ought to merely ignore Stark, or somewhat satisfyingly, throw a barbed remark in his direction and leave. That would keep the peace. It was such a shame Loki had grown tired of playing the good prisoner. As a youth he’d never really spoiled for a fight the way Thor had. Not that he hadn’t started plenty of them, but there had always been at least some advantage other than merely wishing to fight. Half the time he wasn’t even involved, merely sitting back and watching with gleeful amusement.

But right now, Loki wanted to poke, prod, and incense the annoying little man. Some part of his brain whispered that it was just the confinement getting to him, another that he shouldn’t give in to such urges when there was nothing really to be gained from it. The voice Loki chose to listen to was the one telling him to bring Stark’s woman into it. Petty, mean, predictable—but nonetheless a satisfying tactic.

“So shortsighted, these mortals,” Loki turned to Thor conversationally. “Myopic in their vision, at such a disadvantage when it comes to seeing the big picture. But really, how could one expect an insect to comprehend the building of an empire when it would not live beyond the laying of the first few stones.” He turned back to Stark. “You observe one setback and believe yourselves to have been victorious.”

“Yeah, well your setback left an awfully impressive hole in my floor,” said Stark affably. “I wanted to make it into a fish pond, but Pepper wouldn’t let me. Didn’t fill it, though. Covered it with glass and put a little plaque next to it: ‘Alien interloper handed ass here’.” He glanced significantly at Romanov and grinned. “Nothing says focal point like imprint-o-Norse-deity.”

“Tony,” she said evenly, warning in her tone as she looked over her glass toward Loki. A Loki who was smiling with gleeful malice—the kind of grin she expected a wolf to wear before it pounced.

“Your Miss Potts seems to have good taste in all things but men,” he mused. He ignored Thor’s grip on his forearm. “But from what I hear she’s a not your typical fare—maybe that’s why she’s lasted so long. A creature of such beauty and brains must be a rare find—how long, I wonder before she realizes that her pity isn’t enough to keep her tied to you.”

Stark sucked on a retort and shook his head as if this had been Loki’s primary attack. It wasn’t.

“But then,” he paused as if this strange thought had just leapt unbidden into his mind, “her loyalty isn’t really what’s in question.” He leaned in. “How long before you manage to drive her away. Before your inconstant nature sabotages your hope of something real in your world of mirrors and shadows.”

The unsuccessful attempt at hiding the blow only confirmed what Loki already knew. Stark didn’t fear this Pepper growing tired of him and moving on to greener—less self-absorbed—pastures. He feared what he’d always feared, himself and his destructive choices. He took what was real in his life and would trade it every time for what was transient, fake, and superficial—because those were safe.

There was no explosive anger or yelled retort—but then, Loki hadn’t expected one. The bite in Stark’s tone was enough to mark the points had hit their mark. “I’d like to point out that…I’m adorable. And rich. And a genius. Oh and I do a little super-heroing on the side. I’m a dream come true.”

“You bluster and posture and brag, little man, thinking it will hide the stench of your fear.” Loki loomed over Stark, leaning ever so slightly into the man’s personal space. “Maybe it once was enough. Enough for abduction, betrayal, and even torture.” His voice dropped to where only Stark could hear him. “But now you know what it is to fall.”

The man’s half smile stayed firmly on his face, but his eyes betrayed his thoughts had torn back to the dark sucking void and the inexorable pull of death.

Loki blinked calmly and without malice. “Do I remind you of falling?”

Neither Thor, nor Romanov said anything as Stark shook his head and ran his hand through his hair. “You sure you’re not the God of Pissing People Off? Cause I think it’s more accurate than God of Mischief. We could rebrand you—I’ve got excellent PR people. They could probably even spin that,” he gestured vaguely at the scars ringing Loki’s mouth. “Someone in Asgard decide they’d had enough of your lip?” Stark reached for the coffee grounds. “Stitched you right up. Not a bad idea, really.”

With great precision, Loki set his mug down. He—like a fool—had forgotten he bore such an obvious target on his face. “Something of the like,” he said, the words not quite escaping the back of his throat. Both Thor and Romanov stiffened at his tone. Though his face was blank, he inwardly cursed Thor’s frivolous oath. He wanted to turn Stark inside out, but his magic merely knotted back on itself. Gingerly he released the mug’s handle and flexed his fingers. His muscles refused to obey even when he commanded them to fling the mug at Stark’s head. Thrice-damn Thor.

A strange, choking sensation clutched at the base of his throat as his rage and inability to act shoved against one another. Gritting his teeth, all he could do was nod at the group and turn his back on them. Only then did his muscles begin to relax and allow him to move freely. He made it three steps before his abandoned mug shattered across the end table. Only a slight pause and backward glance betrayed his knowledge of it. Thor was up and moving after him before he was out of sight.

“I’ve had just about enough of our house guest,” growled Stark as he grabbed a dish towel to swipe at the mess, only making it worse in the process.

Natasha leaned against the counter, arms crossed as she frowned. “Must you poke the unstable alien with a stick? Things are tense enough without you adding to it.”

A large chunk of glass thunked into the trash. Tony carefully shook the towel out as well, gingerly gripping the corners. “His issues aren’t my problem. Think he’d go to a shrink? Talk out all that pent-up aggression and daddy issues he’s got. But then Loki talking is a problem isn’t it. Asgardians’ got the right idea—wish they’d gone for the tongue instead.” He looked up and caught Natasha’s disapproving glare. “What?”

“Those weren’t new, Tony. They’re old, stretched and faded. Scars like that,” she paused, thoughtful, “he got them when he was a child.” She pushed off from the counter and made for the great room. “I ought to know what that looks like.”             

The thick air of a wet fall day blurred the edges of the woods as the colors faded into the mist. Gold and red blazed against the wet-black trunks and spider webs were strung with crystal beads. Thor followed Loki’s darkened footprints across the dew-silvered grass to a copse of hemlocks. A fine shower rained down on him as he pushed his way under a low-hanging bough. Wetness streaked his cape and a scattering of fine dew settled along his hair and shoulders.

He paused. Loki stood with his back to the woods, waiting for him.                           

“And here you are. Come to play the part of the caring brother?” He tapped a finger to his scarred lips. “Try it with a bit more worry this time—that’ll sell it.”

Thor refused to rise to the bait. “Will you tell me?”

“What? Where I came by these?” Loki grinned wide, the scars twisting his lips a bit in the process. “Surely the Mighty Thor has better things to do than listen to the ancient troubles of one such as myself.”

Determination glinted in Thor’s gaze as he sat down on one of the rocks and waited.

A slight narrowing of his eyes and then Loki shook himself. “So be it. You recall when you lost Mjolnir to the dwarves before it was really yours?”

Thor nodded. “You retrieved it before Father found out.”

“I had yet to figure out that it wasn’t in anyone’s best interest to coddle you.” He stalked forward. “And what happened next.”

Thor frowned, thinking back to the incident. “Your voice. You could not speak for a year because you’d bartered your voice for the hammer. A bad deal in a magically binding bet. That’s what you told Father.” He kept staring at the jagged puncture marks. “I don’t think Mother ever really believed you.”

“The whole thing would have come to light if she hadn’t been away on Vanaheim for most of it. The dwarves weren’t going to give up the hammer; they had always felt cheated by the price your grandfather paid for its creation. It required treachery to retrieve.” Loki began pacing. “Oh, I was clever, and the dwarves soon learned that I am not to be trusted.” His smile dripped bitterness. “It was a thing of beauty, how deftly I manipulated them, with nothing but my words. Then the hammer was mine.

Swallowing, he continued.

“But dwarves are clever too it seems—after their own fashion. I had the hammer and they were oathbound that it and I should return to Asgard. They didn’t want to start a war with Asgard by killing a prince—even if I was only the second son. They also knew that I couldn’t be allowed to leave unpunished.” Fingers drifted toward the scars before clenching shut. “So they took away the thing I had used to trick them, and they rightly guessed that I would do everything in my power to keep my weakness,” he swallowed thickly, “my shame from ever being known. Thus they feared no retaliation for sewing my lips shut. And I couldn’t stop them.” His features tightened, remembering the awl stabbing through flesh, young voice muffling into silence. Stitch by stitch, the golden thread turning red. Dwarves were not gentle creatures.

“Why did you not…”

“Cut it? Of course I tried. Nearly sliced through my cheek in the process. The thread’s magic was too much—I could only wait until my debt was paid and the spell faded.”

Thor placed a hand on his shoulder. “No, why did you hide? All those months and we never knew you were suffering.”

The memory surfaced of blood dripping down his throat, choking him, threatening to drown him. The fear of starvation and constant wrench of hunger. The leanness of that time had never really left him. He couldn’t quite push down the childish thoughts that rode the swell of his fear. The thought that they should have seen, that if they’d really cared they would have noticed. How could they not see him? His gaze slid briefly to Thor, “When was my suffering ever a concern of yours?”

A deep sigh rumbled through Thor’s frame. “Not as often as it should have been.” He stared intently at Loki, as if searching for something. “You have worn the glamour ever since?”

Shrugging, Loki turned away. “They did not suit my vanity.” He said nothing of the shame. Any other Asgardian would have had the strength to fight and take what he wanted—they would not have allowed themselves to be held down and maimed. But he wasn’t like other Asgardians, was he? Strength too often failed him. What he had was his wits. And he hadn’t been near clever enough.

“I am sorry, Brother.”

Amused confusion quirked his brow. “For what? Even I see that the situation was more of my own making than most.”

Shaking his head, Thor made as if to place his hand on Loki’s shoulder again, but instead let it fall to his side. “No. I am sorry that we muzzled you in New York. It clearly distressed you, but I was too angry to care. I thought you deserved it.”

Loki blinked and leaned back against a tree. The cold wetness of the wood began to seep through his shirt, the dampness spreading between his shoulder blades. “Considering my deeds, I likely deserved far worse.”

“No, you were afraid—and even if I did not know what you had suffered, I ought to have let it be.”

Loki ignored the spark of delight at Thor’s admission. Instead, he latched onto the tendrils of unease that boiled off the memory. All too well he felt the choking panic that had run through him as Thor and Stark had approached with the muzzle. He’d fought them, unable to hold his composure as the metal touched his lips, childhood panic swarming to the surface. Thankfully none of them had noticed the terror betrayed in his actions. Then they’d left him mercifully alone. When they came to haul him to the Bifrost, the terror was gone, stamped down beneath simmering rage.

Chapter Text

The Avengers had all gathered in the great room for what Rogers called team building and Stark called a “kumbyeya snooze fest.” This only resulted in a long suffering sigh from Rogers and hidden smile from Banner. Thor of course wanted to know what a kumbyeya was and whether you could eat it.

“Not really, but I’ll get you some s’mores and we can all hold hands and sing,” said Stark as he patted Thor’s shoulder. He cocked his head and looked at Rogers. “Maybe we can do some trust falls.”

“Yeah, I think you and the Other Guy already had that covered,” said Banner, scratching at his hair.

Romanov covered a laugh behind her hand.

Thor settled onto the hearth, more willing to trust its stones than Midgardian furniture which always seemed a bit flimsy to him, and often uncomfortably small. “On Asgard, warriors in a troop train together, live together, and feast together. They also journey into the wilds with naught but their weapons and each other to survive and prove their worth.”

Rogers smiled. “I was thinking something a bit more close to home. Since we do have house guests.” His gaze lifted to where Loki leaned against the bar that separated part of the kitchen from the dining area and great room.

“Oh, do continue.” He waved a hand idly, the other curled around a mug of tea. For being nothing but hot leaf juice, he was surprised at how flavorful it could be. It was yet another item to add to his list of reasons why Midgard may not be completely devoid of use. The mortals could also be rather diverting if you had run out of other options and had not yet sunk to watching paint dry.

Something in his tone caused Rogers to raise his eyebrows and Stark to twist around in his seat—which was of course Loki’s intention.

“Why are you so interested?”

Romanov placed a hand on his arm. “Tony, we’ve talked about this. When you see him dangling a hook in the water, you don’t actually have to take the bait.”

Loki grinned. The Avengers were always so self-congratulatory, so proud of their great teamwork and the way they came together to defeat the invasion. To foil his plans. He pushed away from the counter and sauntered over to their group. He took in their wary curiosity—it was time they had their perceptions altered.

“I just find your pride in your team amusing,” he said. “The fate of the world in the balance, and you very nearly tore yourselves apart and lost it all.”

“But we didn’t,” said Rogers nobly. He’d probably have launched into a speech if Thor hadn’t interrupted.

“Despite your efforts to drive a wedge between us,” he said, “we prevailed, and together won the day.”

There it was. The opening Loki had been waiting for. “Oh, I wouldn’t say despite my efforts.” He said it slowly, letting a hint of slyness show through as he dropped into a chair.

The Widow narrowed her eyes.

“You were a team that could only be forged in fire.” Loki leaned back in self satisfaction. “I merely provided the flame.”

The silence that greeted him was impressive. Naturally, Stark was the one to break it. “You’re not saying this whole thing was a Batman gambit.”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘whole’ and I’d hardly call it much of a gambit.” He preened. “You all preformed more or less according to expectation,” his gaze darted toward Banner and Romanov, “with a few minor miscalculations. It was a bit of a rush job.”

“But it was our teamwork that broke up your whole scheme,” said Rogers, face a picture of disbelieving confusion. It was amusing to see every emotion play out across that guileless countenance. “Why would you want us to trounce your own invasion?”

“Why indeed?” The words of their martyred agent came back to him. The man had said he lacked conviction.

“That was not your primary objective,” murmured the Widow, a glimmer of understanding showing through her mask.

“I always knew you were the smart one.” His languid ease hardened a bit as he rested his elbows on his knees. The mocking edge had left his voice, leaving it quiet and questioning. “Did you not find it the least bit odd, Thor, that I would lead an invasion in a full military assault?”

Thor shifted uncomfortably. The sheepish look he wore betraying that the thought had never occurred to him.

A sliver of disappointment darkened Loki’s eyes. Annoyed bravado obscured it with the next blink. “That kind of hamfisted approach is really more your style than mine.”

“The scepter’s effects,” murmured Natasha.

Glee brightened his face as he leaned forward invitingly. “Yes? What of the scepter?”

“All it took was hitting Clint in the head to break its hold. The same with Selvig.”

“Exactly the kind of thing likely to happen if the Hawk engaged in an assault on the helicarrier—a helicarrier where you were sure to be.” His tone softened, though the self-satisfied amusement never faded. “How could you help but seek him out, but you were too compromised to make the kill. Incapacitation was your only option, and in a confined space you have the advantage over Barton.”

Romanov shook her head with a self-effacing smile. “The Hulk was never your main objective—a distraction at best.”

“You did divine far more than I had intended,” said Loki. It was the exact tone his weaponsmaster had used when telling Loki how he had entirely missed the mark, but at least his stance was good.

“Don’t patronize me,” she said without malice.

Rogers raised his hand so that everyone looked at him. “I got lost back at the Hulk not being Loki’s game plan.”

Shaking her head, Romanov ran a finger through her hair. “Loki handed us intelligence when he gave us Clint back.”

“Gave?” sputtered Stark.

Loki ignored him. “Did none of you even question why a mere blow to the head would shake the influence from something holding such power?”

“I’m sorry,” said Banner, his mild tone infused with incredulity, “are you saying that you didn’t want to conquer the Earth? Because that’s certainly what it looked like.”

A broad, predatory smile stretched across Loki’s face. “If I had really wanted this backwater realm, I would have it. And it wouldn’t have taken an army. Eighteen months, some aptly spoken words, and you would have been at my feet, begging me to rule you, to save you from yourselves.”

Stark snorted. “Bull.”

“Even your skills could not possibly,” began Thor.

“Remember the Nirnites?”

Thor instantly quieted.

Banner looked at him with widening eyes, “you don’t really mean to say…”

“Not a chance! No way we’d just roll over like good little dogs and let you take over.”

“And if I offered security? Comfort? The odd human individual is perhaps too wary to be taken in, but you are remarkably stupid in large groups. So much cattle. You claim to love freedom, but already you fritter it away in the name of safety and ease until you do not remember life without manacles and chains. You crave enslavement, running ever toward one form of bondage or other. Whether it be drink, ambition, duty, family, lust, status, redemption, the flesh—you all rush from freedom to chain yourselves to something. It is your nature.”

Pausing to let his words sink in, Loki studied each Avenger. Not surprisingly, Romanov accepted his words with a kind of quiet indifference. In her line of work she already knew this to be true, whether she had ever articulated it to herself or not. Thor, oddly, held his council—perhaps not considering himself familiar enough with humans as a whole to confirm or deny. The others, however, seemed truly struck by his words, wanting to deny them, but seeing the truth in them as well.

It was Banner who spoke up. A weariness laced his words. “You’re not wrong. But we can be so much more than our baser selves.”

“And that’s what you were counting on,” said Rogers thoughtfully. Everyone looked at him with surprise. The intricacies of Loki’s games were generally more the territory of Barton or Romanov, not the realm of the rather black and white Captain America. Rogers carried on, “you said we had to be forged in fire. You were counting on us coming through it stronger than before. If what you said were always true, we wouldn’t have come together for the Battle of New York.”

“You are such a prima donna—there is no way you could talk your way into power,” said Stark—clearly unwilling to get past such an idea.

“What is your professional opinion, little spider. This is your area after all,” said Loki gallantly tipping his hand.

The tightness around her mouth and the slight tension of her neck was all that gave her away. The others turned to her.

“Natasha?” asked Rogers.

She folded her hands neatly. “It’s,” she cleared her throat slightly, “it’s not outside the realm of the possible.”

He drank in the mixture of horror, incredulity, and shock that pervaded the room. Oddly enough there was a kind of grudging acknowledgement from the Widow, and what might have been slight awe from Thor.

“Then why invade at all?” asked Banner, his analytical mind still turning the problem this way and that, trying to unravel the mystery behind Loki’s actions.

Recalcitrant silence had not been the expected reaction from the trickster. A heaviness crept into the silence as Loki drew it out, clearly going to answer, but not yet ready to do so. Finally, he sucked in a little breath and looked up at the Avengers, idly playing with the cuff of his sleeve. “The Hawk and your doctor were not the only ones…conscripted into the cause.”

“You were not…” Thor began, only to have Loki’s upraised hand cut him off.

“I was not. Do not assuage yourself with the idea that I was but another whose will was corrupted.” As he spoke, his attention remained wholly on the rhythmic circling of his thumb against his shirt cuff. “It was not wholly against my wishes to come here.” But neither was it without coercion.

Hardened eyes snapped to focus on each Avenger in turn. “Do not mistake me, I would have given up a hundred worlds in order to get away from The Other and his master. But I would not give him the satisfaction of a foothold within the nine realms. And I’ll not be anyone’s tool.”

Chapter Text

His hawk was back. Loki felt eyes on him as he paced the deck and basked in the midmorning sun. Eyes always watched him, but the intensity of the glare was nearly palpable. Loki knew when the others were watching him, and the Widow had a certain intensity to her observation, but this felt like a physical force had driven into the back of his skull. Only Barton could so strongly manifest his hatred. That and the gaze was coming from higher up than any of the others were likely to clamber.

Loki turned his face to the morning warmth and let his eyes slide close. The air had a slight damp chill to it that still lurked in the shadows of the eaves and lifted mistily from beneath the trees. But the sun warmed him. A deep breath stretched his lungs to their fullest and then escaped as a sigh.

How peaceful, he thought, if only someone weren’t glaring death at me.

“Going to shoot me in the back?” he asked as he leaned against the railing. Behind him there was a slight shuffling as Barton stepped from his hiding place between a chimney and slanting roofline. A few scrapes and a soft grunt were all that marked the archer’s descent along the stone and log exterior of the house.

Loki rolled to the side so that he could face Clint. The archer seemed to be slightly scowling, but Loki had come to realize that was just the archer’s neutral expression. Rather unfortunate, really. A strange mixture of irritation and—oddly—mild pleasure coursed through him. Irritation that Clint was ruining his attempts at some peace and quiet, and pleasure because he really had liked Clint best out of all his minions. And not just because the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent had a particularly useful skill set. Loki smiled, which he knew would serve as an annoyance.

“Now’s the part where you tell me it would be dishonorable to shoot a man in the back.” He clucked his tongue, “no…that’s far too upstanding for someone in your line of work, isn’t it. All that honor and morality rigmarole is really more your Captain’s field isn’t it? Perhaps it’s that you want to see the light leave my eyes.”

Barton grunted. “You dead is you dead. I don’t really care how you get that way.”

“How very practical…and Russian, of you.” Loki took in the scrape along Barton’s temple and the small bandage across his nose. Apparently his most recent mission hadn’t gone according to plan. Or maybe it had—it was always hard to tell with Barton. But that was to be expected of a mere mortal that had a habit of throwing himself into fights more suited for gods and aliens than a man with a glorified stick and some string.

Loki spooled out the silence between them, perfectly happy to wait for whatever Barton would do next. If he’d not currently been very, very human, Loki might even have chanced turning his back on the archer just to see what would happen.

“What’s your angle with the kid?” Clint asked.

Loki blinked. That hadn’t been where he expected this to go. “Angle?”

Crossing his arms, Clint merely stared him down.

Giving a helpless kind of shrug, Loki raised his eyebrows questioningly.  “I’m afraid you really do need to be a bit more specific.”

“Let me spell it out for you. You’re not a nice guy. That’s really not in question after the whole—I am death, conqueror of worlds act you tried to pull. You made it pretty clear that human lives don’t even enter into the equation.” His scowl deepened as the faces of his dead flashed before him. The muscles in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth. “So, I want to know what kind of twisted plan you’ve got for the kid.”

Now it was Loki’s turn to feel his anger rising. His eyes narrowed. “Book is not your concern.”

“Since I’m the only one around here who apparently hasn’t been drinking the Kool-aid and actually remembers who you are, the kid is every bit my concern.” Although a fair bit shorter than Loki, it didn’t appear that Clint remembered that as he scowled up at the taller man. “The kid doesn’t deserve to be caught up in your machinations. He deserves better.”

“Of course he does!” The words surprised Loki almost as much as they surprised Clint. Anger drained from Loki as he sagged in weariness. “Of course he does,” he repeated softly. Sadness crept into his tone as he met the archer’s suspicion. “But there is too much history between you and I for you to ever believe that I speak the truth, so what is the point.”

He turned away and headed toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “My angle is merely that Book comes through knowing me with as little damage as possible.” With that he left the sunshine behind and returned to the cool shadows of the house.

Loki turned over his own words. He didn’t even know what kind of damage he had done. Book wasn’t improving. Magic still swirled through his ravaged heart, but the healing had slowed to a crawl. He slept, but awoke exhausted. Excursions from his bed had all but ceased. Though Banner’s machines showed that all was well, Loki knew better. Book’s body wasn’t taking over from the magic. It wasn’t improving. The fading power in his system gave him every breath he took. When the magic ran out…so did Book’s façade of life.

And he would still be dead because of you, Loki thought. Unsurprisingly his steps led him to Book’s door, as they often did. The soft, rhythmic blips of noise echoed throughout the bed chamber. The repetitive noise seemed to bring the Avengers comfort. It brought no such comfort to him as he leaned against the threshold, arm braced against the doorpost and forehead resting on his forearm. He had grown to hate the thrice-cursed sound of that damned machine. It sounded death. Each blip marked the beat of a heart whose beats were slowly running out.

“I doubt he’d appreciate your hovering,” said a voice behind him.

Loki’s eyes slid to the side. “How lucky that I do not care.” He pushed away from the doorframe as Dr. Banner chuckled.

“I never took you for a mother hen.”

“Since I’m apparently already mother to an eight-legged horse, why not to a brood of chickens as well,” said Loki dryly as he turned to face the doctor across the doorway. There was a kind of annoyance in being found amusing by Dr. Banner. Disgust, fear, hatred, all these would perhaps have been better than the amusement that Banner greeted him with. In fact, he’d noticed that all of the Avengers weren’t acting appropriately toward him—Clint being the obvious exception. They certainly didn’t trust him—far from it—and he’d hardly say they had a cordial relationship. It was hard to nail down exactly what it was, but they didn’t treat him as “other” anymore, as if he were this impersonal evil or simply another villain to be vanquished. They were beginning to notice things like his likes and dislikes, habits, and tendencies. Perhaps he seemed more real to them now. An individual rather than just a threat to be overcome.

A muffled noise snapped his attention to the bed, but Book was merely shifting in his sleep. For a moment Loki just watched the gentle rise and swell of the blankets over the boy’s chest. How odd to think that at any moment it could just stop and all that Book was or ever had been would simply cease to be between one breath and the next.

“You seem to be thinking great thoughts.” Banner had that sad little smile again, but it was somehow encouraging at the same time.

He surprised himself a little by answering. “Only that you are such fragile creatures. Brief candles that can burn out between one moment and the next.” What was wrong with him. First Clint, and now this. He seemed determined to be mawkishly honest today.

Banner nodded. “Or be snuffed out.”

Loki narrowed his eyes at the likely reminder that he had certainly “snuffed out” his fair share of mortal lives. There had been that one in particular that seemed to so galvanize the Avengers. The SHIELD Agent whose name Stark had thrown at him atop the tower. Loki thought he’d looked vaguely familiar when Barton began describing the major players he’d need to anticipate on the Helecarrier. Barton confirmed his suspicions that this Coulson was the same man from the time of Thor’s banishment.

Perhaps he wouldn’t have needed to die if the Avengers had shown a bit more cohesion at the start. One would have thought the threat of world domination and invasion by an alien race would have been enough on its own for them to get beyond their petty differences. There had been a need for that death.

He had still enjoyed it. But he hadn’t even been watching the man die. That wasn’t the prize—Thor’s anguish was. Giving back pain for pain. He’d killed a man largely just to hurt Thor. At the time he’d relished it and given very little thought to the man in question. What really would one human life matter in the grand scheme of things?

Part of him wanted to laugh at his thoughts as he pointedly turned his back on the small figure in the bed.

Banner had turned contemplative as he interpreted Loki’s actions. “I’m starting to think that maybe there is a reason Thor refuses to give up on you.”

“Bull-headed stupidity?”

Banner wiped at his glasses and shook his head. “That’s likely a large part of the equation. I was thinking more that he saw something worth saving.”

That was only more proof of Thor’s willful blindness. He idly picked at his left palm. Tightness clenched his jaw as an unpleasant thought crawled its way up his spine. Worth saving. It implied that he was in need of salvation. Or could possibly warrant it.                       

He crossed the room in seven strides, turned on his heel and crossed back. Five, six, seven, turn. Five, six, seven, turn. The cool wooden boards began to warm with his constant passes. The walls of his cage drew ever tighter and he had the urge to crawl out of his skin. Before Her tender ministrations, he would have done exactly that. The point between his shoulder blades ached with the subtle pull of muscles long accustomed to slipping into other forms as easily and naturally as someone else drew on a set of clothes.

“Might I suggest a larger room for such an activity,” said J.A.R.V.I.S. blandly. Clearly he had surmised what Loki was doing from the sound of his steps.

“That is hardly the point of pacing,” he snarled, grinding his heel into the ground a bit more forcefully than was necessary as he turned again.

The day’s conversations had drug his thoughts to places he would have rather left unexplored. How low he had sunk to let the words of mayflies affect him. The implication that Book was just some part of an agenda, or that he had ill intent toward the boy raised his hackles. A short bark of laughter rang in the silence as he paused in his pacing. And wasn’t that exactly true. Hadn’t he been nothing but a resource to be used and discarded when his usefulness had run its course?

Five, six, seven, eight, turn. He paused. Eight steps. Shaking his head, he resumed his pacing. Now Thor’s silly notions had begun to affect the rest of his jailers. They were deceived by their own soft hearts and his apparent tameness. As if you could ever domestic a creature with a fate such as his. He growled. How he just wanted to tear off his skin! These walls were too confining and he couldn’t bear the sounds of life echoing through its chambers. One two three…How dare they look at him with pity! As if he were some child that had lost his way! Seven, eight, nine, turn.

Nine. He halted in midstep, experimentally curling his toes. Careful not to change his stride, he crossed again. Nine.

His eyes narrowed. It had been seven.

He hadn’t changed his pace or his gait—and the room certainly hadn’t grown any smaller. Hope began to bubble up in his chest even as he tried to tamp down the feeling. The only option was that his stride itself had changed, the length of his legs altering subtly. He had begun to shift shape.

Cautiously, Loki flexed his fingers, imagining them lengthening, narrowing, nails sprouting into talons. The muscles jumped in response, his body smoothly molding into the image he held in his mind. He braced himself for the coming tear of flesh and pain of the needlelike shards of power driven through him. No pain came. He curled and uncurled his transformed hand. He was no longer trapped.

The next instant he was bounding through the house, heading for the freedom of the vast forests. He took the steps to the great room in a graceful leap.

“Taking a field trip?” said Clint as he emerged from around the corner, the ever-present scowl across his face, bow already in his hand.

Loki’s eyes flicked around the room, “I begin to find this dwelling cramped.”

“Get used to being uncomfortable then.”

Loki smiled and spread his hands pityingly, his mood suddenly elevated by his discovery. “You’re not going to be able to stop me.” He couldn’t help but twist the knife deeper. “Time was, you wouldn’t have wanted to.”

The arrow was nocked to the bow in an instant, Clint’s eyes devoid of any sign the taunt had hit its mark. “You know, sometimes I slip. Could be a tragic accident and…and…what are you doing?” A hint of dismayed confusion crept into Clint’s voice as Loki began to peel off his outer layers.

Loki grinned to himself as he shed his hoodie and overshirt. In order to save his clothes from ruin he’d need to banish them into a pocket dimension during the transformation, only to be conjured again when he took human form. It was a skill he’d mastered fairly early on as being naked after shapeshifting was never appealing and often humiliating. With his magic reserves so low, however, he didn’t trust that he could manage a whole set of clothes, so the essentials it was. Clint didn’t need to know that, however. He’d just see their prisoner suddenly beginning to strip in the middle of the great room.

“S-stop that!” ordered Clint. Confusion and a hint of unease trickled into his voice.

“No.” Loki wiggled out of his undershirt and threw it casually over the back of the couch. He paced toward Clint in nothing but his blue jeans. He had to time this right or he was going to get an arrow for his trouble. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken foolish risks to get a rise out of someone. Clint was going to fire, he just needed to judge when. There. The twitch of narrowing in the archer’s eye. The arrow slid from his grasp.

It thudded into the far wall, sailing through where Loki’s head had been a moment earlier.

He exploded forward, his Aesir form vanishing into the rangy body of a snarling, black wolf. Before Clint could put another arrow to string, the wolf barreled into him, taking advantage of the archer’s surprise to knock him to the ground, pinning him with its massive forepaws. Lips pulled back over white fangs. His teeth snapped mere inches from Clint’s face. He flinched, but never blinked, seeing the wicked smile come into those wolfish green eyes. With a final canine smirk, Loki pushed off Clint and tore across the room toward the fireplace. In another leap he slid into a smaller, scaled form with sharp claws for climbing and extra limbs for gripping. With a flippant whisk of his tail he disappeared up the chimney and out into the world.

Clint sat on the floor for a minute, blinking a few more times than was necessary. He glanced up as Thor pounded into the room.

“My friend, what is wrong. I heard a shout,” he said as he brandished Mjolnir. “What did Loki do?”

It didn’t escape Clint that Thor knew the exact source of the disturbance without asking. He shook his head. “He started getting naked. And then he turned into a wolf.” His brow furrowed. “He turned into a wolf and then a demon lizard-spider-thing and escaped up the chimney.”

Thor’s stance relaxed. A smile threatened to break across his broad features. “Did I not mention my brother was a shapeshifter?”

“No, no you did not.”

The Asgardian gave a non-committal grunt and strode toward the window, watching his falcon-brother sporting on the gyres. The shape grew dark against the horizon as it sped away.

“He’s running,” spat Clint as he squinted against the dying sun.

Shaking his blond head slowly, Thor’s gaze never left his brother’s form and the joyous spirals of his flight. It had been a long time since he’d seen his brother this free. Mjolnir’s leather-wrapped handle rasped beneath his tightening grip as he realized just how very long it had been. The shackles of bitterness and unhappiness had been weighing down his smiles and curbing his laughter long before his fall. And Thor hadn’t noticed.

“We are going after him, right?”

“He will return.”

“Your track record in understanding Loki is spectacularly bad,” said Clint with a sideways glance, which Thor avoided.

“His oath binds him. More importantly the boy is still here. That is a greater promise of his cooperation than anything.”

They stood side by side in silence, thoughts focused on the winged trouble still sporting in the evening air. A tightness ran across Clint’s shoulders as he watched his slaver—play. “Don’t think that you’ll ever get him back, Thor. Don’t even go there, cause he’s gone and you’ll just wind up betrayed all over again.”

“I do not trust him.”

“But you want to. Don’t think I don’t know desperate hope when I see it. Loki’ll see it too.”

“You seem to say there is no hope.”

Clint glanced back toward the kitchen where he knew Natasha was hunting ingredients for one of her Russian concoctions that vaguely reminded him of used gym socks. He folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve had my fair share of experience with lost causes. He’s gone. Don’t know what he saw in the void—but it’s keeping him on this course.”

“He spoke to you of his fall?” Thor tensed and looked at the archer intently.

He shrugged. “We had down time—I think he liked talking to me. Didn’t tell me everything, but I got more details than others about him—not just the plan, but how he wound up coming through that portal looking like death warmed over.”

Thor’s hand laid heavily on Clint’s shoulder as he turned the archer to him, earnestness etched across his face. “What do you know?”

The muscles in his neck tightened as Clint dragged a nail along the hilt of the knife on his hip. He sighed and looked up at the much taller man. “Never got the whole story, but I don’t think he and the Chitauri were as equal partners as he let on. For the first couple days he was in rough shape—he tried to hide it, but you could tell that he was in pain. I finally convinced him to let me help.  Someone had messed him up. That kinda damage certainly didn’t come from here.”

A strange mixture of hope, rage, and confusion swirled through Thor. “He was tortured.”

Clint shrugged. “Roughed up at least.” He squinted shrewdly as he guessed the course of Thor’s thoughts. “But don’t think he wasn’t doing this of his own free will. I still don’t know what game he was playing, but even if some measure of coercion was involved, he was here to cause chaos—and enjoying every minute of it.” Clint’s face hardened. “I don’t like thinking about—those times—and not just for the obvious reasons. I’ve got every reason to hate him.” A tightness screwed around his mouth. “But here’s the thing—when he made me his meat puppet, he didn’t just make me an automaton. He did something far worse. He took the best parts of me—my love, loyalty, devotion, sense of duty—wrenched them from those who rightfully deserved them and placed them all on himself.”

He turned away and scrubbed a hand through his short hair. The setting sun angled through the tall windows at his back, blotting his shadow across the room. “I admired him, believed in him—believed in what we were doing. It was a revelation. Epiphany. For once in my life there was perfect clarity.”

Thor nodded in understanding. “And you were betrayed.”

Clint huffed and dropped into one of the chairs, one leg dangling over the arm. “I deal in ambiguities—it’s part of the job description. He took that burden.” For the first time during the conversation, Clint locked eyes with Thor. “I hate him.” He drew his fingers along his bowstring. “Hate myself too. A part of me wants that clarity again. Needs it.”

The two lapsed into silence. The faint ring of metal upon metal drifted from the kitchen. Voices pitched in agitation echoed indistinctly down the hall from where Tony and Bruce were working on yet another scanner to detect the use of magic.

Thor crossed his arms over his broad chest. A contemplative look settled across his face. “There was a time when Loki would have been worthy of your respect.”

The archer snorted. “You sure about that? Way I hear it, his track record hasn’t been that great. He’s only been on our radar for a short time and he’s managed to nearly take out a whole town, apparently attempted genocide, committed mass murder, planned to take over the world…and didn’t you die at some point? Does it count as fratricide if you got better?”

Thor waved away the flippant remark. “Over a thousand years of history together cannot be erased by the actions of a few years—terrible though they may have been.”

“And if that history was a lie?”

Thor shook himself. “I must speak with my brother.”

Chapter Text

Paws pounded into the dry bracken as trees blurred before him. His great lungs filled with powerful breaths, swelling his rib cage and drawing in the scents of the forest. Here the trail of a rabbit, fear leeching into its bounding strides. There the streaking presence of the fox that followed it, a brush of sinuous hunger. Loki let his tongue loll from his mouth as he surged ever higher, reveling in this freedom. He had nearly forgotten what it was like to move unhindered through wood, or stream, or sky.

With a great leap, he burst from the underbrush, tufts of his black coat caught in the brambles. The folds of the mountains stretched ever bluer into the horizon, drifts of cloud settling into the valleys between. Breathing hard, he threw back his head and howled a note of joy, letting the reedy notes echo among the hills. There were no longer native wolves to answer his call.

The sun dipped ever lower, tingeing the drifting fog with its dying colors. Shaking himself, a wild glint passed through Loki’s green eyes. He backed away from the edge of the ledge, and with a yelp of delight, surged forward, powerful claws digging into the stone. At the very edge, he gathered himself into a great leap and hurtled out into nothingness. His form shrank, the wolf disappearing into the ruddy feathers of a hawk as he plummeted toward the javelin-tipped pines below. With a snap of his wings and a scream of exhilaration, he shot upwards into the sky. The setting sun flashed along his cutting wings as he danced and dove, pirouetting in sheer bliss.

As the stars pierced the twilight he reluctantly headed for the gleaming lights of Stark’s mountain retreat. A friendly current carried him smoothly over the treetops, his feathers just brushing the tallest branches. He checked his progress, looping lower until he spiraled above the mountain pool at the base of the yard. Tucking in his wings, Loki dove. Before he hit the water, his feathers vanished, growing sleek and soft along his lengthening body.

Breaking through the surface, he slid as easily through the water as he did the air, his ruddered tail and webbed feet sending him curling through the biting depths. A need for air finally brought him to the surface. His whiskered face broke free and he nearly dove again after a mountain trout that was taunting him. The otter could already taste the cold flesh, feel the last wriggling as the fish fought in his jaws. But Loki resisted. The rapid changes had taxed him more than they ought to have, and he cursed the limitations of his mortal frame. His patron still held his greatest powers back. More patience was required. Patience and possibly pizza if the growling in his stomach was anything to go by.

As Loki scampered out of the water and up onto a rock, Thor was waiting for him. With a twitch of his whiskers, Loki shifted around so that his back was to the Thunderer while he began to shake water from his fur.

Thor sighed. “You may ignore me all you wish, but we must talk.”

Giving a brief, chittering retort, Loki turned back to his grooming.

The sigh came again, “You know full well I do not speak otter.”

Loki had the brief impression of a large something coming toward him; before he could react, he found himself dangling by the scruff of the neck. He was almost level with Thor, staring straight into solemn blue eyes. “I would speak with you, brother.”

If Thor hadn’t had such a grip on him, Loki would have sunk his teeth into his wrist and left it at that. He had to satisfy himself with growling low and pulling his lips back over his teeth. The instant Thor set him down, Loki arched back onto his hind legs, stretching tall as the fur receded to reveal pale flesh and his paws lengthened into hands, the webbing melting away. At the same instant he conjured jeans that clung to his still damp flesh.

“Don’t call me that,” he snarled. Standing there, half naked, Loki felt small and slight compared to Thor. Nothing but bone draped in whipcord muscle and tied together with sickly pale flesh. He was exposed—his inadequacies bared for all to see.

“I call you what you are—my brother,” said Thor steadily. He reached out a hand, but Loki only batted it away as he paced the grass. “This is an old argument. You are my brother, deny it though you will. Our blood may not be the same, but in every other way we are family.”

Loki froze, his fists clenched at his side, tension jammed up his spine. He turned slowly, eyes bright beneath hooded brows. “Do you not understand that I was but a means to shore up your greatness? I was never your brother. I was a useless broken tool, not even able to fulfill the purpose for which it was taken.” He was shaking now, his lips spreading wider in a feral grimace as he advanced. “Did you not think it strange that the Allfather favored you over me at every turn? Graced you with his love and affection. Showered you with praise!” Loki was yelling now. “Because no matter how I tried I could never earn his love. A false son had no hope against the Mighty Thor. What place on Asgard was there for a monster!”

The blue burst across Loki’s skin as the water in his damp hair crackled into ice. Red eyes met blue. A feral grin cracked across his face to bare sharpened teeth. “Tell me now that we’re brothers.”

Thor’s eyes trailed across Loki’s form, jaw clenched. He blinked and then closed the gap between them.

Loki flinched, taking a step back. “Don’t touch me.”

Before he could get any farther, Thor lunged forward, catching him in a crushing hug that buried Loki’s head against his shoulder. Flesh sizzled wherever Loki’s bare, frost-rimed skin met Thor’s.

“Stop,” Loki hissed as he struggled in his brother’s grasp.

Thor refused to let go. “Know this, Loki. You are my brother—no matter what color you happen to be.”

The blue drained from his skin, but still Thor did not let go, even as Loki stopped struggling. “And though you will not yet admit it, because you are my brother, I am yours as well.”

Loki pushed away as Thor finally released him, running a hand through his hair, ice crackling. He took in the frost burns all up and down Thor’s arms and across his neck where he had clasped Loki to him. He was lucky—if he hadn’t startled Loki’s control over the form, the damage would have been much worse. “Fool,” he breathed.

A frostburned hand clamped briefly around Loki’s shoulder.  “As you say, brother.”

The mottled, peeling flesh felt hot and oddly smooth against his bare shoulder. Even an Aesir would be days healing from such things. Loki sighed as Thor gave him a nod and a smile, turning back toward the house. “Give me your hands.”

Thor turned and looked at him questioningly.

“I can’t have you traipsing about looking like I attacked you,” he said as he conjured a shirt from between realms, still feeling rather exposed even with it on. “I would rather not give my hawk the excuse he so badly desires to fill me with holes.”

Thor stepped back and extended his hands. Loki placed his own long, pale ones above and below Thor’s. He didn’t allow their hands to touch as he dug down to the meager pools of magic and coaxed power upwards. He could feel the echoes of older spells in Thor’s flesh, healing from a hundred childhood misadventures and hundreds more from battles through the centuries. Trace whispers of his own workings called out to him, each one a witness to the fact that these circumstances were not so unusual. He ignored how familiar it was to be patching Thor up after he’d done something stupid—again.

As the skin knit together, Loki turned his attention to the other burns. He hadn’t the reserves to do anything but set them on their way to a new pink layer of skin, delicate and easily torn. Pulling his hands away, he rubbed his thumbs along his palms. “There. Now maybe your Avengers,” the word came derisively, “won’t find cause to exercise their righteous fury.” He sank leisurely down onto a large rock.

Flexing his hands, Thor smiled appreciatively. “My thanks.” He looked up, expression suddenly wary, as if he were trying to edge his way around to something unpleasant and wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. “Have you ever,” Thor hesitated, searching for the right words—which were apparently located somewhere other than Loki’s face since he refused to look at him. “Have you ever seen yourself?”

That statement was particularly confused, even for Thor. Loki blinked rapidly, scoffing silently at his –at Thor. He leaned forward ingratiatingly. “One can’t really help but look when one is so handsome as myself.” This didn’t elicit the annoyed huff Loki had expected, rather Thor continued in his seriousness.

“In your Jotun form?”

Loki stiffened as if he had been struck. “Tread with care,” he said slowly, the words soft.

Instead of leaving it alone, Thor moved closer, his presence filling all of Loki’s vision. “You hate what you do not even know. I can guess at what grotesqueness you must be conjuring.” Here Thor pressed his fingers to his brother’s chest. “Whatever you imagine, I promise it is a lie.”

Turning away, Loki rose to his feet, pacing toward the edge of the woods. He thrummed with agitation and dearly wished for a tail to twitch. “Oh, yes, I imagine that I am a fine specimen of Jotun beauty.”

Thor shrugged. “You are actually quite…comely. Much like yourself, but…bluer.”

He spared a withering glance over his shoulder, “Your attempts at salvaging this conversation are failing spectacularly—do go on.” He idly brushed the trunk of a gnarled oak, rubbing his thumb along the thick-ribbed bark. “Before long and I’ll be fighting the urge to find a cliff to fling myself from. I do so love falling.”

The barometric pressure dropped away as storm clouds suddenly boiled up. He turned to find Thor clenching his fists and bearing the strangest mixture of emotions. The anger only scudded across the top, beneath it bloomed hurt and fear. If it had been anyone but Thor, Loki would have said it was terror lurking in the blueness of those sparking eyes.

“Do not joke of that,” he said, voice thick as if he were fighting back powerful emotions.

Loki smiled, trying to blot out that pained expression. “Does the Mighty Thor balk at gallows humor now?”

Thor was shaking his head heavily. “Just not that.” Silence descended as the storm clouds swirled overhead, the trees bending beneath the growing wind. It continued for so long that Loki wasn’t sure if Thor was going to speak again, though it seemed like he might. “My dreams are troubled with falling. Your fall.” He settled onto a log and crossed his arms. “It changes, the details, but each time ends the same—with you dangling over the void and your hand in mine…and then you are gone.”

In that instant, Thor looked almost…vulnerable. Certainly not. But Loki peered back at his guileless not-brother and read the truth of his pain in the darks of his eyes. How had Loki not noticed the tarnish to that naïve optimism before? A shadow etched along his brother’s soul that spoke of experience with pain. Loki could not bring himself to admit that his dreams were also full of falling and the void and…worse. Perhaps Thor could appear to be vulnerable, because that was all that it would be—an appearance. Loki had no such luxury.

Crushing the small part of him that wished to share exactly what he was thinking, Loki instead rolled his eyes and picked at his cuff. “Your concern is a bit outdated, don’t you think?” He gestured at himself. “I’ve clearly not met my end, so you might as well stop fretting over it. Honestly, Thor, you’re like a hen wife with your worrying.”

The somber cloud never left Thor as he looked up earnestly. For a long moment he held Loki’s gaze. “I think that you may still be falling.”

Loki flinched, nearly hiding it, but failing. The raw panic he carried just beneath the surface pressed in a hard knot against the inside of his sternum. He forced his lungs to fill, but they faltered against the almost tangible clench of fear.

The mask he showed to Thor obviously looked far too much like the face of someone desperately trying not to show what was happening beneath the surface. If it was possible, Thor’s look of concern deepened. A meaty hand reached out, but Loki turned away from it.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Thor,” said Loki, fearing that the words weren’t as steady as they ought to be. There was too much of the terror of falling oozing into them. The muscles in his neck tightened as he clenched his jaw against the sensation of sliding between Yggdrasil’s branches, clawing at tendrils that rasped through his hands and then being pitched into a nothingness that swallowed everything he gave it and offered up only the perpetual promise of impact.

He fixed a smile on his face as he whirled, “we both know I’m the dramatist in the family.” He allowed the edge to creep into his voice, features ever so slightly too manic. “So, let’s put on a show.” With an upward jerk of his fingers, magic wove through the threads of his clothing. Didn’t need them burning away with what came next. The image of a cold, baleful gem hidden beneath his ribs popped into his mind. He reached for it, shocked by the cold of it and yet not really feeling it.

He gritted his teeth and gave himself over to the form he’d been born with. Anything to distract Thor—and himself—from talk of falling. He could feel the Jotun creeping through him like tendrils of frost spreading across a window pane. A vague uneasiness settled in his stomach. Whether it was the change itself that made him queasy, or the revulsion he felt at putting on such a grotesque form. No, not putting it on. He slid into other shapes, putting them on like a coat. This one came from somewhere else, bubbling out of his core. This was his skin—but not his skin.

Raising his left hand in a quick gesture of command, magic leapt to his call. He sneered. Of course ice magic came particularly easily in this form. Without looking, he piled the water in the air into a frozen pillar, its roots buried in the layer of last year’s leaves. Still not looking, his fingers twitched and the layer facing him melted and refroze in a flat, reflective sheet. A mirror.

He didn’t turn to face it.

“You can’t run from this,” said Thor quietly.

Watch me. Loki gritted his teeth, wondering yet again why he was capitulating to such a distasteful thing. Idiotic! Since when did he listen to Thor? He raised his other hand to melt the mirror, but a sudden morbid curiosity grabbed him. Part of him wanted to see the monster beneath the lie. A rather sizeable portion wanted nothing more than to be able to forget that his skin had ever been anything but pale Aesir. And then there was the small jeering voice that called him a coward for being too scared to look at himself.

A slight turn was all it would take.

Loki faced the mirror.

At first he didn’t really see himself, eyes instead focusing over his shoulder at Thor. The idiot was smiling in what was probably meant to be an encouraging manner. Loki drug his gaze away.

Red coals stared back at him. Jotun eyes had always been the worst part of the stories, the part that parents emphasized to their children at night, and what every child thought they caught glimpses of in the shadows. The fangs were his next least favorite thing about the Jotun. Loki ran his tongue over his now finely pointed teeth.

He couldn’t dwell on his eyes, but other than that, Thor had been largely correct. He looked like himself. The midnight skin was marked with patterns and ridges. Loki couldn’t tell if they were ritualized scars or naturally occurring. Idly he wondered if they served to differentiate between Jotun, much like fingerprints.

Very deliberately he turned from side to side, taking himself in from each angle. He wondered if he ought to feel recognition now that he saw himself for what he really was. He swallowed hard. For nearly the first time in his life he was being completely honest. No more Aesir-skinned lies.

The ice-mirror cracked in a jagged line from edge to edge. He grimaced. This was what truth looked like.

He gave a wolf-edged smile. “Well, what do you think?” Loki spun around slowly to Thor, as if showing off a new tunic.

A sudden flicker of surprise showed on Thor’s face. He reached out as if to touch Loki, but stopped just above the freezing skin, his fingers hovering over Loki’s forehead. “You have horns.”

Loki‘s hand shot to his hairline. Sure enough his hands traced over the raised mound of budding horns. A sudden jolt coiled through him. His helmet. Thor had always teased him about it, but he had loved how intimidating and powerful it made him look. How natural they felt.

The unease knotted itself in his stomach and started clawing up his throat. He dropped to his knees, hands dug into the ground as he retched. He tried to ignore the soothing hand that was awkwardly patting his back.

As he rocked back on his heels, Loki drug a now pale hand across his mouth.

“You must take after your,” Thor hesitated, “blood-mother.”

Loki didn’t miss Thor tripping over the term. Even to Loki there was a snapping sense of betrayal in trying to call anyone but Frigga his mother—no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that he had no family.

“What?!” spat Loki.

Thor pointed at his forehead. “The horns. A small number of Frost Giants never develop them. Laufey was one of these.”

“How would you know anything about Frost Giants, other than how to mount their heads on the wall?” asked Loki.

“The archives. After you fell I,” Thor swallowed, “I wanted to know more about what you were.”

Loki blinked slowly, face curled in confusion. “Archives?”

Thor smiled. “Yes. The place with all the books? You spent most of your childhood hidden away in there, those archives?”

“You actually entered my library. And read. A book?” Loki asked, emphasizing each phrase.

“Aye, I read a book.” Thor’s eyes sparked with amusement.

Loki leaned back against a crooked oak, crossing his arms. “It is good to see at least some good came from my death.”

Thor chose to ignore the comment. “The wisps took some convincing. They were displeased that I could not produce you.” He frowned. “I think. I finally had to bribe them with one of your books.”

“Which one?!”

Thor ignored him. “What they led me to were only partial answers.”

Loki slid in front of Thor, leaning into the Thunderer’s space. “Which one,” he ground out. “So help me, if you answer poorly, no vow, no matter how magically bound, will save you.”

“Peace,” said Thor, placing his hands on Loki’s shoulders. “It was only an alchemic text, uninscribed, with no notes.”

“Red or blue cover?”

Thor’s eyes shifted to the side as he tried to remember. “Black.”

He frowned. “Shelf above my desk, second book from the bottom of a stack of five, boarheaded torque on top?”

“Yes?” said Thor, sheepishly.

Massaging his temple, Loki groaned. “That was volume one of Theophrastus’ Transmutations!”

“The archives had a copy.”

Loki gaped and blinked rapidly, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter! It was Transmutations, the work on alchemic reactions. And you gave it to the wisps.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and sank onto a fallen log. “They’ll have nested in it.”

“I am sorry, brother.”

He gave a dismissive snort as he waved away Thor’s apology. “What other of my belongings have you done away with? Did you give my journals to a traveling troll, or perhaps sell my wardrobe to a band of roving bilgesnipe hunters?”

“We did think you dead at the time,” murmured Thor.

“That hardly matters! It was Theophrastus!”

Thor smiled indulgently, as he always did when Loki became overly excited about books or study. “May I continue?” He took Loki’s flippant gesture as a yes. “There were great volumes of the battles of old and the conquests of Father and Bor involving the Frost Giants. The invasion of Midgard, the War of Black Ice and many others. Then there were the tales of horror that so frightened us as children. The books talked only of how bloodthirsty the Jotnar were and how best to kill them and what tactics they used in battle.”

Loki scowled and folded further in on himself.

“But there was nothing to tell about their culture, their joys, and their families. When I asked if there was nothing else, the wisps danced in conference. No, there was nothing else in their hunting grounds. Discouraged, I was about to leave when three wisps waylaid me. Triplets, they chimed like silver shards. They beckoned me to the healing ward. It was there that I met Merat.” Thor dove into his tale.           

The three lights bobbed down the corridor before him, their blue glow sheening off the polished floor. Occasionally one would dart back and flit before his eyes, as if checking to make sure he was following.

Thor nodded to the guards stationed at the entrance to the healers’ wings—silent presences between the arches. He received a polite bow in return. Their training was too good to let them question why their prince was trailing after a cluster of wisps. It was not so good as to keep the younger one’s eyes from straying after Thor before snapping back to attention.

“Where are you leading me?” he asked as he recognized the path to the healing ward. Over the years he had become quite familiar with these rooms. It was here he’d been brought for so many different reasons over the centuries. When he’d been little Eir, the head healer, had intimidated him. The woman was built like an ox, betraying her dvergr heritage and Thor shuddered to think what she would look like with a battle axe in her hands. Eir didn’t coddle, but she was far from unkind. He remembered fascination with all the white twists of scar that marked her hands, and how careful those rough fingers could be.

He also remembered one week where it seemed like he and Loki had been in and out of the ward constantly. When they both showed up with an impressive collection of new cuts and bruises, Eir had threatened to lock them both in a storage closest if they couldn’t go two days without undoing all her good work. Loki had merely grinned and told her that if she were more free with her company they wouldn’t have to invent ways to come see her. She didn’t smile at that, but Thor could tell she’d wanted to.

Loki. He closed his eyes against the image of his brother that flashed before him. The wrongness of the figure who had stood before him in the observatory. It had worn his brother’s face, had used his voice, but that had not been the brother he had known. He couldn’t quite match up the grinning boy with the wild, frantic desperation he’d seen on the Bifrost. Now that he could revisit the memory—and he had, constantly replaying the events—he saw that Loki had done everything in his power to make him attack. Thor shook his head. Little wonder that Loki had so quickly found exactly the thing to make him lose his temper.

He barely registered that the wisps had turned down the curving walkway that circled around one side of the healing ward. Sunlight fractured through large light-gems set into the arched ceiling, sending white and colored flecks of light across the floor. At one time the right hand side of the corridor had looked out over the city, but expansion of the old palace in his grandfather’s time had obscured much of the view. Now murals nestled in the blank window arches. Highly stylized, the images told the story of how the first healer fought to the heart of Yggdrasil and begged of the Norns the knowledge to mend rather than destroy.

“Wisps!” exclaimed a voice from somewhere below Thor.

He glanced down, so lost in his thoughts he hadn’t realized he was no longer alone. Crouched at his feet and cooing at the wisps was perhaps the smallest Asgardian he had ever seen. Smaller perhaps even than Jane. Her lack of height was nothing compared to the rest of her body, however. An almost carapace-like shell had melded with the left side of her face, tearing away into flesh along the other side and disappearing back into the hairline. Three glistening eyes clustered like red jewels amid the gray chitin, balanced on the other side by a single watery blue. Frizzy, blonde hair fell in a thick, knot-like braid nearly to the floor, stray strands curling out in every direction.

“Oh, aren’t you just the most beautiful plasmio-genetics I’ve ever seen, you are indeed,” she cooed, extending a hand that was mostly melded into a claw, gray carapace flaking off the fused fingers. One of the wisps chimed gleefully and settled into her palm.

“Are you well?” asked Thor uncertainly.

“How could anyone be unwell with such beauties,” she said, glancing up at him for the first time. She squinted.  “You’re one of Odin’s aren’t you. Not the homicidal one—the other one. Hammer prince.”

Thor shifted uneasily. No one spoke so casually of the royal family. “I am Thor.” He waited for the strange woman to give her name. She merely continued to stare at him. He swallowed. “And you are?”

She paused for a moment. “Everyone is always shouting ‘Merat’ at me.” She brought the perched wisp to her nose and sniffed experimentally. “Slight scent of absinthe—not yet two years of age, wing span measuring three centimeters—vein like pattern to the wings—definitely a female,” she murmured. She suddenly thrust the wisp into Thor’s face—or as close as she could manage. “Would you say this is opalescent or more of a pearlescent?” Before Thor could hazard a guess, she huffed and drew the hand away, “why do I bother? The male of the species...never of any use in such matters.”

The wisps chirped and circled around her in joyous little dance. Darting back to Thor, they tugged at his cape and then skipped back to Merat.

This was who they wanted him to see? A rude, disturbed shapeshifter who had obviously overreached herself. One of the wisps pulsed in an almost angry huff and darted forward to give his hair a quick yank.

“Oh, they don’t seem to like you. Good judges of character the wisps,” said Merat. Light and shadow dappled across her strange form as she brazenly stared up at Thor, not the least bit deferential.

“Are you certain you ought to be wandering the halls?” he asked as he craned to look around, as if expecting to see Eir appear and tuck the little creature under one arm and haul her back to the healing rooms.

“I ought do what I will do, and no overgrown dwarf-witch is going to say otherwise.” Merat swelled with indignation and snapped her claws shut with finality. “Until Frigga arrives to untangle the mess I made of myself this time, I would do well to avoid that gaol of a house of healing. One lecture on the safety of shapeshifting will be more than enough.”

Confusion passed over Thor’s face. “You await the Queen?”

Merat gave him a look he well remembered his more brazen tutors wearing behind his back. One of equal parts astonishment and disgusted disappointment. “Did you not know your lady mother to be quite skilled in treating ailments such as mine?”

Thor shook his head. He had not known. With Loki as a brother it was sometimes easy to forget that Frigga too could change her form—though through magic, not natural skill. Thor frowned. All those years of Loki sliding from one form to the next and neither had realized that he never truly wore his own skin.

“What do you know of Frost Giants?” Thor asked. The abruptness of the words startled him.

An odd look flashed across her face as all four eyes narrowed. “And what would a Prince of Asgard be needing with such information?” She hummed to herself. “To kill them perhaps, maim them, put their heads on your wall!” She drew herself up to the limit of her rather unimpressive height, rage sparking around her. “Such magnificent creatures and you’d wipe them out.”

“My brother was not in his right mind when he attacked them.”

“And were you not in your right mind when you led an attack on their world—unprovoked?” she said with steely calm. “Does mental instability run so freely in the royal line?”

“Loki is Jotun.” Thor stopped abruptly. It felt so odd to say it—as if the two things should never have coexisted in the same sentence, and yet there they were. His brother was—had been—a monster. But it didn’t feel monstrous to say it—except for those last few days, he would never have thought of his brother as being anything like the demons of his childhood fantasies. Perhaps not quite as Aesir as he ought to have been—but never that.

Merat blinked, her multiple eyes closing in a swift wave. “A natural shapeshifting magic user among the Jotnar…how curious.”

“In what way?”

“Quite rare among them, shapeshifting—as is anything beyond elemental ice magic—it’s so rudimentary that few sorcerers would deign to even call it magic. And you are sure the other one,” she shook her head as if trying to focus, “Prince Loki, was Jotun.”

Thor gave a heavy nod. “He was a foundling, abandoned in a temple during the war.”

Her eyes brightened as she clutched at Thor’s sleeve, dragging him toward a shadowed bench. “Sit, sit, sit. Tell me everything. A trade—what you know for what I know,” she said excitedly as she forced Thor down—startling him with the strength she had for her size. Before he could think on it further, she popped up onto the bench next to him, the wisps burrowing into her hair to listen. “Now…speak of your brother.”

And so Thor spoke. He began hesitantly at first, often beginning one story before realizing that it wouldn’t make sense if he didn’t also mention some other related fact. Merat let him ramble, only occasionally asking a question for clarification. Her focus had narrowed to him and him alone. Thor had seen this kind of honed attention in warriors in the training grounds, but never in such a tiny scholar. He could almost see the absorption of information and the quick connections and mental notes so was taking. It reminded him a bit of Loki.

Eventually Thor’s words ran out and he waited for Merat to tell him about Jotunheim. For a long while she merely sat staring at the lengthening shadows, hand and claw clasped under her chin. The pale light from the wisps mirrored strangely in her eyes, like candles through the mist. “Jotunheim spends nearly its entire year in darkness. It is a place of bitter cold, with tearing winds and harsh jags of ice. The planet itself doesn’t want anything to survive. Anything that would live there must fight for the right to do so, becoming harsher, crueler, and colder than the ice around them.” She glanced up with a wicked smile. “And the Jotun have flourished there—or they did until Odin stripped them of the Casket of Ancient Winters, ceding control of the planet back to the wastes and blizzards.”

She shook her head, sending her wild hair bouncing about in a golden tangle. One wisp was flung out and struck an irritated chime before it floated back. Merat idly guided it back to its brethren before she continued, “It takes generations to pool enough magic in any one Jotun to actually have talent—and that imperialistic fool Laufey,” she spat on the floor in disgust, “sacrificed the first Frost Giant within memory that would have had the skill to create a new Casket and tame the world.” She gave a wry smile as she looked up at the much bigger Thor. “All for the crime of being small.”

“What do you mean ‘sacrificed’?” rumbled Thor. He’d always assumed Loki had been forgotten in the tide of battle—or simply unwanted.           

Merat slid from the bench and paced back and forth before him, hand clasping claw behind her back. She flashed in and out of the light as her path took her beneath the light-jewels in the ceiling. “There is a custom—ancient as the darkest ice—of offering up a child to the cold in order to win a battle. Children are dear to the Jotun—they are perhaps hard parents by your understanding, but children are meant to carry on their parents’ legacy and one would not be sacrificed lightly. Not a healthy one at least. Exposure is not uncommon for lesser specimens.” She paused in a pool of light, harsh shadows tearing across her features. “The sacrifice would hardly have mattered for a stunted runt like Loki. He wouldn’t have meant anything to Laufey despite being healthy in all other ways.” Shaking her head, she continued, “If Odin hadn’t had such a soft heart, we wouldn’t be having the conversation now.”

“Meaning?”

“Your brother would have died. Once dedicated in the temple, no Jotun would have touched him, no matter what his cries or wailing. Not even his own mother—if she lived. Probably not, Laufey certainly wouldn’t have taken the blame for producing such a stunted thing.”

Thor shifted uncomfortably. “You do little to shift my opinion of the Frost Giants being monsters.”

“Do I not?” asked Merat, surprise sending her only eyebrow up to brush against a ridge of chitin. “Do not mistake all Jotun for being as their thrice-cursed devil-king. A vain, ambitious, cruel shard of ice that one. Petty enough to order all his subjects to grind their horns simply because he lacked them himself.” She spat again. “The Jotun have long followed a bad king, but as a people they are not the monsters your Asgardian mothers paint them to be. They are impressive in their own way. Creatures of pride and rugged endurance.”

Merat talked until the sun was long down and hinting that it may rise again. She spoke of them physically—their lack of beards and the horns of both males and females—of their history, culture, and customs. Male Jotun wore their hair long until their coming of age. If they survived the dangers of the wastes they shaved their heads completely or left only a long mane along the top of their head. The females did the opposite, only allowed to grow out their hair once they wore the skin of a hunta-beast they had tracked and killed themselves. One out of ten girls wouldn’t come back from that quest.

She spoke of the deep-throated singing of the warriors and the brief, brilliant summers. Back when the Casket had been on Jotunheim, vast cities of ice, clear as crystal, rose like branching frost into the air. And the towers had caught and held the light of the sun long after it had dropped back into the black cold of winter.

Thor listened intently, trying to shove down over a thousand years of revilement. Especially when some of their culture was so foreign to his own. One of the most foreign was the role Jotun kith-bands played in courtship. Ties of blood on Jotunheim were nearly overshadowed by the bonds of kith-bands: tight-knit, adventure hardened groups of friends—not so different from the Warriors Three and Sif. The groups began in childhood, occurring naturally as the Jotun youth grew and learned how to survive in their world. It was not uncommon for a kith-band to lose a member even before the trials of worth proved them ready for adulthood. These groups were first in a Jotun’s loyalty and played important roles in one another’s lives. Once a maiden had picked out a likely candidate for marriage it was her kithen-sisters that helped her kidnap the lucky male from under the protection of his brothers. Typically the arrangement was not unfavorable to the groom-to-be and his band were not likely to try and protect him very diligently.

Then the bride’s kithen-sisters would whisk him into the wilds where an elder cut their marriage marks into them. Then all of the females would hold the new husband captive and in secret until his wife bore the proof of their unity with their first child. Only then would the husband be released to his own group. Until then none of the other girls would pursue their own lives. If they already had children of their own, they would join the group in hiding. Luckily this was normally a process of only some months, though Merat had heard of one group of particularly diligent females that lived in the wilds for nearly twenty years.

As the picture of a people—rather than beasts—came together, Thor wondered how he had not heard all this before. He couldn’t say he admired much of the Jotun culture, and there was quite a bit that repulsed him, but Thor had always thought of them as little more than animals. They had been a blight on the nine-realms, these beasts of nightmare and children’s tales that ought to be wiped out. But the world Merat showed him was one where there was no room for monsters.

Eventually Thor felt he could absorb no more—and he was fairly certain he’d dozed off at some point because he had no idea when Merat had switched to talking about traditional dishes involving toasted eyeballs. Getting to his feet startled the scholar, causing her to glare up at him. He ducked his head briefly in apology. “I fear that is more than I can handle for the time being. I thank you, Lady Merat, for telling me these things.”

She grinned. “Are you yet sorry you asked?”

He shook his head, also grinning, though it was tinged in sadness. “Nay. I…needed to know this. But I would like to know how it is that you come to know so much of the Jotun.”

She cocked here head and peered up at him. “Does this look to be the face of someone who sits at home all day? I’m not at the same level as it would seem your Loki was, but I have some modicum of skin-changing talent. Not enough to keep from getting spliced on occasion, however.” She frowned and knocked her claw against her shelled face. “While I appear to have over-reached myself with the Nifelheim spice spider, I’m very good at anything on two legs. It’s a useful skill for one that wants to study the other realms up close. I’m also good with birds—most of them have only two legs.” She tapped her chin in thought, then shrugged. “I ought to be watching the spice-spiders’ hatching flight, not stuck in Asgard’s golden halls while all the action happens without me.” Small hands clenched in agitation and then eased as she let out a long breath. “There is always next century.”

She traced the gilded edging around the scene depicting the first healer gathering up golden apples of immortality. Even in the faint light of early morning the apples seemed to gleam with their own light. “All told, it wasn’t a wasted night. You proved far less dull than I would expect from a sword-swinger. And you brought me wisps.” The little lights cooed from where they had settled in her hair. She rounded on Thor and gave a sharp nod. “This was a Norn-fated meeting to be sure.”

“Perhaps it was indeed.” Thor offered his arm to escort her back to the healing rooms, which she waved off. “I am grateful at least that you were here to tell me these things. You have been…” he trailed off, searching for the words. “I wish my brother had known these things before.”

Merat huffed and tugged at her collar as if it had suddenly offended her. “Well, I will set him straight if given half a chance.”

He stiffened. “My brother is dead.” He closed his eyes against the words. His brother was dead.

Merat flapped her hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. But if he ever ceases to be so, send for me.”

It was so painfully absurd, Thor gave a snort of laughter. “I’ve never met an Aesir quite like you.”

Mixed eyes fixed on him. “And who’s been saying I was Aesir?”

As Thor ended his tale he looked carefully over at Loki as if to gauge his reaction. Loki in turn held his features painfully neutral. The cooling night kicked up a breeze, ruffling their hair as it passed.

“Do you believe what she said?” He looked up at the stars peeking through the canopy above him rather than at Thor.

“I do not think it is in her to lie. What she thinks, she says.”

“And you did not deem her unsound?”

A throaty chuckle built in Thor’s chest. “Entirely. But I think her information true.”

Loki paused. He was far from believing the Jotnar were anything but beasts to be slaughtered, but he couldn’t keep his mind from ranging over the far-flung hills of doubt. What if they were a race—not particularly pleasant—but a race worth the consideration of an Aesir? And if—just supposing—they weren’t the evil he had always thought them to be, what did that make him? He had sought to wipe them from the nine realms as if purging an infestation.

“Loki?” Thor asked, a tinge of unease in his voice.

Looking down, Loki realized he’d risen to his feet without noticing it. He smoothed the front of his shirt and spoke quietly, “I wish to think on these things. Alone.”

Thor had a look that threatened protestation, but instead his shoulders slumped a bit and he nodded. He had not made it far before Loki’s voice followed him.

“Thor?” he paused to make sure the Thunderer was listening, “do not speak to me of Frost Giants again.” Finality laced his tone though his expression was neutral as he gazed into the patchwork darkness of the forest.

“Aye,” said Thor finally. It didn’t seem to really surprise him.

Loki waited until the heavy footsteps had faded away before he lowered himself deliberately to the rock. An uncertain emotion swam through his heart. He’d shown Thor the monster and Thor hadn’t so much as flinched. Turning over his pale hands, Loki gazed at them, somehow seeing the hideous blue beneath the Asgardian veneer. How could Thor be so blind. Hundreds of years swearing vengeance and murder upon the Jotun and now he would embrace one?

“Sentiment,” Loki said as he shook himself. Though, the word lacked the usual derisive venom.

Chapter Text

He should never have spoken of giants.

Jerking upright in a tangle of sheets, the knife had already left his fingertips before he’d registered that he was alone in his room. Still, his eyes roved the shadows for any further demons that may have slipped from his dreams into the waking world.

Gritting his teeth, he hunched forward, placing his head in his hands. Why did his mind persist in tormenting him in his sleep? Sleep which this weak, mortal flesh required far more than he preferred. Had he been screaming? Norns, he hoped not. The shame of the Avengers finding him screaming like an infant.

Listening intently, Loki strained for the coming sound of feet. If the terror had escaped his dreams, surely the Avengers would have heard him—his room wasn’t that secluded. The silence stretched on until Loki finally allowed himself to relax, shoulders slumping in relief.

Taking a deep breath, he willed his heart to stop racing within his chest and imagined the adrenaline evaporating from his skin and leaving behind only calm. He couldn’t even remember what had plagued his nightmares. Just a sense of horror and cold. He swallowed, and a heavy scent of copper so thick he could still taste it.

He stiffened as his gaze slid down to his hand. The blood. He could see it, feel it coating his skin. The dream snapped into focus, images drilling into his mind even when he clenched his eyes against them. He remembered now.

He wished he didn’t.

Book writhed in his grasp, frost spiderwebbing across his skin, eyes stretched wide with uncomprehending betrayal. And Loki laughed. Bared sharpened teeth in a feral smile as ice crawled up his forearm and crystalized into a blade of jagged frost.

Book kicked and sputtered, words unable to form past the fingers locked around his throat. Nails dug into Loki’s forearm, pale scratches tearing across blue flesh. Veins burst around Book’s eyes, peppering his skin with red speckles even as the whites of his eyes began to take on a reddish cast.

Red like the demon glow of Loki’s own eyes. He raised his ice-encrusted hand and thrust it through the center of Book’s chest, lifting him over his head on the icy pike. A hitching intake of breath. The boy’s blood ran down his arm and splattered across Loki’s upturned face as the child sputtered and gagged, his lungs filling. And still, in the pain and horror-struck depths of his eyes the question lurked—why? Why?

With an aimless flick of his arm, Loki slung the corpse onto the ice, shrugging it off as the ice-blade melted away. Horrified gasps drew his attention. All around him gathered blue bodies. Little ones clutched their mothers’ legs in fear and the women clustered together. All of them looked at him with revulsion, disgust stamping their scarred features.

A guttural rumbling of sounds, words he couldn’t understand whispered through the group. Insidious accusations. He couldn’t understand them, but he knew exactly what they were saying. He could read it in the curl of a lip, the shock filled eyes, the sheer incomprehension of his actions.

He glanced back at the broken heap on the red smeared ice. Green and brown orbs had grown glassy, but they still asked the same question. Why?

A mad sneer cracked across Loki’s face.

Why not?

Loki shook his head as if he could dislodge those starring eyes from his mind. Book was fine. They were on earth. Book was fine. Just in the other room. He was fine. He held his hand before his face. No blood. He would never hurt Book—he’d saved him.

Wouldn’t you? The insidious thought slithered through his skull. Didn’t you consider ways to dispose of his body? To make sure he wasn’t in your way…not that long ago?

“Shut up,” Loki growled to himself as he staggered into the bathroom and wrenched the faucet on. Icy water gushed out as he plunged his hands into the stream, splashing the biting water against his face. The shock of it pulled him further from the tangled, circling thoughts of nightmare. He licked moisture from his lips and ran damp hands over his rumpled hair.

“Is everything all right?”

Loki’s hand was on another knife pulled from between realms even as he registered that the voice belonged to J.A.R.V.I.S.

Breath hissed through his teeth. “I wasn’t talking to you, machine.”

“I beg your pardon.” The speakers clicked off with a huffy kind of finality.

Loki almost had the urge to apologize to Stark’s infernal creation. Almost. He’d had nightmares before, but this…this felt too real. Fear clawed at the back of his mind that Book wasn’t well. Irrational.

He was at the door even as he berated himself for such thoughts. The boy was fine.

But he needed to lay eyes on him.

Padding quietly down the halls, he listened for any other inhabitants. He could not bear their questions, their concern, their mockery. Even Thor. He strangled the small part of him that half hoped to turn the corner and find the Thunderer standing there. No, it was better that he avoided them all. He had no energy to prepare a face to meet their questions.

Book was all that mattered. Logically, he knew the boy was perfectly safe and sound. Knew it.

If only his mind could convince his racing heart of that fact.

He half held his breath as he eased open the door. Tucked into a little ball in the center of the bed, was Book. He was so still. Too still.

Loki’s heart seized as his still terror-muddled mind took a moment too long to register the muted rhythm from the monitor or the subtle shift of blankets as the boy breathed. For a moment the doorframe was the only thing holding him upright as he latched onto it. Once he could hear anything again beyond the rushing of blood in his ears, he could actually make out the soft intake and exhale of breath coming from the bed.

Slowly his own breathing and heartrate calmed. Slipping into the room, he settled himself into a chair by the bed. As the fear drained away, a leaden exhaustion rose to take its place. Not sleep, he was too shaken for that. The mere thought of closing his eyes again and finding in the blackness more of what he experienced tonight made his stomach churn. Regardless, he couldn’t have made it back to his chamber since every limb had gone weak and useless.

It didn’t matter, though. He was perfectly content to sit by Book’s side. To sit and watch the small form, counting each breath.

He quirked a sad smile as he noticed Book’s street bag draped over the headboard. The Captain had grabbed it when he and Stark returned to Greenville to make sure there were no alien corpses lying around and to “spin” the narrative as Stark put it. Loki’s own bag lay dejected in the closet. There was no need of it now and little in it he might miss when hauled back to Asgard’s golden prison. A comb, his toothbrush, a battered water bottle, a pocket knife, socks with holes in them. All this for a prince of Asgard. Perhaps the only thing he might wish to keep would be the ragged library card that Book had managed to con Kayden into giving him.

Book’s bag was different. It was practically a part of him and once it had been returned—after Banner had thoroughly sanitized it and its contents—he’d kept it by his side. A sure sign that he was becoming comfortable with the Avengers was when he finally started leaving the bag behind when he went to the great room or hovered at the edges of Stark’s makeshift lab watching him and Banner bandy science back and forth at one another in a flurry of excitement. Loki swallowed—and now here was the bag again, not tossed in a chair or settled by the bedside, but draped right next to Book.

He ran his fingers over the roughly patched corner, Book’s haphazard stitching lashing the cloth together. This sad little collection of items and cloth was safety, life. It had seen better days, but it would have to be completely falling apart for Book to part with it. Apparently Simeon had given it to him. Inside, it held all the essentials that Loki’s did, plus a few extras—their phone for example. That had been the product of a particularly bountiful few months and key to their one day getting off the streets. It seemed Book had planned to eventually hire Loki out to some form of real job. Of course in his voiceless state it would have done Loki little good, so Book offered to be his secretary.

There were also a number of small mementoes nestled among the necessities. A photo of Simeon and the crew, a keychain with a rearing horse from Coon, a watch that needed a new band from a fellow foster kid, a laminated bookmark from Kayden with a list of great novels on it—that she expected him to read. A pack of cards, a pretty rock, some beads, a somewhat crushed origami wolf made from gum foil, three soda bottle lids, a shiny coin. All of them small, unimportant things.

There was one other thing in that bag. Loki knew; he’d seen it when Book emptied everything out to patch that hole. As the boy had focused on his work, tongue tucked into the corner of his mouth, Loki had noticed something new among Book’s collection of treasures. A photo. A photo of the two of them. By that time he’d well known that he had earned—stolen—Book’s trust, but he was still surprised to see the photo laid out with the other items. It was from some festival Book had dragged them to because there was free food—because of course Book knew where to find free food—and among the games and amusements there had been a kind of photo booth with ridiculous accessories and props—props that oddly included a number of mustaches on sticks. Unable to refuse without making a scene, Loki had allowed the boy to drag him over. Though they forwent anything ridiculous.

As he thought of the picture, Loki had to revise his assessment of his own items. He had a copy too—though it was more dog-eared. It currently marked his place in a novel from the library—a book he supposed he had now inadvertently stolen. Perhaps Thor might grant him the trivial request of taking the photo and library card with him.

By the time the earliest blush of light began to fill the room, Loki had shaken away the last vestiges of nightmare and its frigid cloak of terror. He couldn’t shake the exhaustion or black mood that hung heavily about him. Thor’s words and Barton’s accusations churned in his thoughts. Even his dreams offered no refuge; at least these were mere jumbled images that left him with a sense of unease rather than any clear visions.

The troubling thought had also occurred to him that just like his voice, his shapeshifting had been returned to him as some kind of reward. The reason was even more hidden than the last. What had he done to warrant this reprieve? In what way could it possibly have played into Her plans?

He spent little time in his Aesir skin, instead finding the highest tree within sight of the house—it made his jailers nervous if he was out of sight for too long—and perching there with his thoughts. Sometimes as a hawk, sometimes an owl, and once as a large, tall-eared squirrel. He felt the wind and the sun and breathed the freedom of the chilling air as he watched the ever-changing mountains before him. Through it all, he thought. And worried.

Each time he had visited Book, the boy had been asleep, but Banner said that for all his sleep the boy never seemed to be rested. There was no human explanation for it. Without access to Asgard’s libraries, Loki had no answers either.               

The moon had long since risen by the time Loki wandered back to the house, carefully skirting the others as he made his way to his rooms. He was not in a gaming mood. Despite this he still found his steps leading toward the infirmary. He doubted the boy would be up at this hour, but he had yet to check on his progress today.

“You’re a shapeshifter?!” blurted Book as Loki appeared in the doorway.

He leaned away from Book’s eager stare. “Yes?” He couldn’t quite keep the hint of a question from his voice as he raised his eyebrows.

“And you just thought it wasn’t worth mentioning?” Exasperation seeped into his tone as he huffed. “Typical.”

“And how did you come to this particular revelation?”

“I overheard Hawkeye telling Natasha that you full on wolfed out in the den the other day,” Book paused, idly scrapping his thumbnail along the back of his hand as he ducked his head. “That’s not a direct quote mind you. Clint had a whole string of…adjectives that I’m not allowed to use in there too.”

“Allowed?” asked Loki with an incredulous look.

“Kayden.”

“Ah, the dragon lady herself.”

Book chucked an empty soda can at Loki, who snatched it idly out of the air. “Shut up, you like her. Anyways she said that anyone as smart as me shouldn’t limit my vocabulary to the ‘narrowed confines of the general masses’.” Book quirked his fingers in air quotes.

“It is hard to argue with such eloquence,” Loki said, “acidic though it may be.”

“Still.” Book gestured forcefully and leaned forward, rumpling the covers. “Shapeshifter! How’s it work? Is it magic? Why didn’t you do it before? Oh, so boss, be a dragon!” Book crawled to the edge of the bed.

Sliding into a chair, Loki held up his finger for silence. “The mechanics will hold for another time,” he held up a second finger as he counted through his answers. “For me it is an innate gift though it can be accomplished with magic. My patron not only unraveled my magic, but she trapped me in my own body.” He paused and shook his head slowly. “Really? A dragon was the first thing you think of for a demonstration? What if dragons do not exist?”

Book huffed and blew a dangling lock of black hair out of his face. “Please. How could they not be real? That and Thor told me about one you guys fought off once. Did you seriously tell it off while standing there in nothing but your pajamas?”

Of course he’d tell you that story. He glanced around the room. “This space is somewhat confined for a dragon, don’t you think?”

Book gave a weak smile. “Maybe a little one?” he said as he pressed his hands together.

The weight of the last few days seemed to fade into the background. “If you will not be dissuaded.” Loki got to his feet and focused on what it felt to be dragon. Magical creatures weren’t inherently more difficult than mundane ones, but attempting to slide into the skin of a dragon while simultaneously shrinking in un-dragonlike ways was a bit like trying to feel both starving and full at the same time.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” shouted Book as he threw his hands over his face, stealing a glance between cracked fingers. “Don’t be naked! Nobody needs to see that.”

“What?”

“I’ve read geek forums. Your body changes sizes, but your clothes won’t.”

Amusement swirled through Loki’s chest. “Both observant and accurate. But as I grew tired of perpetually finding myself indecent I developed a solution. Simple banishment and conjuration.” Book stayed firmly behind his hands, the visible green eye suspicious. “Just watch.”

Loki’s core began to grow very warm. A molten greed and hoarding fire poured through him and the dragon nature inside snaked outwards to meet the growing dragonishness of his outside as scales ran along his limbs and wings erupted from between his shoulder blades. Though he could feel every little change spark through his body, Loki knew the change was smooth and quick as he slid from one form to another, seamlessly folding his clothes into a pocket between realms at the same time.

He flapped bronzed wings to hover in the air, reveling in the sinewed power of this new body. The bright gleam of the instruments stirred his dragon heart. Iridescent eyes blinked—he had forgotten how strong the dragon pull could be. He wondered briefly how many dragons were actually overconfident mages that lost themselves to the desires of the form.

A slow smile crept across Book’s face as his eyes ranged over Loki’s new form, drinking in the scales and claws and barbed tail. “Epic” he said with a long breath.

Indeed. A burst of fire flared forth in agreement. He’d always enjoyed this form, despite the distractions it posed. Whenever he spent too much time “in the scale,” as Frigga called it, he had an itching need to hoard all that shone or sparkled. While his initial experiments had been impressively successful, there had been unexpected side effects. Such as constantly finding someone’s jewels in his pocket that he’d unconsciously pilfered, or waking up on a bed of gold and jewelry he’d amassed. Everyone thought it was merely a new amusement for the younger prince—because by that point they’d just accepted that his brand of entertainment was unfortunately un-Asgardian. Only his mo---Frigga had watched him with a knowing glance and warning in the set of her mouth.

Beating his wings vigorously, Loki soared about the confines of the room, rolling and diving. He buzzed over the top of Book’s head, causing the boy to duck and yelp. Smoke rose in puffs as Loki chuckled.

“Can I,” Book asked hesitantly, as if almost embarrassed, “can I touch you? Would that be weird?”

Indeed, it would be weird—if he were his Asgardian self. He certainly wouldn’t appreciate stroking then—or really being touched in any way. Somehow it was different when he shed his normal form for that of a beast. A fact his young cousin Freya had been most delighted about. He’d been less so when she decided that his fur would look better in shades of lavender than black and white. It had taken him three days to sort out the best way to fix her untrained attempts at magic. Freya’s mother or Frigga could have helped him, but a young, mortified Loki would rather have taunted a Valkyrie than let anyone see him in such a pastel state.

Settling gently to the bed, Loki strode forward, presenting his neck so that Book could brush the glistening scales. Fingers skimmed along the tiny plates and curiously unfurled the folded wing. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant sensation. It sent his thoughts leaping backward to being a child at Frigga’s side, pressed against her as she read to him, one hand absently stroking his hair.

A great yawn suddenly grasped Book. “You’re warm,” he murmured thickly. He kept having to press his eyelids open as he blinked slowly. “Stay for a bit.”

Loki was in no way sentimental enough, and was already shaking his head no, so that he almost missed the words Book whispered into the pillow.

“Maybe then I won’t die again.”

His scales crawled. Is that why the boy regained his strength so slowly? His dreams offered him no rest? Loki cursed himself for not having studied blood magic as anything other than a curiosity. Was this the price? Death felt cheated and continued to circle, bleeding into the life of the one that was snatched from her? There were no outward signs of nightmares, the boy always seemed to sleep so peacefully.

Before Loki realized what he was doing, he felt his snout bobbing up and down in a nod. Book smiled and cuddled into the blankets, Loki perched atop his chest. The saccharin nature of it all made both Loki and the dragon want to curl their lips in disgust. He settled for a disgruntled puff of smoke and circled thrice into a tight ball, his shoulders hunched in embarrassment. Book’s breathing quickly dropped into the even deepness of sleep, tension easing from his muscles.

A sudden click from the doorway brought Loki’s head up.

“Oh yeah, that one’s for the scrapbook,” said Stark as he lounged against the doorway, a phone in his hand that Loki knew also contained a camera.  

A burst of fire scorched through his fangs. If it weren’t for the subtle shift beneath him, he would have launched off Book and sliced through that infernal piece of technology—possibly taking some of Stark’s fingers with it. Accidentally of course. He wasn’t sure how his oath felt about accidents. His slight shift in weight, however, had reverberated through Book, rippling the still waters of his sleep. He couldn’t move. A fact of which Stark seemed to be well aware. Glowering, Loki rested his head once more on the bedclothes, comforting himself with visions of ripping open Stark’s insufferable face with his tiny—but very sharp—teeth.

“That death glare would be a lot more impressive if, you know, you weren’t the size of a pocket pet.” Stark smiled to himself, obviously seeing his own version of the scene.

The dragon disliked being mocked—so did Loki, but he liked to think his reactions were slightly less melodramatic. I am fire! I am death! the dragon part of him seemed to hiss. You’re also all of ten inches, Loki thought. Stark snapped a few more pictures, made more inane comments, and finally—mercifully—left.

Eventually the silence of a sleeping house crept along the corridors and into the room. For the Avengers this nighttime peace was a short one as some of them kept late hours while others beat the sun in rising. Even those short hours in between the last to sleep and the first to wake were rarely uninterrupted. As a general rule, Loki slept lightly and little—with the childhood fear of awakening to Thor in mid-launch above your bed, you learned to awaken at the slightest presence. So he knew that Romanov and Rogers often prowled the halls at night. Well, Romanov prowled—Rogers was normally trying to satiate that grossly enhanced metabolism of his. Loki flicked his scaly tail. He had the distinct feeling Romanov wouldn’t walk the halls if he were not present.

And then there was Barton. It would seem the hawk rarely slept more than a few restless hours at a time. Then he too was cluttering the night with his wanderings. His jaunts were more rambling and agitated than Rogers’s focused kitchen raids or Romanov’s circumspect surveillance disguised as insomnia. He looked—unwell—and made it a point to avoid Romanov. Loki also knew that on more than one occasion his hawk had been outside his door in the loneliest stretches of the night. He also knew that there had been a knife.              

Barton’s presence brought a more troubling implication than being stabbed in one’s sleep, however. The archer’s return had disrupted the household’s equilibrium. Loki didn’t need the dragon’s senses to feel the unease that stalked the halls, tightening its hold round each throat—a noose waiting to jerk tight. Barton was the scent of fire in a dry wood.

Loki felt Book’s heartbeat thrum through his body. His instincts told him fire was coming—but he couldn’t flee without Book.

Is this your doing, Lady? he asked the air. Barton reeks of your meddling. Giving a great, needle-toothed yawn, Loki settled himself more comfortably. Let Her try and set her fires with his hawk. He’d long since lost his fear of flames.

Chapter Text

Book improved markedly once the Avengers began taking shifts at his side during the night. The hidden nightmares didn’t appear to bother him any further and before long he was mingling with the others and spending far less of his time in bed. This also meant that his questions about Loki’s past were increasing, as were his requests for demonstrations of magic. With a captive—and appreciative— audience, Loki was only too happy to comply despite lacking the reserves for anything truly spectacular.

He splashed the ink onto the page as Book leaned across the table. A greenish sheen flashed over the sheet as the ink soaked into the paper. Then it began to move. Flowing in darting lines through the fibers of the page. A form emerged from their intersections, growing ever clearer. Book’s hands flew to his mouth as he stifled a snicker. The Thor sketch scowled back at him, wads of the flowing dress he was wearing tangled around his legs, bearded face partially draped by a veil.

“That cut does nothing for him,” wheezed Book, tears squeezing from the corner of his eyes.  He wrapped his arms around himself, shaking. “How…how did you manage that?!”

“What’s the joke?” asked Steve as he appeared in the doorway.

“You gotta see this, Cap!” said Book.

The Captain wandered over and glanced down at the drawing. He fought a smile, having to cough to hide it. “Is this the Asgardian version of embarrassing baby pictures?”

“Embarrassing what?” asked Stark.

“Where did you come from?” asked Steve as he glanced over his shoulder.

“Someone said embarrassing—so I’m here.” He craned over from the opposite side of the table. “Think if we got him drunk enough he’d do that again?”

Book tugged on Loki’s sleeve. “Come on, I wanna see you guys when you were kids.”

“They weren’t ever kids. Sprang full grown from the ground,” said Stark.

Loki pretended to consider it for a moment, then gave a shrug. Let them see that their golden prince has always cast a great shadow. The image came readily enough to mind. He’d seen this particular moment every time he had visited Frigga’s private chambers. She had kept the shadowlight image on her dresser next to a golden mirror and ever-blooming Vanaheim Orchid. When he closed his eyes he could see it perfectly.

Long fingers waved across the page. Ink pooled and ran, cutting up into the image of two boys. It wasn’t the staid and dignified portrait it was meant to be all those hundreds of years ago when the incident occurred. The Vanir painter was taking the equivalent of snapshots before he attempted the monumental task of containing the exuberance of two young boys for a portrait sitting. While the royal painting hung in the archives, his mother had been more fond of this image of the young princes. The broader of the two had apparently leapt at the other, throwing a possessive arm around the slighter one and knocking him nearly out of the frame. Although slightly taller, the young Loki hunched under the weight of his brother’s arm. He didn’t bear the broad arrogant grin that Thor did. His was an expression of shyness, the quiet acceptance of a second son.

Loki settled back to watch the Avengers’ reactions as they saw that Thor’s arrogance and need to be first in the minds of all ran deep. Even at such a tender age, see how your would-be hero placed himself first.

“You look happy,” said Rogers.

Startled, Loki’s gaze flicked to the side. Happy? That was hardly what he’d expected. He glanced back at the ink. Happy? With a frown he tried to strip away the layers upon layers of bitterness and anger that poisoned all aspects of his childhood and look on it as they did. He couldn’t quite manage it, but he was a good enough pretender that he could almost see how they would interpret Thor’s gesture as mere boyish exuberance. A gesture of brotherly companionship rather than possession and grandstanding. Peering more closely at the distant reflection of his younger face, he could see the smile was perhaps more reserved than shy. And he knew himself too well to be deluded as to what the mischief in his eyes promised.

The ink smeared across the page into an unrecognizable splatter with the wave of his hand. “I was quite the accomplished liar even then. We do almost look brotherly, don’t we?” He dripped just enough venom into the words to dissuade Rogers of whatever sentimental notions he was harboring.

“Let’s have a look at this She you were talking about,” Book said quickly, cutting off what Stark was going to say and neatly allowing the attention to go somewhere other than Loki’s childhood. It was nicely done, if abruptly executed.

The ink morphed again, smears and smattered droplets forming into the tattered husk of his patron. It wicked up to the face, curling around the slit of a mouth and dropping into two deep glistening pools. The two holes of wet blackness stared back at him, as taunting as ever, twin pools of ink.

Loki tensed. Ink.

Black, glossy ink.

A laugh began to build him, grating out in a harsh burst. He knew those eyes and their blackness. It clicked. So many things suddenly illuminated. Her eyes—they were like wet ink blots. He knew Her now.

“Do come out,” he said, throwing his head back as he gestured around the room, “grace us with your presence.”

“Box-o-cats is back,” murmured Stark. “I’ll go poke Bruce.”

Steve grabbed his arm as he was making to leave. “Hold up.”

“I know you now, my lady.” He bowed extravagantly. “We welcome you, Skuld of the Norns.”

The air rippled briefly in the middle of the room, and out of the variance appeared a towering figure, lean and immensely other.

“How slow you are, trickster,” said Skuld. Her dark, wet gaze slid across the assembled mortals, the line of her mouth perhaps hiding a smile as she took in their slack jawed greeting. She had shed her disguise and stood before them as she was, ancient and uncanny.

Everything about her was elongated, as if pulled to a point. Her spindle limbs tapered to small feet, too delicate to have truly held her weight. Beneath her pale, grey tinged skin, black veins pulsed at her temples and down her arms. The network darkened and grew into a complex of branching vines around her hands, merging until her long fingers turned completely black. Wild, white hair burst from her high forehead and fell like a cape around her shoulders. Long feathers sprouted from the bush, flaring in all directions. From each feather ran a streak of black that deepened and spread down to the tips of her hair. White completely consumed by black.

Her gossamer dress hung from her knobby frame in sheer tatters. Layers of misty fabric floated about her at the slightest movement. It melded with her skin, seemingly a part of her.

Her face mimicked an Aesir one in an eerie attempt. There was the mouth, the nose, the eyes. But the mouth was little more than a slit, the nose a shallow ridge punctuated by two pinpricks. One look at her eyes shattered any Aesir—or human—semblance. With no lashes or brows, they were more like someone had poured the blackest, glossiest of paints into two deep saucers.

Steve slid toward Book protectively. Stark tilted his head inquisitively, perfectly at ease and bearing an expression of acceptance that this was his life now. Naturally he spoke first, “Yeah, sure, why not. You can never have too many Norse myths under one roof.” He gestured off-handedly at the Norn. “And who exactly are you supposed to be? Goddess of Tim Burton films?”

“Tony,” warned Steve as Skuld swiveled her long neck, slightly more than was natural, to regard them unblinkingly.

She took two gliding steps across the room, not really seeming to connect with the floor at all. She placed a delicate, black-tipped finger against Stark’s face, running the back of her nail along his beard. “Charming words. I wonder what they are meant to conceal? Fear? Weakness? Self-loathing?” She tapped his cheek. “Should I tell you?”

The expression on the billionaire’s face never faltered, but it did tighten around the edges. He shrugged and looked as if he would have gone on if Book hadn’t interrupted.

“Loki…is she?” Book stopped as Skuld turned toward him.

“The youngest of the Fates,” said Loki, “Skuld the Scrivener.”

“It is good to see you face to face little godling,” said Skuld, her voice strangely hollow, like the whispering of a deep-toned woodwind. “I had begun to despair of you.”

Loki gave quick dip of his head in self-depreciating acknowledgement. He had the look of someone who wanted to laugh and curse and run all at once. “I had not thought to garner the attention of a one such as yourself so—directly.”

Skuld gave a long, languid blink, as if reminding herself that most beings found it unnerving to be stared at so unwaveringly. The deliberateness of it completely undid any semblance of normalcy she might have striven for. “There are few we are more interested in.”

“Pardon me, ma’am,” said Captain Rogers.

Loki winced. He said it the same way he would have if addressing a mere Midgardian.

“What is it, man out of time?” she asked, a hint of amusement running through her words.

“Do I understand correctly that you are the one responsible for Loki’s escape and the condition he’s been in?”

“I am.”

“And you thought that was a good idea?” Stark burst out, unable to contain himself any longer.

Book edged a bit more behind Loki as Skuld once more turned unnervingly toward Stark. Loki glanced a bit behind him to catch Book’s wary expression. The boy made a few quick signs. Loki shook his head subtly. No, he doubted that the Norn would actually rip Stark apart, though, one could always hope.

The Norn arched her neck to peer down at the much shorter human. “So selfish and yet endowed with so very little sense of self preservation. Verthandi must have such fun untangling the threads of your life.”

From the tone, Loki imagined the Weaver had no such joy in dealing with Stark’s thread in the tapestry of fate.

“All will be reveled in time little mortal, but there is one who has more claim upon my answers than you.” She flicked her gaze around the room, letting it rest briefly on Book before catching Loki’s eye. “Somewhere with fewer distractions I think.”       

Skuld plucked a quill from her hair and drew the point along her pale arm. Black blood welled up, wicking into the nib. With a flourish, she traced onyx letters into the air. The runes glinted, flashing into whiteness.

Loki blinked against the glare.

The lodge’s living room was gone, replaced by the star-flung darkness of the universe. Through all and between all pulsed the branches of the world tree, cradling the nine realms in its limbs. Eyes without magic would have seen only the spiraling universes turning in their courses, unaware of the tender branches holding them aloft, perched over the clawed nothing of the void. He shuddered.

Instead he focused on the broad net of limbs on which they stood. He knew better than to stray into questions of how he breathed, or even stood upon the branches—that way lay madness. Even the magic within him deceived, not really revealing the World Tree to him but translating it into what his mind could comprehend. He wondered what it was the Norn saw.

“Now we may speak.” Skuld laced her fingers together and settled herself against a crook in the tree. “You have questions.”

Loki wetted his lips. “Grievances.”

Skuld’s eyes widened, but she said nothing.

“I dislike being toyed with.” He spoke the words slowly. To one other than a Norn there would have been menace in them. “Why conceal yourself for so long in the guise of an aid and then an enemy? Why present yourself at all?”

“You question my methods?”

“Your reasoning.”
“I have not concealed that. From the start, I told you. You had strayed from your purpose.”

Loki winced. “Then the visions I saw…they are fixed? They are true?”

“Or very like. Did you doubt it?” She seemed curious in a distant, reserved fashion.

Bitterness welled within him. “Would I have bartered with the Chitauri if I did? What of a thousand choices would I not have made if I doubted for an instant that my fate was not set?” He glanced at her shrewdly. “But you stray from the point.”

She gave a thin imitation of a smile. “Your destination was fixed, but your path unto it was not. Urd dreams the life of the World Tree and all that dwell in her branches or are cast in her shadow. Verthandi then weaves the fates of men so that they may arrive where they are meant to. I record their stories.”

Loki did not miss the familiar flash of bitter, overshadowed envy. So then, even the Norns could feel unvalued. He held his peace and waited for the Norn to continue.

She stroked the branch beside her, fingers leaving trailing sparks of light beneath Yggdrasil’s skin. “Urd dreamt the end days—I do not need to tell you the terror that she foresaw. And at its heart you stood.” She regarded him with a strange expression he might have called a smile. “We did not know you then, the dream of your birth had not yet come. For thousands upon thousands of your years we knew only the face and figure of our destruction. And you were hated.”

“It seems to be my gift.” It was said without bitterness, almost with amusement.

“When Urd finally saw your coming birth, we began our work, laying the foundations of your life such that it would lead ever closer to the final scene of all things. It was our revenge to cast your way with nettles and betrayers.”

She paused. “But when you stepped into the world of the now…I questioned. Is it little wonder that Yggdrasil’s chosen one would be unlike any other? When I first beheld you enfleshed I read the possibility of greatness in you and saw a heart capable of great depths of feeling. You amused me, Trickster, constantly veering from the path we set you on, or twisting it in ways we had not foreseen—you ought not to have been able to do that.” Her face hardened. “But time and again we led you back. Never before have we so pushed a mortal. Verthandi was ever at your thread, arranging all about it so that you would play the role she had set out for you.” Her voice became bland. “She was aided by your own penchant for self destructive choices.”

Loki wasn’t looking at her, his back turned in rigid indifference. “How? How did you influence my actions?” he asked as he stared out at the swirling galaxies.

“We knew you. Your inner thoughts, fears, aspirations, failings. We had only to encourage those around you to say the wrong thing at just the wrong time, whisper a passing thought to send your mind leaping to the wrong conclusion.”

His reserve snapped as he whirled on the Norn. It wasn’t in rage, but a brittle, almost manic desperation. “Then, all of this. I am but a puppet. All this time, none of this is my doing.”

Like a tidal swell, Skuld towered above Loki, a creature of ancient secrets and knowledge. “Do not dare to excuse your actions. Every step, every hissing lie, every knife twist was your own. We can force you to do nothing. A better man than you would have resisted. But not you, you embraced the bitterness, cherished it and allowed it to flourish. Though we laid out the path, you chose to walk upon it.”

Loki backed away beneath the Norn’s fury. “You gave me little choice but to become what I am!”

Suddenly Skuld’s rasping hand was cupped to Loki’s cheek. “And I gave you every chance to turn away.” Her voice came softly, full of regret. “Do you know the tale I could have told if you would only have had the strength to trust in your brother’s imperfect love?”

An icy cold bloomed at Loki’s core, sickening and heavy. Could he have turned away? An image of Thor begging atop Stark Tower flashed across his mind. Pleading to aid him. Loki remembered being on the very edge of agreeing. Then the iron cage of his destiny reared before him and he had known that he could not turn from the fate he had seen.

The Norn slid backwards as Loki turned his face away. The living silence of the universe rushed into the gap between them. So different from the sucking, deafening blackness of the void. He let the energy caress him, craning his head back to view the worlds nestled in Yggdrasil’s branches. They hung there, suspended in the vastness of everything, completely unaware of the great tree holding them up. All that was and would be coursed through the World Tree, the knowledge shimmering along its length. Somewhere within the matchless recess of Yggdrasil lay its heart, the realm of the Norns, daughters of the tree.

They did this. The thought was natural, the blame ready at hand. He ignored the quiet voice that argued that what the Norns had done was not the same enslavement he had wielded. His choices had always been his own—though often he hadn’t been given more than one.

“What right have you to treat all of existence as your own personal drama?” he asked.

“You are bold to ask me such things. Few would dare.” The blackness running up her arms writhed beneath the skin. She flicked her gaze out over the silent pulse of the universe. “Tell me, Silvertongue, may the king execute a murderer?”

“Yes,” Loki answered promptly, wondering where this question had come from.

Skuld gave him a sly look that promised she knew his thoughts were racing ahead, trying to find out her paths before she arrived. The look also promised that he wouldn’t succeed. “What of the common man. Might he catch a murderer and set up a gibbet in his courtyard and thus bring the matter to an end.”

“Of course not.” Loki frowned. He wasn’t sure he liked where this was going.

Large, dark eyes turned on him. “And why is that?”

Loki felt himself falling back into his recitation stance from school, arms behind his back, legs apart, head up, shoulders back. “It is not for the common man to administer justice or decide who is to live or die outside the realm of defense and battle. It is for the king to weigh the life of a subject and find whether it ought to be forfeit. Only he holds this authority.” His voice grew less steady the more he recited. “As king, it is his duty, his right.”

Skuld inclined her head. “So.” They were no longer talking of kings and commoners.

Loki looked out over Yggdrasil’s branches and the lives hanging from them above infinite space. This was the Norn’s domain. Daughters of the Tree, they had every right.

He saw the truth of it. He didn’t like it.   

Chapter Text

The carpet squished beneath his bare feet as he wove back toward his room and his thoughts sprang away from him like hares before a hunter. The moment one was nearly caught it bounded away again. Skuld’s revelations bored into him, scorching their way ever deeper. He glanced at his wrists, as if expecting to see shackles—or puppet strings.

A misstep and he lurched forward unexpectedly. He caught himself on the exposed stone of the hall. He was the North Sea in a storm, one emotion battering into another, none staying long enough to identify. Was he terrified or angry? Whipped into whitecaps of fury or plunged into the frigidness of resignation? It felt like falling—and he couldn’t think of that. He needed something to latch onto.

“I hope you enjoyed your little game the other day,” said Barton as he rounded the corner up ahead.

Loki nearly smiled in relief. Oh, you’ll do. He straightened himself casually, emotions snapping under control. “Well, there is so little amusement here—one must get inventive.”

Barton scrutinized him with that hard, calculating look he had—the one more probing than should be possible for a mortal. Oh yes, Hawkeye was aptly named. The archer crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. The pose would have looked casual to anyone but Loki. He could see the tension running down what was visible of the archer’s arms jutting from a sweat stained t-shirt. Though leaning against the wall, both feet were pressed into the floor, muscles tensed like a runner at the starting blocks.

“Your little amiable supervillain act might be lulling the others, but your sociopathic charm isn’t going to make them forget.” Here he idly played with the cuff of his sleeve, worrying the fabric between his grubby nails.

“Oh, I don’t need them to forget—nor do I want them to,” said Loki. A clattering echoed faintly from behind them, reminding them that up a flight of stairs and down a short hall, the others were starting on dinner. Loki allowed his eyes to trail meaningfully up the stairs before lazily settling back on Barton. “A hesitation, a slight moment of surprise is what I’m aiming for. We’ve already seen what a bit of a start can do to your aim.”

Barton bristled. Honestly that was all Loki was looking for. He didn’t really have any plans beyond making sure Book came out of this in one piece and no more changed than he already was. Beyond that—Loki didn’t know, his future at once more set and yet uncertain since speaking with the Norn. How he hated foreknowledge. Terrorizing Barton shaved the edge from his unease. It wasn’t that he disliked Clint—not like he did Stark—although his amusement at the man’s ability to behave audaciously in strained situations was growing. No, Loki had actually rather enjoyed the blue-eyed version of Barton. He’d been attentive, full of initiative and invention, not to mention unswervingly loyal.

For his current—admittedly spiteful—reasons, the Barton before him that held a grudge was perfectly acceptable as well. It was ever so entertaining to see the anger building, pressing against the dams of the archer’s control.

“Posture all you like—we both know it wasn’t really you in control last time, and you’re not in control now.”

Loki’s smile sharpened, the skin around his eyes tightening. He picked at his wrist as if fingering the invisible threads of control Skuld had strung through him. Barton couldn’t know it, but after Loki’s conversation with the Norn, that portion of his control was flimsy as paper. Of course Hawkeye hadn’t missed his mark.

Natasha slid round the corner behind her partner, affecting surprise at finding them here, though Loki doubted she’d missed their voices. He fought the urge to smile even wider. How kind of the Widow to offer her presence at just that moment. What was it Skuld called me? Loki mused, Ah, yes. Reactionary.

He let his eyes slide over her and flick lazily to Barton. He could feel her tense—but she wasn’t the one he was interested in. My apologies Agent Romanov—but this is going to hurt. A nearly soundless laugh, little more than a breath of air, escaped him. “I must say this is hardly the situation I had imagined the three of us encountering one another in so long ago. You remember, Agent Romanov.” He paused for effect, but not long enough to be melodramatic. “Our little talk aboard the Helicarrier.”

Clint may not have had his arrows on him at the moment, but it did seem that he had a rather sizeable knife stashed somewhere. The edge of the knife caught the light, the handle gripped backwards so that the blade lay along his forearm.

“Your next words better be chosen carefully,” ground out Clint.

“Oh, it seems you did tell him about our chat. How unusual.”

“There was security footage,” said Romanov calmly. It was a calculated calm, however. She wasn’t a fan of where this conversation was headed. “He’d have found out anyways.”

“I should cut your tongue out for talking to her that way.”

Loki raised his eyebrows—that was not where he had expected this conversation to go. “Not my best moment it was true. You’ll have to forgive me Agent Romanov, I don’t normally stoop to petty name calling. It was beneath me.” He inclined his head. “Still, I am so very sorry I didn’t get to keep my promise—what a scene that would be. According to Barton here, you have some very—twisted fears. A hazard of your profession I suppose.”

Clint didn’t seem to intend to use the knife or threaten Loki with it, merely to keep it on his person. “Wouldn’t have mattered. Nat would have finished me. Fight to the death like that—I wouldn’t be the one coming out alive.” Barton smirked. “Didn’t bank on that, did you?”

Unease flickered in Natasha’s eyes—and Loki knew he wasn’t meant to see it. Not that it mattered. He already knew things about Romanov that Barton had yet to comprehend. But he was about to.

“Come on, Clint. Dinner’s ready,” she laid her hand on his arm. “No need to antagonize the prisoner.”

Barton gave Loki one last triumphant look before turning to follow Romanov, one eye always on Loki as if he thought he might be jumped from behind. Loki’s words drifted after him—insidious in their softness. “I think you underestimate just how much of a liability you’ve become for her.”

Barton stopped—clearly against Natasha’s will. “Ha, that’s a good one. That’s the beauty of Natasha, she’s rock solid—always does what’s necessary. She’d have got over…it” His words hitched as he looked at Natasha. Even Loki could barely see it, but Clint saw her waver. “Oh.” The truth of it was written all over his face.

“Maybe I’ll get to keep my promise after all.”

The knife whipped by his face. That was why Barton worked best at a distance. Too close and his control snapped. As Loki dodged backwards he idly wondered what it would take to make Black Widow lose her temper—perhaps it wasn’t even possible. He did enjoy a challenge, though.

Clint bounded off the stone walls, flinging himself at Loki. The two collided. As Loki dropped backward, he rolled onto his shoulders, flipping Clint over his head. The narrow hallway didn’t leave either of them much room to maneuver. Hardly the place for a brawl—especially at Loki’s height.

“You’re not going to get the chance to touch her,” growled Clint as he lunged again. Loki barely managed to fully deflect the knife as he smashed his forearm into Clint’s knife arm even as he slid around to the side. It was nice to see his oath allowed him to defend himself—how far would it let him go, he wondered?

“I thought we’d established that I wouldn’t be touching her at all.” He leaned in close behind Barton, his voice low. “That would be all you.” The cold pressure of a gun barrel at the base of his skull didn’t really surprise him—but he couldn’t say it was pleasant. An icy clamoring swarmed toward the surface, hissing that in his current state, he’d be dead if the hammer fell. He promptly shoved the voice back down with all the other things he’d rather not think about.

“Enough.” That was all Natasha needed to say as Clint paused in preparation of his next attack. She was talking to him as much as to Loki.

“Think your finger could slip just this once?” he asked hopefully as he looked past Loki at his partner.

Blinking slowly, Natasha’s expression was one of bland annoyance. It seemed to say that Clint was a fool if he thought she would possibly give in to such an inane request.

The hammer eased back into place with a soft click as she secreted the gun back somewhere on her person. “It’s time for dinner,” she repeated, as if she hadn’t just witnessed a knife fight. In that regard she and Sif would get on famously.

For a moment it looked like Barton would actually try to defy her, but an unspoken conversation between the two seemed to make up his mind for him. He shrugged and tucked his knife away. “I hope it’s meatballs and tatter tots.”

“Allow me to introduce you to the concept of a green vegetable,” said Widow as she headed back up the stairs as if nothing had happened.

Barton also didn’t acknowledge him as he slid by. He only paused at the end of the corridor to look back over his shoulder. “You’re not half so dangerous when we know who and what you are.”

It was said quietly, but something in it gnawed at Loki. Was that revelation or resolve he glimpsed in the archer?

A sigh of frustration echoed through Loki’s thoughts. Why do you insist on paying such a price for momentary thrills? Bartering gold for petty pleasures that slip through your fingers like mist?

“You well know the answer,” he said with a grim, humorless smile. “I do what I want.”

Skuld sighed again. Then on your head be it.

The sounds of dinner had broken apart as the Avengers headed in groups to different parts of the house. From the clank of dishes and back and forth of voices it sounded like Book, Rogers, and Barton were in the kitchen on dish duty. Now that Book was well enough to be up and around, he spent his time ingratiating himself with the various members. He was still somewhat standoffish with Thor, though, in large part for Loki’s sake. It was a childish thing to do, but it still amused Loki. In a way he wouldn’t admit, it also touched him that after spending time with Asgard’s favorite son, Book still chose him. He wasn’t sure anyone had ever done that if given the choice between him and Thor. Even mot…even Frigga hadn’t done that. Though to be fair, she considered them both her sons and treated them as such. He and Thor were equal in her eyes.

But Book chose him. Loki ignored the venom that threatened to douse the warm thought—the only reason Book chose him was because he’d lied to and manipulated the boy for months on end.

He shook himself. There was no profit in such thoughts. They only served to distract from the problem of Skuld’s revelation. Now that he knew his patroness, it answered a great deal while at the same time shoving him further into the abyss of the unknown. Her interest in him also conjured up the burning shadows of his future.

Fingers dug through denim and into the flesh around his knees as he closed his eyes against the rising memories. That only made it worse. Against the blackness of his eyelids he saw the sun and the moon swallowed in massive jaws, the shattered wreck of Asgard reared against a sky void of life, no sound but the wailing of Yggdrasil as its trunk splintered. Existence tumbled into howling nothingness. But he remained, ringed by the monsters of Ragnarok and drenched in the blood of existence.

A strange tingling sensation jerked him back, momentarily sending his senses off balance as he didn’t recognize where he was sitting. For a moment his eyes darted around the back stairwell, taking in the smooth stone floors beneath him and the warm, honey glow of the wooden stairs. A thin skein of frost coated his hands. He let out a clenched breath and the prickle of magic receded.

Annoyance curled his lip as he gave his hands a deft shake. Frost scattered in hoary flakes. How fit my monstrous side would show itself when thinking of monstrous deeds.

A somewhat deliberately loud set of footsteps coming down the stairs behind him gave him enough warning so that he didn’t startle when he felt a presence behind him. Without turning, he knew who it was.

Natasha stepped around him and stopped two stairs beneath him. She turned and set a plate of limp, soggy leaves and fried brown lumps next to him. “The groundskeeper’s wife brought them—said they’re collard greens and hushpuppies. It’s a Southern thing.” She gave a bland smile. “I think she was just trying to get a look at who was actually staying here.”

Loki raised his eyebrows at her presence as much as the contents of the plate. Someone would voluntarily eat this? It rather looked like the ill first attempts of an unattended child. He took the plate and sniffed it. The scent of vinegar burned the inside of his nose. He raised his eyes from the plate to Romanov—after his little display earlier he hadn’t expected her to wish to seek him out.

“Want to explain what all that was about?” she asked conversationally.

He eased the tension from his posture, appearing relaxed and mildly interested in the prospect of talking with the spy. His tone was friendly enough. “Are you sure you wish to repeat our previous encounter? I don’t remember it going rather well.”

“I retrieved the intel I needed—I’d consider that going well.”

A breath of laughter broke into an infuriatingly knowing smile. “You learned of an inconsequential side amusement that still served its purpose in a rather spectacular way. While I…” The amusement left him as he stood and paced past her to the window on the landing below them, able to see Natasha in the reflection while he pretended to stare through the glass. “I struck to the core of you. The scar of it is still there—if you’re looking for it. And now the archer sees your weakness too.”

Romanov’s expression never faltered, perhaps becoming a touch more dry. “You’ll never admit that I tricked the trickster, will you.”

“Not if the fires of Muspelheim were frozen over.” He let the masks drop and allowed a true, wry smile to show through—one he knew would reflect in the glass back to the spy. “As you say on Earth, there were points scored…on both sides.”

“Trying to distract me from my original question won’t work,” said Natasha smoothly. She sat down on the stairs, one foot propped up while she stretched the other out in front of her. Loki had noticed she had a tendency to do this, to sit while pursuing her interrogations. A calculated move to make her seem more at ease and less of a threat. Not that the effort it would take to go from sitting to a fighting position would cost her much time, if she actually had to rise first at all.

She allowed Loki to loom over her, seemingly in command of the situation, the one with the power where she was not. It was a useless ploy on him, but Loki still appreciated the skill she presented in manipulation.

“My thoughts are my own,” he said quietly, “what right have you to them?”

“It’s that creature you’re involved with. What did Book call her, a Norn?” she asked.

“I doubt she’d like being referred to as a ‘creature’,” said Loki with a raised eyebrow.

The Black Widow shrugged carelessly. “I’ve never been overly concerned with pleasantries.”

At this Loki did smile, “Because you’re Russian.”

“Was Russian.” She looked at him, clearly waiting for him to continue.

He considered her shrewdly for a moment. “You know what it is to be used for another’s purpose, to be molded and bent and forced into the role they wished of you.” It wasn’t a question. They both knew that through Clint he knew almost everything about her. Loki guessed at the gaps Clint had never pushed too hard to fill.

“That is what this Norn has done to you?”

“Has done, will do, is doing. She is ancient, woven into the very tapestry of the universe and time. She is a goddess and we are all so many ants beneath her.” He paused. “And she has turned her eyes on me for a purpose I know nothing of.” He glanced seriously at Natasha. “Be glad your bones will be dust long before her plans come to fruition.”

“You always say the nicest things to me,” she said with a hint of a smile, her voice a touch husky with good humor.

He resisted the urge to close the gap between them, instead turning his back on her and clasping his hands behind him. “You would not laugh if you had seen what I have seen. To know the future is a terrible burden.”

Natasha got to her feet and tugged at the wrinkles in her shirt. “That’s the beauty, though, the future is always made of our choices. If we don’t like it, we just have to choose another one. It’s never too late to take another path.”

“As easy as turning aside,” Loki sneered derisively.

Natasha gathered up the untouched plate and turned to head back up the stairs. “Oh, I never said it would be easy. It might just kill you. But then you’d at least be dead on the path you chose.”

“And which of your earth philosophers said such a ridiculous thing.”

She looked over her shoulder. “Clint did, as he stood there ready to put an arrow through my skull.”

Chapter Text

Thor was relentless. Everywhere Loki turned the Thunderer was there. If it hadn’t been directed at him, Thor’s persistence would have been amusing. But since it was, the pursuit was anything but.

“This is hardly a difficult concept to grasp,” muttered Loki has he stalked through the house, Thor trailing after.

“A Norn visited you, Loki. There had to be a reason for it.” Thor kept right at his shoulder as Loki descended into the great room and threaded his way through the furniture.

“Of course there’s a reason,” said Loki, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m just refusing to share it with you.” He reached for the glass doors to the porch only to have Thor’s hand above his head holding them fast. Turning, they were face to face, eyes locked in stubborn opposition. The familiarity of the gesture stunned Loki and he broke contact first with a jerk of his head. For a moment he’d felt the urge to fall into old habits and childish taunts so well played out neither he nor Thor had to think about it.

He would insult Thor’s helmet or unkempt hair. Thor would return with mocking jabs about his horns or fastidious nature. If it went on for too long it would eventually end in the kind of name calling they had still whispered to one another at state dinners to earn disapproving glances from Frigga. Loki would call Thor a troll and he would call Loki a cow.

The weight of how easy it would have been to travel along such well worn paths gripped Loki’s heart with thorns. For that one instant it was as if nothing had changed between them. There had been no fall. No Chitauri. No fate inescapable. Just Thor, like there’d always been—stupid, stubborn, overbearing Thor.

Loki ducked away and headed for the front door. Shadows cut through the warm light of the high windows as the sun caught the vast beams running overhead across the vaulted ceiling.

“What has she said to you?” asked Thor. He’d stopped a few feet behind Loki, bathed in the sunlight.

Loki paused and tilted his head in thought without turning around. “She came to tell me why I’m a monster.” The words came calmly, without malice or pain. “I was right, you know. I was always meant to be the villain to your hero.” He turned without leaving the shadows. “I am not your brother, I never have been your brother, and I never will be,” said Loki, anger tightening his words like a spring wound too far. “You do not know what I have seen, what I will do.” His lips pulled into doleful smirk, “If you were wise you’d kill me where I stand.”

Thor bridged the gap between them, cupping Loki around the back of the neck with one massive hand. “I have never been accused of being wise.” He gave a mournful smile. “There is such poison in your heart that you see nothing but evil, remember nothing but darkness. I remember fighting and playing and laughing side by side. Is that not something worth seeking again?”

Thoughts swarmed behind Loki’s eyes. “And what if I did? What if I desired to recapture this utopian fantasy you’ve concocted of our childhood? What then?” Danger lurked in the undercurrents of his tone, though the surface was calm. He pulled away from Thor’s hand. “Would I return to mother’s loving embrace? Would the All-Father suddenly look on his wayward son with pride, develop an appreciation for guile, lies, magic,” there was the faintest flash of teeth between his twisted lips, “Frost Giants.”

Loki felt the control sliding away, the mania creeping into his voice. He didn’t care. Padding back and forth, every muscle coiled to the breaking point, he continued to speak, “Would it all be forgiven? The patricide, attempted genocide, murder of the crown prince—non-permanent though it might have been. And then there is your precious Midgard.”  He gestured expansively. “Or did you forget the invasion? The screaming of a people wholly unprepared. Your helpless innocents whipped into terror. How many deaths will it take? How much blood must I pour out before you give me up for lost and see me for what I am?” His voice quieted suddenly, “and am fated to always be.”

A great hand dropped onto his shoulder. “I see you, brother. And I wish that I had seen before. Why are you so desperate that I hate you?”

Loki stiffened. Is that what he wanted? To be hated? He tilted his head to the side and conjured up a sly smile. How was it that Thor had actually been perceptive? “Oh, but I count on that unending, misplaced belief that I can be saved—your hope will be your perpetual downfall.”

“What I hope is that you will leave this madness, but I am not fool enough to trust you.”

“It seems you can be taught after all.” Loki’s smile faded. “This is not a path I can leave now that I have set foot upon it. Ask your Widow—she understands, though, she chooses to lie to herself.”

Conviction rang through Thor’s words. “Even the most horrible of roads can be turned away from. The only question is whether you have the strength to do so.”

His words were quite as he vacantly followed the path of dust motes through the sunbeam. “What would be the point, Thor? It changes nothing. It cannot undo what I have done.” He shook his head. “We are at a standstill until I am sure the magic in Book has quieted and faded beyond all possible harm.” He padded past Thor to perch on the edge of Stark’s favorite chair. “And when that time comes you will attempt to return me to Asgard, I will make a daring and brilliant attempt at escape, but in my disadvantaged state will likely find myself back in an even deeper and darker prison. There I will rot until true madness claims me.” He sank back in the chair, seemingly at ease. “That is what awaits me.”

Thor remained silent. Heavy distress crouched on his shoulders, stooping his broad frame. This quiet unnerved Loki.

“What’s this? No words of comfort? No promises of reprieve?” The playful mocking in his tone sounded hollow even to Loki’s ears. He leaned forward, in sham contemplation, hands clasped. Thor may not have been the one known for his words, but neither did that mean that he was particularly known for being silent.

The Thunderer gave a slow shake of his head. “You are for the dungeons. I would give much to unwind these past few years. But you have earned far worse than you will receive.”

“Give the All-Father some credit.” After his little surprise about where exactly Midgardians thought Sleipnir had come from, Loki had looked into some of the myths the Northmen told about them. Few were particularly complementary and the one detailing his ultimate punishment dredged up memories that made him ill. His skin prickled at the thought of serpent’s venom and isolation. He just hoped Odin never looked to Midgard for ideas. “This last escapade has likely earned me quite a bit more than a mere dungeon cell. I am a prince after all—there ought to be some kind of special treatment for that.”

“I do not know what you imagine, but even if Father were—in rash anger—to sentence cruelty, Mother and I would never allow it. Even if you are locked in the depths of Asgard, you will not rot, nor will you be alone.” Thor beamed. “I will come to see you.”

Loki blinked. Thor actually seemed serious. Perhaps he would come—for a week, until he forgot or had better things to do. Then he would have to suffer the golden prince no longer, left to his neglect and solitude. “You assume that I would wish your presence.”

His massive shoulders lifted in a shrug as a mischievous glint entered his eyes. “Then I would sit across from your cell and tell you all that you were missing—or simply wait until you wished to fill the silence.”

Loki believed him. Thor meant every word of what he was saying, at least right now. A hollow yearning seemed to open within him. It was too new, and too strange for him to say what it meant. But some part of him wanted Thor’s words to be true. His cynicism scoffed. Could this really be the same self-absorbed Thor he had always known?

“What has that mortal girl done to you?”

Thor merely smiled back, “What has your human child done to you?”

Chapter Text

Loki retreated to his room, finally managing to shake Thor. He needed to think. First Skuld and now Thor—of all people—had sent him reeling. Skuld’s true intent still lay beyond him. The Norn had refused to answer when he called and she had not appeared to him since her ominous warning that he would regret tormenting Barton.

And Thor, Thor was, well, Thor. Persistent to the last.

He sank down into the corner, knees pressed against his chest and fingers braced against his temples. It was himself he no longer knew. Where was his rage? Where the disdain for Thor’s overtures of help? Where the desire to make Thor suffer?

Ever since his fall from Bifrost—his leap—he had stoked an ever smoldering fire of hatred for Odin and his lies, for Thor and his dismissive arrogant ways, for those closest to him who had done nothing but betray him.  

“Why are you so desperate that I hate you?”

The words had wedged themselves deep within his psyche. He didn’t want to be hated; he wanted to be feared, to be admired, respected, noticed. To not be alone.

But didn’t he deserve that?

Skuld had confirmed what he already knew, that he would be destroyer of worlds—of everything. That was the role that best suited him. He’d tried to embrace it. If New York was any indication he’d been doing rather well.

He leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed. It had been so much easier to focus on all the betrayals—Odin, the Warrior’s Three, Thor, even Frigga with her lies that he was her son—and to ignore Thor’s pleading to come home—it wasn’t his home—to pretend not to hear the sincerity in his voice. When he remembered being flung into the abyss, the part of him that longed to return to the only family he had ever known would deaden and grow silent.

“But he didn’t throw you to the void.”

Loki cracked an eye to see Skuld. The Norn perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed, as if unaccustomed to such a simple, everyday action. He leaned forward, draping one arm over his knees. “No, he did not.”

She waited for him to continue.

“I,” he swallowed, “let myself fall. I don’t know if I meant it as an end…” he trailed off and looked to the Norn for confirmation.

Skuld pressed her long, skeletal fingers together. “I think that you did not care overly much if you survived—but that is not the same as wishing to die.” She stood, leaving the covers completely un-rumpled. “Do you remember his face?”

How could he have forgotten such a thing? He’d seen Thor wearing a thousand different emotions over the centuries and could read even the subtlest of them. He’d never seen such raw anguish before—hadn’t thought Thor capable of it.

A snarl of the old disdain coiled up his spine. And yet Thor hadn’t understood, none of them had, what he’d been trying to do. For them, for all of Asgard. It was no lie that he’d lured Laufey and the Frost Giants to Asgard for Odin, for Frigga, for all of them—and maybe for himself. He’d found a way to end the war Thor had started, to extinguish the threat Odin had been too weak to deal with. He’d done it and they’d reacted in horror. He’d been so sure at the time—so certain of his cause…and yet with what Thor had learned from Merat....perhaps. He wrenched his thoughts away from what that might mean.

“How else should they have responded to such reckless, bloody deeds?”

Loki tensed as the Norn followed the course of his thoughts. Glaring up at the creature, he felt venom filling his words as he spat back, “there was purpose to my actions. For those and all that followed. In that at least the All-Father and I are alike. We have our reasons.”

In an instant, Skuld loomed over him, terrible and ancient in her fury. “Do not speak to me of reasons!” Like a dark, cresting wave she swelled above Loki. “As if you could argue away the errors of your actions, the offspring of your flawed soul. Reasons! Your excuses fly in the face of the greater Reason woven into the roots of the cosmos. That knowledge sits within your marrow Laufeyson—and you knew that what you planned to do was vicious and wicked.” She cupped his face and softened. “No matter the depth of the pain that caused it. You knew.”

Somehow there was warmth in those deep, uncanny eyes as she regarded him. “You have a great capacity for rage—what good has it brought you? Above New York? At the end of a broken Bifrost? You always chided Thor for his outbursts. You would do well to heed your own advice, Trickster.”

The slurry of anger and fear drained away as Loki let his head drop between his shoulders. His words were quiet, ladened with sudden exhaustion. “What do you want with me, Skuld Skrivner.”

Her eyes widened in what might have been amusement. “Your answer will come, but you are not yet ready for it.” The ink beneath her skin writhed as runes ghosted across her shoulders and down her arms to vanish in the blackness of her hands. She regarded the letters for a moment before swiveling her head back to Loki. “You are not yet who you need to be.”

“Who you want me to be.” Some fight came back into his voice as accusation laced his tone.

“Who you are capable of being,” she said in a tone perhaps meant to be gentle.

Flashes of New York burning and the Bifrost roaring with power flared brightly within his mind. “I do not know this person you imagine. He doesn’t exist.”

“Doesn’t he?” She drew a nail along her arm, until black blood welled up. She flicked the droplets into the air scattering them into a thousand tiny runes that pulsed and changed, first one sign then another. Under the manipulation of the Norn’s long fingers the symbols swarmed together into a distinct form. What was clearly a young boy, slight of build with an inquisitive tilt to his head emerged from the cloud of letters. As Loki peered closer he could catch the flash of some of the words that created the image: brother, son, Asgardian, magic, books, curious, laughter, prince, lonely, different, mischief. The free floating runes swirled together into a second form—a gangly foal with eight-legs.

Loki couldn’t help but roll his eyes as the word “mother” appeared in the boy’s runes.

The inky figures darted about one another, gamboling and playing. As the horse reared up to drape its front hooves over the boy’s shoulders, the two images flowed together and then apart into two new forms. No longer a boy, Loki could see his simulacrum was older and filled with even more words, as was the broader teen beside him. If the hammer gripped in the second figure’s hand hadn’t given it away the words that swirled within would have: Thunderer, crown-prince, warrior, loyal, arrogant, fighter, friend, brother.

The Thor and Loki of Skuld’s conjuring whirled around one another in harmony, fighting against some unseen foe. Magic and agility working in tandem with strength and bravery. The foes vanquished, Loki could see the brothers throwing back their heads and laughing, draping their arms about one another’s shoulders and sauntering off into a mist of ink.

More and more images whirled before Loki: knife practice with Frigga, fighting alongside the Warriors Three, pouring over books in the library, fighting against Sif, fighting beside Sif, being chastised for some prank, rescuing Thor from yet another disaster, being rescued by Thor, being dragged into a dancing ring by Freya, standing through matters of state with Odin. Thor, Thor, and Thor again.

As the word-Loki aged and grew, new words began to appear that hadn’t been a part of him before. New words that often overwrote or crowded out those that had been at his core before. Words like trickster, jealous, sorcerer, vain, darkness, scholar, cynic, loathing, silver-tongue, inadequate, freak. Betrayed. Betrayer.

“Where is it?” he asked evenly, eyes still boring into the mass of words.

Skuld merely folded her head to the side and blinked—too slowly.

He snapped his gaze up to hers. “The word that best describes me.”

“Ah.” She flicked her hands and the image sprouted curving horns and a billowing cape, a dark, sooty red seeping into the lettering. New words bled in with the red: murderer, destroyer, madness, adopted, failure, false-son, Jotun, malice, void. Horrible labels, but not the one he knew he deserved. “You will not find it—the word you seek.”

The word may not have been there, but that is certainly what everything added up to. What a perfect candidate for Ragnarok he was—a vindictive creature of malice and darkness. Impulsively he reached out with tendrils of snapping magic, pulling the word-figure into his hand. With an angry flick of his fingers he smudged the inky runes and with short sharp strokes wrote a new word into the mass.

“Is this what you want?” He shoved the figure back in the Norn’s face, the word “monster” emblazoned across it in runes tinged a sickly green.

“Is that who you choose to be?”

“How can you speak of choice!” Loki was on his feet, yelling now. “You are Fate itself, the will of Ygdrassil incarnate. All of existence bows to your whims.” A sick smile cracked across his features, “Freedom is a lie.”

“Yes,” the Norn replied simply. “And no.”

“Riddles.”

Long fingers knit together. “Matters beyond your ken. Do you think that a creature of the tree and time could understand that they are both fated and free? Such a truth is beyond the comprehension of even one such as you.” She ran her hand across the simulacrum and the green-tinged runes vanished as Loki watched his horns and cape recede. “Fated you may be, but your choices are your own.” Another swirling creature of runes appeared before his double and the words for magic, voice, and strength were torn from it and new runes appeared: mortal.

It was then that a smaller form joined his, slipping its small hand into Loki’s much larger one. At the other figure’s touch the red tinging his image began to fade beneath new runes, and old ones long buried began to grow stronger and more prominent. Thor reappeared and placed his hand on Loki’s shoulder. At his touch other words began to worm their way to the surface and one long strangled and hidden showed itself again: brother.

The Norn studied the image, seeing things that Loki could not. “No, not yet who you need to be. But soon. Perhaps.” Skuld stopped, as if listening. Her features twisted into a sorrowful mask. “I am sorry, little trickster, but it is time. You must reap what you have sown.” The Norn raised her arms and vanished in a swirl of inky runes. Behind her, concealed by the Norn’s much taller frame, Book stood in the doorway, the light of the hall flooding over his head and shoulders.

“Tell me it’s not true.” Book stood terrifyingly still, calm slipping through his grip even as he desperately tried to latch onto it.

He knew.

Lie! Denial welled up within him, some explanation that would tear the betrayal from Book’s eyes. You freeze now, Liesmith?! he snarled at himself.

“Tell me what Clint showed me wasn’t real.”

Bitterness bowed his head as Clint’s words floated back to him—you’re not half so dangerous when we know who and what you are. So this was his Hawk’s revelation—and his revenge. Now the child knew. It galled him to think he once would have reveled in seeing the raw edges of Book’s broken trust. Instead they pricked him like so much splintered glass.

He shuddered. He’d seen those eyes before—why etched into their glassy surface. They crawled out of his nightmares.

Refusing to look at the boy, Loki stared at the bedpost past his shoulder. A skein of ice wrapped round his heart as he forced the words onto his tongue. There were no lies to be told. “It is real.” The truth refused to come with eloquence.

“But all those people.” Red crept around Book’s shining eyes. “You just…let them die.”    Loki swallowed, closing his eyes against the words that followed. “They were in my way.”

A flush rushed to Book’s face. His jaw clenched. “That’s it. They were just…in your way?”

“They were ants,” he said, trying to regain some of the conviction he’d once felt about that belief. Just insects—who would miss a few thousands when there were so many others. A necessary sacrifice. Lesser beings hardly worthy of notice. Insignificant.

“They were people! Like Coon or Kayden. They had friends, family, lives!” A ragged breath hitched in his lungs. “And what about me? Would you have killed me too?”

He couldn’t keep the spasm of emotion from his face. The bitter truth twisted his voice through his teeth. “Yes.”

The answer hung in the air between them. Book’s jaw muscle’s twitched as he blinked desperately against threatening tears. Disbelief and self-loathing sent a shiver through him that formed into a pained gasp pinned between a laugh and a sob, “Then why save me?” Anger flared suddenly as he bared his teeth, shouting, “if we mean so little, why save me?”

Loki rounded on him, “Because you weren’t an ant anymore!”

Silence stretched between them as Book stepped back, shaking his head. A gulf of wordless accusations filled the room until Loki felt he could barely breath.

“I think I get it now. What I am to you. Not an ant...” Tears trailed down his cheeks as he fought to keep his voice steady. “Cause you get it now, don’t you? The blood you’re wading in. And you help the reject, the little castaway that nobody ever wanted, and somehow that bleaches away your sins!”

Loki stepped forward, trying to interject.

“No! That’s not how it works. You don’t get to balance the scales. Not with me, not ever!” Book backed away, a twisted smile on his face, “you really are the Trickster. I bought every lie, let you make a fool of me. How could you possibly care about anyone?” He shook his head in disgust as he turned and bolted from the room.

The silence rooted Loki to the spot. The emptiness of the void had been nothing like the sudden vacuum pulling at him now. Shadows stretched darkly across the room as the sun sank below the mountain peaks, air purpling into twilight. And still Loki stood, head bowed.

Chapter Text

When he’d finally convinced his limbs to move, Loki had bolted from the confining walls of the house. They pressed down, suffocating, balling his thoughts into a knotted tangle crawling over the same bitter recriminations over and over again. As nausea set in he’d torn at the unending cycle of thoughts, grabbing it between his teeth and ripping through its chains. The burst of viciousness lasted only long enough for him to gain the roof, wedging himself next to the chimney at the highest point.

Then he’d been grateful for the sturdy stone at his back and the bracing convergence of rooflines. His energy flowed away as surely as if a vein had been opened. This was the same as before—after the Casket tore away the life he had known and his terror burned like anger, his father at his feet—his doing. He’d disappeared to the highest, loneliest peak of the towers, fleeing recklessly, sliding, dangling over a height that promised death with a nearly seductive purr. There he’d huddled against the emptiness, unaware of the abrasions and cuts from his flight until he scraped the dried blood from his palms before going to seek the woman he’d always thought was his mother.

It was worse then, being unmade. And in the terror of the unmaking he’d caught at anything to make him whole—any way to fit back together the Loki he had known. In his delusion he’d tried to prove himself a true son of Odin. He saw now the bitter madness of it.

He’d been shattered and pieced back together so many times now that this new fracturing hardly surprised him. Pain was routine.    

“Delusional child!” he spat, drawing one knee to his chest. To think that you would be allowed to keep this fruitless fantasy? His gaze flicked to the side, turning back on himself, what was the boy to you? An amusement—a toy, used and broken and then discarded.

The dew settled on his arms and shoulders, slicking his hair against his head, the chill of early morning burrowing into his marrow. The wooly mists of these mountains rose up from between the trunks and flowed down into the valleys, threading through the stands of pine and tumbling over the darkness-muted mountainsides.

Loki perched above the sea of mists that glinted silver under the starlight, broad white stretches cradled between the swelling blue ridges. Everything beneath lay hidden and silent, shivering with the bite of coming winter. The hard, shiv-bright prick of stars faded as the sky grayed. Darkness leeched away long before the sun ever slid over the farthest ridge. Finally, a lance of sunshine broke free of the ridge’s confines and burst across the mountains. The mists flashed into pools of gold. A lake of molten light lapped against mountain top shores, gold against the blue deepening to purple in the distance.

Loki turned his back on it.

He didn’t come down from his perch until the sun had long since peaked and begun to sink toward an ever earlier nightfall. He wasn’t surprised no one had looked for him—in the past he’d made himself scarce for long stretches at a time for precisely this reason. Though he had rather imagined his unnoticed absence would have been put toward a head start in an escape attempt. He slid back down the drainpipe and slipped through the window he’d exited by in the first place. It was nice to know he could get places without magic.

“Master Loki?” J.A.R.V.I.S.’s metallic voice chimed.

He considered letting the AI try and puzzle it out himself, but he wasn’t up to it. “Are any others likely to be climbing in and out of windows?” he said irritably.

“Agents Romanov and Barton seem to have made a sport of it,” said the voice.

If he had been in a better mood, Loki might have smiled at that. He wasn’t and he didn’t. The thought of raiding the fridge and sequestering himself once more with his thoughts nearly distracted him from the slight hitch in the silence after J.A.R.V.I.S.’s words. It almost felt like a pause, or a hesitation.

“Could there be something else you wanted, House?” he asked. Loki marveled—it almost seemed the voice was shifting in discomfort.

“Is young Book with you perhaps?”

“You are privy to every conversation in this prison—what logic algorithm would make you think he’d be anywhere near me?” Loki spat. Unease brushed against his spine as his thoughts raced ahead. There were so many dangers in what J.A.R.V.I.S. asked. There could be innocent reasons, but the hesitant nature of the question made Loki doubt that this conversation would end well.

The speakers clicked on again, but J.A.R.V.I.S. waited a moment to speak, as if choosing his words. “He rose earlier than was his habit. As you know, I am not fully integrated into this house, and am blind in many places.”

“The point.”

“Book mentioned that he needed some time to think and would be down by the pond if anyone asked for him. He has not yet returned. I thought his actions a natural human response to the altercation yesterday evening.” The AI paused. “His continued absence has prompted reevaluation of what I heard of his movements this morning. He might have been preparing to make himself comfortable for a few hours, or…”

“Or he might have been packing to run away,” Loki finished.

“Precisely.” J.A.R.V.I.S. almost sounded worried.

“Anyone without a circuit board for a brain could have told you that was exactly what he was doing,” said Loki coldly. Book was running. Beyond the spike of hurt, unease prickled his scalp. The magic in the boy’s veins hadn’t yet settled, and even Loki couldn’t guess what consequences may come from it. There was still too much of his blood in the boy’s body to simply let him loose in the world.

“I am aware.”

Loki decided that he didn’t care if he could interpret that as hurt in the bodiless voice.  “Gather the Avengers—have them meet in the great room. We have the makings of a problem.”

Loki knew that Book was gone—and if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own pain, he’d have known from the start this is exactly what the boy would do. A visit to the infirmary confirmed what he already knew. It wasn’t that items were missing from what had effectively become the boy’s quarters, it was that one item was missing. His street bag.

When Loki stepped into the great room the others were there—except for Thor and Natasha. They must have already been gathering for dinner to have beaten him there. Barton perched on the back of the sofa, feet resting on the armrest while Stark and Banner sat opposite one another over the coffee table. A game of glass pebbles sat between them suggesting they had already been in the room when J.A.R.V.I.S.’s call went out. Steve stood by the mantel, eyeing Loki expectantly.

“Since when were you giving orders around here?” drawled Clint as he toyed with the strap of his finger guard—the bow and quiver at his feet were hopefully there for target practice and not brought specifically for Loki.

“As if you were of any concern just now,” Loki said, his words laced with venom.

“Chitauri?” asked Captain Rogers, cutting Clint off before he could spit something back.

Loki shook his head. “A problem of a different sort—though possibly much worse.”

Bruce glanced up from his game. “Worse?” He swatted Stark’s hand away without looking at it as the other man tried to slip one of his pieces into the next slot. “Just how many people are after you?”

Still refusing to leave the shadow of the doorway, Loki shook his head again. “Have any of you seen Book today?”

Everyone’s expressions sharpened as they turned over their memories. Heads began to shake. “I gave him a once over early this morning, but since then…” Bruce trailed off into a shrug.

“I have not seen him since last evening,” rumbled Thor, appearing beside Loki.

Natasha slipped from behind them, giving Loki a swift shake of the head to say she hadn’t seen him either. She settled on the sofa where Clint perched, briefly touching his shoulder as she came around.

Loki turned slightly in toward Thor, his voice dropping. “We have a problem.”

Thor frowned—it seemed he remembered this version of Loki—far too serious and without enough art. The last time Loki had come to him in such a manner their cousin Freya was in danger of being married off to a disguised Jotun due to a foolish bet. That time Loki had likewise sidled up behind him, voice lowered for his ears only.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Tony asked.

“Book left the house at 7:45 this morning, saying he wished to spend the day by the pond.” J.A.R.V.I.S. hesitated. “I fear now that may have been a fabrication.”

“He’s running away,” said Natasha simply.

“It’s what he always does when things become too much,” said Loki as he and Thor fully entered the room.

“It won’t take that long to find him,” said Clint, unperturbed.

“It’s miles and miles of forest out there,” said Steve as he pushed away from the mantle.

At the same time Bruce spoke up, “he’s still just a kid.”

“Why would he decide to go all My Side of the Mountain on us now?” asked Stark, peering at Loki as if he already knew exactly what the answer was.

A little too sweetly, Loki replied, “Ask your hawk.”

Barton shrugged away everyone’s gaze. “Kid had a right to know.”

Bruce closed his eyes and Steve ran his hand through his hair. “You didn’t.”

Natasha looked up at him with a decidedly neutral expression.

“Be happy that your petty revenge may bring a great deal of sorrow down on that boy,” said Loki. He held himself at his height—like a king.

Barton waved it all away. “Kids are running off all the time—no big deal. Stark’s probably got some kind of bloodhound armor and we’ll just go bring the kid back. A night in the woods won’t hurt him—it’s not that cold yet.” He glanced down at Natasha’s hand on his leg.

“Not everyone’s you, Clint,” she said.

“He’s managed this far on his lonesome, though,” said Stark as he scratched at his beard. Half his thoughts were clearly occupied with considering Clint’s suggestion of bloodhound armor.

Loki found it odd that Rogers was watching Thor through all of this. No one else—except perhaps Romanov—had noticed that Thor was being strangely quiet. But Rogers had a gift for people, not for manipulating or reading every subtle cue like Clint or Natasha, but for considering them important enough to notice their shifts in mood.

“What do you two know that we don’t?” asked Steve.

Bravo, Captain, Loki thought. Could it be you’re the only one that remembers the manner in which Book was resurrected?

“My brother fears that there is some danger to the boy,” said Thor—clearly not having made the mental leap to what troubled Loki. Still, it wasn’t likely that he’d have enough experience with magic to even know of the danger.

Silence filled the room as everyone looked to Loki.

“It’s the magic.” He paused, how was he to explain this to those who barely accepted that magic existed? “Think of it as a kind of power source that must be guided and channeled to be of any use. I flooded Book’s body with my blood, and in doing so, with magic. As a human he is not meant to hold such power,” he glanced at Bruce, “we know the consequences of too much power for the human form.”

Stark, of course, interrupted. “So what, he’s going to hulk out on us? Like—a mini-Hulk?”

“I don’t think that’s what he’s saying…” said Bruce as he pushed his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“I can’t imagine that would be the exact outcome unless Dr. Banner has been dosing him with gamma radiation behind our backs. What may happen is that in an agitated state the magic might…react. Right now it is a foreign presence, slowly filtering away as his body flushes it with the boy’s own blood.” Here Loki paused. His own fears were so amorphous he wasn’t sure what exactly would happen or how to express his anxieties. Given the vague aura of confusion, he’d have to try regardless. “If he becomes highly agitated or finds himself in a fight or flight situation, the magic may very well respond and in doing so bond with his system. If he survived it, and that is very unlikely, his body would try to remake itself from the inside out.”

“His eyes,” said Thor quietly.

“We see a mild example already—but we cannot have Aesir blood,” he looked meaningfully at Thor, “especially mine, running rampant in his body.” Loki had no idea exactly what would happen if the magic tried to conform Book’s body to the blueprint of a Jotun runt in the skin of an Aesir. It may eat him up from the inside out. It may simply expel itself from his body—effectively draining him and likely leveling anything around him. Loki could imagine a dozen possibilities—he feared his imagination didn’t stretch to the actual outcome—and none of them ended with Book hale and hearty.

A sound like someone sucking on their teeth brought his attention back around. Stark. The man leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head. “So, short answer—we need the kid back. J.A.R.V.I.S.—what do you figure the average walking speed for a kid his height is with this terrain? I’m gonna need a probable search radius.”

“Calculating now, sir.”

He stood up, stooping briefly to move one of his game pieces. “And while I don’t have a bloodhound armor—good idea there Katniss—I do have infrared and a suit that can break the sound barrier.”

Steve waylaid Stark as the other man was clearly headed for wherever he kept his armor. “You’re not going alone.”

The billionaire gave a grin and a mock salute, “sir, no, sir!”

“I’m serious, Tony.”

“Well, unless you’ve developed the ability to fly in addition to being a near mystical pillar of righteousness—you’re not coming. I’ll take Goldilocks,” he thumped Thor on the arm. “Though seriously I have no idea how you manage against wind resistance.”

“I will come as well,” said Loki calmly.

Stark cocked is head in thought, “how about no.”

Loki thought he’d have to waste time arguing with that big-headed egotist, but help came from an unexpected quarter.

“When did you become an expert on magic?” asked Natasha, curling in her seat so that her legs laid across Clint’s ankles. “He is the only one of us that has any clue about how it works—and any hope of controlling it if things get unpleasant. Am I right, Thor?”

“Aye.” He placed a hand on Stark’s shoulder, practically encasing his whole upper arm in the process. “I will be of little help with magic.”

“I do not require your permission,” said Loki as he made his way to the porch.

“So…the flightless among us just wait here?” said Bruce.

Natasha smiled, “tell the kid we’re having lasagna when you find him.”

Loki paused at the door and gave a curt nod before stepping into the night. Thor followed, shutting the door behind him. Clouds had descended over the tree line, lying thick against the mountains. The last crimson rush of sunset reflected along their dark underbellies like a field of dying coals.

“Your doing?” Loki asked as he gestured at the sky.

Thor shook his head. “It grieves me, though, that Book has had to face this truth—I know it to be a heavy burden.”

Loki rolled his eyes in an attempt at eloquent sarcasm. “Yes, thank you, Thor. I had nearly forgotten how very far I fall short in your eyes.”

Anger clamped down on Thor, drawing his mouth into a hard line as he glowered at Loki. “They have a saying here—that one sows what one reaps. Yours is a justly bitter harvest, brother.”

The sound of firing repulsors ended the conversation as Stark settled onto the stone patio with a metal thud. The pavers groaned in protest. Stark’s faceplate slid back to reveal the grinning billionaire. “All right, adventure scouts, let’s earn us a Book-tracking patch. J.A.R.V.I.S. figures—and I agree—that we’ve got about a fifteen mile radius to cover. Probably less given the terrain and the fact that the kid was dead just a few weeks ago.”

“Which way would he be likely to go?” asked Thor as he turned to Loki, hundreds of years of habit overriding his burst of anger. Thor was a skilled hunter, but it had always been Loki that could anticipate and track their prey.

Focus turned inward, Loki didn’t even acknowledge the question, Thor’s previous statement about reaping what he had sown irritated him. It dug its way in, just out of reach. His actions were so much more than mere cause and effect—how could they be with Norns behind them? He was being paid in full for his actions, for his crimes. This entire episode had the flush of drama.

Absently he answered Thor’s question, thoughts churning over the implications that this was merely the next act in Skuld’s narrative for his life. “His woodcraft is limited—and he’s cunning enough to realize we’d go after him. He’d head toward town in the hopes of disappearing. Not by the road, however.”

He braced against the stone half wall that circled the patio. The cool of the stones seeped up through his fingers trying to douse the flush of worry that sparked within him. He’d been blind. This wasn’t his tale to tell, this was the Scrivner’s work—her craft. He knew enough of tale-weaving to know there were no accidents, no characters included without purpose. All this while he thought he had been defying her will by remaining on Midgard, by staying with Book—before he had known her for what she was.

“And that was exactly where she wished me to be,” he muttered to himself. The pressure of lips on his forehead faded through his foggy memories of the day Book died. He had been justly rewarded for his efforts. He had even known his voice had been a reward, but he had allowed himself to be distracted by other things before he had truly had time to think on it—or he had been deliberately led away from such concerns.

Still hunched over the wall, he spoke quietly. “What is your purpose for Book?”

“Come again there?” asked Stark.

Loki could feel both their gazes on him, but he didn’t turn around. “What is your purpose for Book?” he asked again. He didn’t need Stark’s startled yelp to know that Skuld had appeared behind him. The ancientness drifted about her like cold creeping from the depths of a cave. If she had been less primal, he would have thought her presence hallowed.

“What is it to you?” she asked.

“What is a human child to the Norns? You suffocate stars and raise empires.” He gave a wry smile, “and you try to turn monsters into men. This child has no part in such things.”

“Who are you to say what use he may be. Even the sages of Earth know that the beat of a butterfly’s wings might stir a tempest.”

“Always riddles!” Loki whirled on the Norn. “Why send me to Earth, dumping me on the boy’s doorstep?”

Skuld considered him for a moment and laced her long fingers as she tilted her head to the side. “There was another story in you to be told. If only someone would listen to it. A better story—a more satisfying one.”

“That tells me nothing of the boy.”

Narrowing her eyes, Skuld spread her lips thin. “You are a stubborn creature, Loki Son-of-None.” She paused to trace letters in the air, not bothering to meet anyone’s gaze. Suddenly she spoke. “Do you remember when you were a child and trespassed into Idunn’s garden?”

Loki’s fingers twitched to brush along his upper arm. “I broke it.”

Skuld smiled a sad, knowing smile as she drifted toward Loki. “And then?”

Loki stiffened.

“Yes. You see it now.” With those words Skuld vanished in a shred of mist.

Stark gaped at the spot where she had been. “Well that was cryptic. What did she mean by all of that? Loki, hey, Loki what did she mean?” He called after Loki as the taller man stepped up onto the half wall—and then off into empty air. The dark shape of an owl spiraled up where he had been.

 “Do you guys come with decoder rings?” he asked as he gazed after the retreating form.

Thor too watched his brother. “We weren’t meant to be in Idunn’s orchard. When Loki fell, he couldn’t go to the healers without giving himself away. So he hid it.”

“And?”

“Eventually mother found out, but by that time the bone had already started to knit back together. His arm was twisted and it was too late to set it correctly.” Thor clenched his jaw as he began whirling Mjolnir by his side. “They had to break the arm anew.”        

Chapter Text

The two Avengers and Loki swept the route to the town three abreast. Loki and Thor had to rely on their eyes—or in Loki’s case, the keen eyes and sensitive ears of an owl. The Iron Man was somewhat better equipped, his suit capable of scanning a broad area with infrared. They had already made it to the town and back to the lodge, their search gradually expanding along a grid JARIVS had calculated. Half way back to the town and three miles from the road, and no sign of Book.

Stark—being Stark—kept up a near constant stream of inane chatter describing to them every not-Book heat signature he found. There was truly an impressive amount of squirrel, rabbit, raccoon, deer, and other such creatures for him to comment on. Loki felt that when he finally did rake his considerable talons across Stark’s fine suit, he would be fully justified. He doubted his oath would impede him. Surely this ranked as self-defense.

“Hold up, boys.” Stark’s voice was muffled through the helmet. “I think we might have a winner. I’ve got a particularly Book-shaped red blob down there.” A shift in his hands and he was rocketing toward the trees, Thor and Loki trailing behind. “We do not wish to startle him,” said Thor as they hit the ground.

Loki dropped lightly beside him, shedding feathers in his haste. “Neither of you know the meaning of stealth. He’s already well aware.” He pushed by Thor, stooping under a low-hanging limb. “Try not to rile him,” he looked meaningfully at Stark, “if that is at all possible.”

Stark made an offended little noise. “I’m the picture of diplomacy. All about the peace.” Branches snapped over his armor as he pushed through the undergrowth. “Seriously—this little village in Serbia gave me an award. Has my face in bronze and everything. I like having it next to the coffeemaker, but Pepper keeps putting it away. She says it’s tacky.”

Thor dropped a hand on Stark’s shoulder. “Perhaps it would be better to speak less.”

“Too much?” Servos whirred as he turned his head to look at Thor.

Thor gestured at Loki’s ridged back. “I think my brother is dreaming up ways to kill you,” he rumbled.

A grin cut over his shoulder as Loki glanced back at them. “They’re quite inventive—no more windows for you.”

The oaks and maples abruptly gave way to a clearing of motley grasses and competing broadleaf weeds. The ragged stretch of space slanted toward a rocky creek along one side and curled uphill before disappearing back into a thicket of dogwood and stunted magnolia. At the highest point a spreading oak, boled with age, reared its head above the surrounding woods. At its base, Book waited, bulging street bag at his feet.

“There isn’t a reason for you to be here,” he said. His words were edged with politeness. He crossed his arms over his narrow chest and stared down the Avengers.

“Your welfare is reason enough,” said Loki. He stopped well away from Book as he saw the boy stiffen.

“I think I’m probably losing a bet somehow by saying this, but Delusions of Grandeur there is telling the truth,” said Iron Man, his voice losing the metallic hum as his faceplate slid back. “You’re all juiced up with alien blood and we can’t have you wandering around like Chernobyl waiting to happen.”

Thor briefly looked puzzled by the reference but shook it off. “You were knit together by powerful magics—ones we little understand, and we need to be sure there are no ill effects. You must return with us.”

A worn sneaker scuffed at the grass. “And I guess he’s the one that will be giving you the all clear?” He pinned Loki with a glare. “Pass.”

“This isn’t really a situation where you get to choose,” said Stark as he stepped forward.

Book stood his ground. “Last I checked, forcing someone to go somewhere they didn’t want to go was called kidnapping. I’m not going anywhere with you—with him.” The words were deliberate, forced between his teeth. The calm of his exterior suddenly seemed very brittle, cold fury running in deep furrows just beneath the surface.

“We only have your interests in mind,” said Thor. He would have closed the distance between them, but he was brought up short by Loki’s outstretched arm.

“Thor,” he said quietly. “Keep back.”

The measured calm in his voice sent a thrill of warning through Thor. He knew that tone. He jerked his gaze away from Book. Loki’s face was tight beneath an outward show of complacence. An ill feeling crept through the air.

“You know we wouldn’t do this if it weren’t necessary, right kid?” asked Stark as he stepped forward. “Just need to give you a once over and you’ll be free to go. I’ll throw in a jet ride and a wad of cash if you want it.”

Book didn’t so much as glance at him. His hands balled into fists. “He’s not touching me.”

“If anyone else could do this, we would have them do so,” said Thor calmly. “But Loki is the only one who understands…”

“What he did to me? I bet he is,” Book spat. “He pegged me pretty early on—knew exactly how to play me. And that’s all he wants now.” He strode forward, jaw clenched as his eyes gleamed with dampness, “I’m done being used. He can find his redemption ticket somewhere else.”

Loki held up his hands, “You must be calm. I only wish to help.”

“Liar!” Book jabbed his finger at Loki, teeth bared as he nearly quivered with rage. “You deserve to burn, you psychopathic maniac.”

He let the words hang on the air, his anger abruptly turning frigid. He stood painfully still. Against the backdrop of the forest he seemed very small, very young. Windblown leaves nudged against his feet before scuttling across the packed earth under the great tree.

When the words came, they were soft. They were even. And each word burned like arctic midnight. “I see it now. Put the pieces together. Why exactly you came here. Why you killed mothers and fathers, friends, children, people doing their duty. Why you created thousands of empty bedrooms and vacant seats at the table,” he closed his eyes against the words, grimacing as he spat them out. “Hundreds of orphans.” He crossed his arms and gripped his elbows until his skin blanched. “I understand now why the madman rained death down on an unprepared world.”

His eyes snapped open, something wild stalking behind the rage in them. “Because daddy didn’t love you enough. Because you didn’t fit in and everyone liked big brother more than you.” A mocking tone crept into his voice. “Now it’s all so understandable. You’re not evil…just misunderstood.”

Thor shifted uneasily and stepped forward as if to speak.

“Shut up,” snarled Book before Thor could even start. A hard smile cracked across his face, far too bitter and weary for so few years. The anger seemed to recede, dropping below the surface, but still running tight through every hard line of his body. He began to pace, placing each foot deliberately. He wasn’t watching Loki, he was watching his feet in the dirt and the leaves. “Did they ever beat you?”

Loki blinked away the surprise at this abrupt change in tone and direction. He couldn’t read where this was headed. The dangerous flares of magic within Book were too distracting. Power pulsed and strained. It was like peering down between hot cracks into the molten heart of the planet. Until now, the magic had remained passive, a salve or balm to Book’s system, but not really a part of him. Now it threatened to explode through the crust and carve a path through every part of his body.

He twitched to do something, but without his own magic—his true magic—there wasn’t a thing he could do. It would be like felling a tree to stop a lave flow. All he could do was wait. The question Book had asked wasn’t really a question at all, so Loki stayed silent. Thankfully the others did too. It seemed even Stark had instinct enough to keep his mouth shut.

Book froze, still staring at the ground, half turned away from them. His words were measured and evenly brittle. “Did they lock you in a closet for hours because you spilled a glass of milk? Make you beg for money and then spend it on drugs? Forget about you and your baby sister for days at a time until it was just you because you were too young to really take care of a baby? Allow their boyfriend of the week to…to touch you? Did you stand alone in the ashes of your happy life, the only one to escape? Did you watch the man who came back from war and looked like dad, but wasn’t, slowly decide that life was just too hard?”

When he looked up, his eyes were no less fierce, but they gleamed with tears he refused to let fall. He glared unblinkingly at Loki, jaw tight. “Your pain is nothing. Not to that. Not compared to what these kids I’ve known have suffered. And not a one of them took the lives of others as payment for their scars. And when they did self-destruct, they only hurt themselves.”

“But you,” he spat, “All those people. You murdered them—and you didn’t even care.” A low growl began his throat. “So don’t you dare pretend that you could possibly care about me!”

Loki stiffened, “We need to leave.” He grabbed Thor’s arm. “Now.”

Stark leaned forward, peering at Book. “Are his teeth getting pointier?” 

From between Book’s bared lips, fangs were now clearly evident.

Even as the group backed away, Book advanced, something just beneath his skin seemed to shift and slide. “You deserve every hell they can imagine.” An eerie gleam lit his green eye.

“Brother?” asked Thor.

“Book, you need to stop. Be calm. Now!” pleaded Loki.

The gleam intensified. “Just. Stop. Talking!” he shouted. His clenched hands suddenly flew to his head as a gasp of pain forced its way between his lips. He went ridged, mouth stretched wide in a silent scream as his back arched.

“What did you do!” shouted Stark as he rounded on Loki.

Loki continued to watch in horror. “Something monstrous.”

“Do something,” said Thor.

He shook his head, “I can’t.”

Book gave a high wailing keen and pitched forward into the grass. The howl arched over the trees and pierced the heart of the forest—the only sound in the suddenly silent mountains. A shuddering spasm shot through him, his skin crawling as if something scuttled just beneath the surface. Then the change came. Violent surges twisted his body as his limbs contorted and lengthened, muscles bulging. Claws ripped through skin. He dug into the grass, clinging to it. Clothes shredded, spine arched, ears lengthened. Fur darkened pale flesh and his face narrowed into a long muzzle.

“This is incredibly not good,” murmured Stark.

A massive wolf shook off the last tears of Book’s clothes, one wicked green eye lit with an unnatural light. Long, tall ears swept back to lay flat against the broad skull as fangs flashed in the gapping mouth. A streak of black ran through the brownish fur, smudging down the long mane around the broad shoulders.  A deep chest tapered to a narrow waist with a strong tail bristling behind.

The thing shook its great head and raised itself onto all fours. It could look down even on Thor.

In its gaze there was no sign of Book.

Slathered jaws hinged open in a hideous parody of a smile.

Loki got no more warning than that before the wolf sprung. Teeth ripped the air near his head as he rolled away. In a tearing of grass, the wolf swung round and threw himself at Loki again. Loki saw death in the wolf, his body shredded down to his Jotun core, blood splashed across that terrible muzzle.

A painful jolt against his side beat the teeth and claws. Disoriented, Loki finally managed to realize that he was partially slung over Stark’s shoulder as Iron Man rocketed across the clearing. Repulsors whined as they skidded to a stop, throwing up a spray from the creek. Loki stumbled away from Stark, trying to unobtrusively cradle his bruised ribs. The wolf whirled on them, crouching to lunge.

A streak of red slammed into the creature’s side as Thor joined the fight. Mjolnir hung at his waist as he grappled with the much larger wolf, their bodies writhing in a twisted jumble. Teeth snapped at air as Thor clung fiercely, his head pressed into the shaggy fur to avoid having his face ripped open.

“A plan would be good,” said Stark. “I mean are we talking silver bullets and wolfsbane here?”

“And let’s try some splashing him with holy water,” said Loki with a tone of surprisingly calm indifference. “He’s not a werewolf.”

“Well, I don’t think they make Have-a-Heart traps that big.”

Fighting the urge to rub his temple, Loki dropped to the ground, fingertips splayed against the earth. He sent a pulse of magic racing through the natural currents of the earth and up through the wolf’s pads. The questing magic ghosted through the creature, searching for anything but scalding rage and vicious intent. Only the barest echo of someone else drifted through the miasma of all-too-human hatred unshackled from human reason. The white-hot blood magic boiled up against Loki, turning his spell to ash.

“If I had my magic, and if we could contain him—I might be able to find him in there,” said Loki.

Stark cocked his head to the side. “There were an awful lot of ifs in that plan of yours.”

Thor roared as the wolf surged from the ground, twisting on its back legs as it snapped over its shoulder at the blond clinging to its neck. It plunged downward. Grass and dirt flew as it bucked and twisted itself in tight, violent circles. All the while Thor was trying to wrestle it to the ground, but could do little more than fight to keep his grip. Suddenly, the wolf threw itself down onto its side, crushing Thor beneath it. In a quick flip, the beast rolled over and lurched it its feet.

Thor’s grip failed.

“Make a plan that doesn’t suck,” shouted Stark as he shot forward, slamming into the wolf’s side.

The creature yelped as it flipped over, limbs splayed as it tried to right itself. A harsh, reverberating bark tore from between glistening teeth. The bristling fur along its spine stiffened. Red gums gleamed behind pulled back lips. The surge of wild magic lit its eyes.

Loki slid behind a tree, mind retreating into the labyrinth of his thoughts. Magic, I need magic. His arguments slammed into the solid wall that was his lack of power. He retreated, thoughts darting through the maze of possibilities, doubling back, retracing, slithering through hundreds of branching options. There is no magic. Dead end. He would die. Dead end. I would die. Dead end. Thor lacks the precision. Stark doesn’t have the tools. Again and again the trail ground into the unyielding conclusion of failure. A glimmering of an idea caught his attention as he hurtled back along a well trod pattern. He pulled up. The possibility sparkled down a path of logic he knew narrowed into nothingness.

The flash intrigued him and he followed down the path, noting his own tracks of previous contemplation. The path narrowed away as it always did. What good would that do? I have no magic and no way of acquiring any! He made to leave, but the flash came again, reflecting from somewhere beyond the wall in front of him. Loki put his eye to the crack—because it was a crack—trying to peer beyond. There was a thought there if he could only get to it.

Digging his fingers into the fissure, Loki tore at the passage, widening the gap. The walls pressed back. Not to be turned away, he threw the weight of his mind against them, wedging his fingers in until they bled. With a crack, the walls leapt apart, dumping him before the gleaming spark of an idea. He reached out and took it in his slender fingers. Oh, this is just my kind of plan.

A small tree hurtled past Loki’s head as he surfaced from his musings, bringing his full attention back to the fight before him. Thor and Iron Man’s disadvantage was beginning to tell on them. In a completely equal fight, this more fearsome version of Book would still have been difficult. But as it was, the two Avengers fought with shackles round their actions. Repulsor blasts came almost hesitantly, and Thor was pulling his punches. They didn’t want to hurt Book. The wolf had no such restraint.

Muscles bunched under its bristling fur as it coiled in on itself.

“Heads up!” Stark shouted just before the wolf let forth a roar.

The grating howl slammed into them with enough force to stagger Loki and knock Stark from the air. Bark tore from the trees nearest the monster in an explosion of wood shavings. Thor—not surprisingly—managed to stay mostly upright

“Stark!” Loki shouted as the wolf lunged. Both he and Thor were too far away.

A muffled curse broke off under the shearing of metal. Tony Stark’s suit of “iron” tore away like tin as the wolf pinned him to the ground, claws gauging through sparking armor. White-hot energy burst from Stark’s chest, scorching muzzle and whiskers but hitting nothing.

The wolf stumbled suddenly as Thor gripped it by the tail and yanked hard. It whirled, snapping at the Avenger. Stark’s suit lay unmoving, oozing oily fluids, dark sludge crusting the joints. Suspiciously red rivulets cut through the grime.

Checking to see that Thor still had the wolf distracted, Loki darted across the clearing to Stark’s side. Most of the faceplate was still intact, so Loki couldn’t tell if he was conscious. The jagged shrapnel splintered in all directions, some of them down toward their fragile cargo.

“Are you dead, Stark?” Loki asked. He ducked instinctively at the whirring sound of Mjolnir flying over his head.

“Mr. Stark’s life signs are stable,” crackled J.A.R.V.I.S.’s voice. It was slightly muffled, as if the intelligence were speaking from within the helmet and had cranked up the volume.

“I assume the lack of attempted wit means he’s unconscious.”

“Indeed.” J.A.R.V.I.S. paused. “The sensors are too badly damaged, but I believe Mr. Stark to have suffered multiple lacerations. I cannot ascertain their severity.”

The wolf didn’t seem to be tiring, and they were no closer to a solution. Loki gritted his teeth and leaned down to hiss at Stark’s prone form. “Try not to die, mortal. Don’t make me tell Book that he murdered you.”

“Loki!” Thor shouted as he sent Book crashing into the trees. Limbs snapped and old trees groaned. The Thunderer wiped dirt from his brow, hair matting against his head in sweaty tangles.

Loki almost wanted to smile. There was something so familiar about this. About the desperation and Thor finally realizing that his traditional methods weren’t working this time. In those instances—few, but still more often than Thor would admit—it was always Loki he turned to.

“Call the storm!” He shouted as he sprinted toward his brother. The wolf was getting to its feet, shaking its heavy head.

“But…” Thor hesitated. He didn’t know if Book could survive such an attack.

Loki didn’t know either. He slid to a stop next to Thor. “Don’t strike him. But as close as possible.” The old teasing tone slipped into his voice. “Precision…if you can manage it.”

Thunder clouds boiled up overhead, lightning skittering across their swirling surface. Mjolnir whirled in Thor’s grip as the wolf scrambled back to its feet. Peals of thunder set its eyes rolling, tail rigid. Thor planted himself and thrust Mjolnir high above him with a roar that sounded above even the thunder. White-blue lightning crashed between the wolf’s paws.

The searing light threw jagged black shadows into the woodland. For an instant the lightning seemed to freeze the scene. Thor’s cape blew back behind him, a smear of red in a suddenly stark landscape. The torn metal of Iron Man’s armor sliced through the light, catching it along every bladed edge of twisted metal. Loki crouched against the ground, ready to spring in any direction once the wolf moved.

The monster curled back in on itself, rearing on its haunches as the lightning pulsed before it. A shower of scorched earth and shards of stone bit into its face and legs. As the glow of the strike receded, the wolf vanished into the woods. Snapping limbs and terrified whining floated behind it.  

Chapter Text

Loki’s voice brought Thor up short as the Thunderer made to pursue the wolf.

“Let him go! Stark needs assistance.”

Thor reluctantly came to where Loki stood over Tony. He didn’t return Mjolnir to his belt. “How bad?”

“Hard to say, really. He appears to be incredibly hard to kill—so I doubt I’m so lucky,” said Loki as he nudged Stark’s body with his foot. “J.A.R.V.I.S., is he breathing?”

“Mr. Stark’s respiration falls within normal parameters—if a bit shallow. Other life signs are similarly low—if not life threatening at the moment.” He paused. “There appears to be blood on my speakers. It is most distressing.”

“Ah. Perhaps it is time to call in the cavalry.”

“Already done, sir. Captain Rogers and Dr. Banner are on their way along the road. Agent Barton appears to be much closer.”

Thor frowned. “Why is Agent Barton so near?”

Loki leaned against a tree trunk. “Following me, I suppose. It would seem my hawk doesn’t trust me anymore.” He placed his hand melodramatically above his heart. “It wounds me.”

Crouching down next to Iron Man’s still form, Thor placed his hand companionably on his shoulder. “Can you help him?”

“I haven’t the magic to waste on him,” said Loki. He raised his hands placatingly as Thor rose to his feet, eyes promising to make Loki do something. “Peace. This isn’t spite. His wounds will keep until Banner and his star-spangled nurse arrive. And even what magic I have may well not be enough.”

“Enough to do what?” asked Thor.

A shadow passed over Loki’s face. “What indeed.” He cocked his head slowly to the side, casting his eyes about the clearing. “It would seem Agent Barton has joined us.”

“Thor, tell me you’re not chumming around with your nut-job brother over Tony’s dead body,” said Clint. He stepped from the woods, bowstring taut, fletching brushing his cheek. “Cause I really want to rub it in his face how right I was about all of this.”

Thor slid between Loki and Clint’s arrow.

Clint’s eyes narrowed. “I’m thinking you don’t quite understand line of sight.”

“Tony Stark has been injured, but help follows close behind you,” said Thor.

“And how exactly did he wind up looking like a mangled can of Chicken of the Sea? Unless there are some big-ass bears in these hills, I’m looking at the only two suspects.”

“It was Book,” said Loki as he stepped from behind Thor. He couldn’t quite pull his gaze away from the arrow—or rather the muscles of Clint’s right hand that would tell him well before the arrow moved that it was on its way. Nevertheless, he couldn’t cower behind Thor—no matter how deadly the metal shaft would be.

Clint laughed. “Scrawny kid, been recuperating for weeks? I’d pick your targets better. All right, I’ll bite. Go on, tell me how some little kid ripped open a suit of metal armor.”

“It helps that he’s a giant wolf now,” said Loki blandly.

Hawkeye managed to relax his guard in an elaborate show of confusion without actually letting the arrow point stray from tracking Loki’s chest. “Say what now?” “Book has transformed into a wolf of truly impressive size.”

Further questions crowded upon Clint’s face. Shaking himself, he focused in on Stark’s form. “Okay, backburner. First we need to—a wolf, really?” He broke off to grumble to himself, “focus, Clint. How is Tony?”

“Not well, but the bleeding appears to have slowed. I am wary of moving him for fear of reopening the wounds,” said Thor.

“Or skewering him with a piece of his own armor,” Loki added.

“He might appreciate the irony of that,” muttered Clint as he finely released the tension of his bow and relaxed the string. The bow slid to his side, arrow still nocked and at the ready. “Okay, coming back to the Book-is-a-wolf thing….how?”

Shrugging, Loki clasped his hands behind his back to keep from picking at them.

“Well aren’t you helpful,” said Clint. “The only shapeshifter around, and you don’t know how a kid suddenly went all Teen Wolf on us?” He scrubbed his hand through his hair. Letting out a sharp grunt, he whirled on Loki and closed the gap between them, grass slapping against his boots. “Everywhere you go you manage to screw people up—not really surprised it happened here.” Clint shook his head, a humorless smile edging across his face. “You know, the thing is, I think you actually kinda liked the kid.”

A large hand clamped around Clint’s shoulder and drew him away from Loki. “Let us not provoke my brother when we have need of him.”

Taken aback and slightly amused, Loki quipped, “That’s hardly ever stopped you.”

Thor shot him a look ladened with hundreds of years of long-suffering irritation. “Is now really the time?”

“It’s always the time,” Loki countered lightly. He turned to Clint. “You’re not wrong. I have—as you say—screwed Book up.”

“And the how part?” asked Clint.

“By saving his life of course.” Loki paused and let the words drift down into the drying grasses. The creek’s splashing surged in the space of their silence.

“Your blood,” said Thor as he closed his eyes. “It’s not really the magic—it’s your blood.”

Loki grimaced. “The magic’s certainly not helping matters.”

“Non-alien right here—totally lost,” interjected Clint, throwing his arms wide in annoyance.

“I am a shapeshifter by birth, not by magic. It as a talent carried in my blood.”

“The same blood that now fills Book’s veins,” continued Thor.

Barton pressed a hand to his temple, taking short harsh strides, first in one direction, then another. “And what, Book’s somehow triggered this and went all Kujo on us?”

Exquisitely raising an eyebrow, Loki blinked. “You share a table with one who turns green and monstrous when agitated—yet you have trouble with Book similarly transforming after having his trust betrayed.”

“Why a wolf?” asked Thor. “When you first transformed it was into a cat.”

Knitting his hands behind him, Loki turned and looked up at the night sky. “The first transformation is always into a creature with which the shifter bears some kind of kinship or similarity in personality.”

“And the bookworm is getting in touch with his inner predator? I’m just not seeing it.” Clint dug his boot into the ground. “A chinchilla maybe…but a wolf? How exactly are you planning on de-wolfing him? I only carry silver-tipped arrows on special occasions.”

Loki continued to stare up at the sky, hands clasped to the small of his back. Somewhere beyond the low slung clouds the stars burned with ancient fire. They glimmered like strings of beads caught in the branches of Yggdrasil. At its heart, Skuld was watching him. Watching him and keeping tight rein on his magic.

There was no point in asking. She did not give it when Book lay hollowed at his feet, why would she give it now? His thoughts returned to the spark of an idea he’d stumbled across in the passages of his mind. It fairly reeked of crazy. A gift, my lady? he thought with a knowing smirk. She had herded him toward blood magic, why not to this as well?

He glanced over his shoulder at the others. “Thor, I am going to need your hammer.”

“You know you cannot wield it…” Thor trailed off as Loki dismissively waved his hand.

“Yes, yes, not worthy, etc. I don’t need its strength…I need its magic.”

“Will that work?” asked Thor. Skepticism furrowed his brow. “Can you draw power from Mjolnir as you are now?”

A quick smile cut across Loki’s face, “you mean hobbled as I am?” He seemed to mull over the idea. There was always the possibility that he would burn under the might of the star-forged hammer. He turned to Thor. “I see no reason why I couldn’t.”

Clint closed the gap between them. “Whoa, whoa, whoa are you saying that Thor can recharge you?”

Loki nodded. He had to tamp down the glee at Clint’s growing frustration.

The archer threw his hands in the air. “Yes, let’s magically jumpstart the megalomaniac with a history of world domination. Because that’s a great idea!”

“What assurance would we have that you would not use your magic for more harm? To break your oath?” asked Thor, his grip tightening on Mjolnir.

“None,” said Loki. He didn’t look Thor straight in the eye, only glanced sideways at him. “Merely these.” Long fingers brushed back his sleeves to reveal the ritual marks still crimson against his pale flesh. He dropped the fabric back over them.

“This is a thousand kinds of bad,” said Clint as he ran his hand across his eyes.

“There is no other choice,” said Loki. He grabbed Thor by the upper arms like he had when they were little and he needed Thor to actually listen to what he said. “The wolf has overwhelmed him, powered by Book’s pain and rage. He cannot come back to himself.” He searched Thor’s face. “And when he meets upon someone, he will devour them. Will you put that on his conscience?”

“I know the risk he poses.” Annoyance shot through Thor’s indecision. “But I have grown leery of your council.”

Loki could not but incline his head in agreement. “True.” He paused significantly, “but who better to deal with a shapeshifter?”

Drawing in a deep breath, Thor settled on a decision. He reached up and cupped the back of Loki’s head in his hand. “I trust that you will do what is right for the boy.” Glancing at Loki’s arms again, as if he could see the markings hidden beneath, he extended Mjolnir.

Runes ghosted across the hammer’s surface as Loki gripped either side of it. The clouds began to circle and lightning cracked around them. A burst of crackling light erupted from the hammer itself, surging through Loki’s body.

Clint’s exclamation was lost in the sizzling snap of energy.

For an instant, every fiber burned with magic, Mjolnir’s heart discharging its power with all the finesse and grace expected of a hammer. It battered Loki, punching through to his core, colliding with the dregs of ritual magic pooled there.

The light snapped into nothingness. Loki stood in its wake, trembling. He stumbled backwards, clutching his hands to his chest.

“Brother?” asked Thor hesitantly. He stepped forward, but drew up before getting too close. He had been a slow learner, but after centuries of being burned by wild magic—Loki’s or otherwise—he’d come to realize that magic was a thing he best left alone.

Curled over his hands, Loki slowly straightened. Deliberately, he unfurled his fingers. His eyes gleamed faintly as he regarded the energy sparking along his fingertips. A manic grin stretched across his features as he turned his hands over in wonderment.

“Thor,” warned Clint as he knocked an arrow to his bow.

Loki’s breaths came in short exited bursts as he twitched his gaze up to Clint’s. The smile grew, breaking into crazed torrents of laughter. He staggered back against the tree. The wild light in his eyes dimmed as his head lolled back. The laughter subsided into a deep throated chuckle and then a shuddering sigh. “So nearly whole,” he breathed.

“Brother,” said Thor warningly.

Loki’s eyes slid shut as he leaned limply against the tree, pressing himself into the bark. “Is that worry I hear, Prince of Asgard?”  He took another shuddering breath, the hint of a smile creeping past his lips. “Don’t be such a milk-sop. I am in perfect control.”

“You sound drunk,” said Clint.

Loki cracked open an eye and rolled his head round to gaze at the archer. “It is rather intoxicating.” More than that, it was like being able to draw a full breath after months of restriction, having a limb restored, or finally having the life to do more than just trudge through the day. He savored it, tasting the sweetness of being so nearly himself once more—no longer a husk or shadow.

Pushing away from the tree, he schooled his features though the rush of power still ran riot through him. He ignored the small voice that told him now was his chance to be rid of them all. He shook himself. It was time for the next step. “Let us see what the wolf makes of magic.”

Apparently Thor thought he was part of the next step. “I go with you,” he said, adjusting his grip on Mjolnir.

Loki just sighed and gave a small, almost fond smile. “To do what exactly? Beat on him with your hammer? We do not wish to kill him, and I am not entirely sure he cannot kill you. And though it would be a sight to see, I’d rather he not try his jaws on you again.”

Argument boiled up in Thor. “You listen well, brother. I will not let you face this beast alone.”

Rubbing his temple, Loki sank back against the tree. “Will you never learn? Not all problems can be solved by beating them with whatever blunt object comes to hand. The fewer people approaching Book the better.” Loki glanced up from beneath hooded brows. His look was filled with a resigned confidence. “This will take magic, not might. Strategy, not strength.” He laughed, “And you, dear brother are ill-suited to the task.”

It was natural, the words sliding off his lips as if they were always meant to be there and had never left. Thor cocked his head, wondering whether he had imagined it. Then he thrust out his hand. For a second, Loki hesitated. Then his hand wrapped around the cool metal of Thor’s bracers. Thor in turn gripped him by the forearm, massive hand nearly cupped completely around Loki’s arm.

“We will see Tony Stark is safely on his way.”

“Whoa, wait. You’re leaving this one up to him. He caused this whole mess!” said Clint as he got to his feet from tending to Tony.

“I had help,” muttered Loki with a meaningful glance at Clint.

“And he shall fix it,” said Thor, pretending not to hear.

“So he’s a tracker now is he? How do you plan to find Book in all this forest?”

Almost feral amusement gleamed in Loki’s eyes. Suddenly his form began to change, lengthening and stretching. Glossy fur slid across his body in rippling, iridescent black as he dropped to the ground, an extra set of front limbs sprouting, all six legs sporting arched slivers of claw. Ears and eyes disappeared as four pits opened along either side of his long, vaguely feline head. A razored smile slashed from one side of the head to the other as a whiplike tail lashed behind him. The thing turned its massive head toward Clint and grinned.

The archer stood his ground, but leaned away as Loki drew closer, the deep pits on either side of his face flaring as he sucked in Clint’s scent. “If I didn’t hate the Cheshire Cat before…”

“The gliss of Alfheim is one of the most fearsome trackers in the nine realms,” said Thor.

“There are no eyes.”

“It has no need of them.”

Rearing up on his back legs, Loki swiveled slowly around, experimentally trying the wind. Ribboned scent trails webbed through the forest, appearing like colored ripples in the air. He swayed, nearly stumbling. It was too much, a riot of sensations pulling him first one way and then another. There was a reason gliss normally died if taken from their home realm. It took months and a deft hand to slowly accustom their delicate senses.

His knees buckled. Vibrations shivering up his talons told him one of the others must have shouted. Thor by the depth of it. Scents buffeted him, raging through his neurons in a whirlwind. A kind of whiteness crept upon his senses. Suddenly a presence burst red among the void. He latched onto that scent, turned all of his focus upon it, drew it in deep until it settled in his lungs and along the back of his tongue. He knew this scent. The red snapped like ozone.

In the moment of clarity, Loki reached for his borrowed magic, snarling it into the shape of a crude working and translating his own experience into the gliss’ scent memories. Color bled back into the world, slowly and still a tangled mess, but now Loki could make out the misty impressions of trees and the three Avengers. Stark had a jagged amber scent of ambition and alcohol which fluttered uncertainly. At his side crouched Clint, amethyst suspicion rolling off him. And buried beneath the coil of talc and copper still glinted a speck of gleaming blue.

Though he yearned to rush after Book, Loki allowed himself a moment to breath and more fully adjust to the foreignness of this form. There was a reason he hadn’t taken it to track Book in the first place. It was strange to him and if he hadn’t had access to this new influx of magic, he’d never have been able to acclimatize the gliss to Earth.

Cautiously, Loki expanded his senses, the world appearing as if washed in sepia-toned mist, animal trails a colorful tangle among the shifting world. The gliss dug through layers of scent, tossing aside vole and squirrel and opossum. Each trail greyed as the gliss discarded it, sorting through the wash of scents. Loki yanked himself away from the gliss’ methodical cataloging. He cast about for anything familiar.

Suddenly, he whipped round, frozen. That was not natural. He heaved in a deep breath, the red wetness of the pits spread against the blackness of his fur. Everything else faded away to a mass of grey threads, leaving only a strange, mottled beige—like aged parchment. The sound of glass sliding along an untuned violin string shrieked from his throat as Loki gave a powerful leap forward and disappeared into the trees.

He could read the anger in the trail, the black rage that seeped through it all, corrupting. But beneath the creeping dark, another scent wove ever deeper through the old parchment smell, a silver-green hiss of magic.

Spurred on by the pungent bite of rage, Loki knew he was closing in as the trail grew ever narrower, moving through the air like wake from a ship under full sail. The vibrations of a tree-snapping snarl ran through Loki. He slowed. A wolf had nothing on him when it came to tracking abilities, but it didn’t mean he didn’t want surprise on his side. Loki tested the wind—it was in his favor. The slice of teeth ripped open. So it began.

Slinking low to the ground, he inched forward until he came to a break in the trees. He breathed deeply and the wolf’s scent boiled up into a cloudy image slicked over with thick, oily fury. Only patches of the underlying swirl showed through the dripping sludge. The ground was torn and gashed, trees splintered or ripped up by the roots. A splash of fresh blood—thankfully smelling of grass and antlers—smeared across the beast’s muzzle.

The gliss part of him did not like his odds if it came to an outright battle. The Loki part of him didn’t like them either. He hunkered down, still except for the subtle flick of his tail tip. Somewhere within all that bestial rage, Book was still there, shunted aside by this new form.

Paws became hands as Loki shrank back into his Aesir self. Very few creatures were really made to channel anything but the most basic of sorcery. And as he’d told Thor, the solution—if there was one, a passing thought hissed—would require magic. The glimmering of a plan seemed even more lunatic now that he found himself faced with the wolf. Alone.

The plan was tenuous at best. The true problem lay in the rather vague and unfinished nature of the plan. Loki didn’t doubt that he could—probably—contain the beast for at least a short amount of time. Then he could call Book back into conscious control. He grimaced as the monster shattered a rock outcropping with a blow. The calling part still required work.

The trail of sweat down the back of his neck turned cold as an autumn breeze blew past him. He had only half a heartbeat to realize why the wind on the back of his neck was bad.

The wolf whirled, Loki’s scent full in his nostrils.

Loki dove to the side, exploding shards of wood and brush showering him, teeth tearing at the spot he had been a moment before. The wolf turned, a flash of eyes through the trees, saplings snapping beneath its paws. Rolling to his feet, he winced, ignoring the burning sensation across his cheek and neck from a flying splinter. Teeth snapped between the narrow bars of two elms, the wolf straining against the deep-rooted trees.

Wood groaned as the wolf scrabbled for purchase, driving its shoulders against the wide trunks. The ground began to crack and peel back. Roots tore loose, heaving upwards. Loki darted through a tight net of trunks as the elms plummeted down, tearing a hole through the forest. The impact nearly knocked him from his feet. He needed room to maneuver.

Bursting into the clearing, he spun, expecting the wolf right behind him. The woods stayed still. Loki itched for one of his knives. Little good it would have done, but he still felt naked without them. He scanned the edge of the forest, ever wary of turning his back for too long. The growl bounced among the trees, menacing and intent.

The slight shift in shadows was all the warning he received. An iron-muscled shape barreled into him. Loki’s reflexes saved him from the worst of the teeth, but the wolf still sent him tumbling nearly into the tree line. Skidding across the ground, he dropped one hand to the dirt to keep his balance, the other flinging a spell across the clearing. The wolf yelped as the greenish bolt seared its shoulder. A growl ripped from its throat as it leapt forward. An army of Lokis shimmered into existence, all grinning and brandishing bright, biting slivers of magic. Great teeth clashing together, the wolf lashed out, snapping through one shadow, then another, the others laughing and taunting. Lips peeled so far away from its teeth that the gums showed red in the darkness. The wolf thrashed right and left, fur bristling. It didn’t notice the one Loki not involved in the fight.

Gathering threads of magic together, the sorcerer wove them into a powerful command, swirling his arms gently through the air. With one final thrust, he shoved his palms into the earth, jamming the working through the rock. A shockwave burst forth, shattering his remaining shadows and crashing into the wolf. The beast staggered but did not fall. It turned on Loki, green eye livid. It coiled to spring. Loki raised his hand, palm down, and flicked it over with a sharp upward tug.

Gleaming chains erupted from the earth, arching over the wolf’s startled form. They sailed over his back and buried themselves into the ground, burrowing deep into the mountain stone. The chains tightened, dragging the flailing wolf into the dirt and pinning it so tightly the bindings dug into its flesh.

Claws scrabbled at the ground as Loki approached, but the chains held. Hate radiated from the wolf and its eyes—Loki’s green and Book’s brown—gleamed with an unsettling bloodlust. The dirt stirred with each labored breath as the great lungs heaved against the chains.

“Peace,” said Loki as he approached, holding his hands up. “That is more than enough.” Now that Book was restrained, the real trouble began. Loki hadn’t the vaguest idea how he was to get Book to calm down enough to begin finding himself again. It simply complicated matters that Loki happened to be a less than calming influence at the moment. He shrugged. “Trial and error it is then.”

He reached deep within himself and spun out a tendril of the remaining blood magic, studying the way it felt, the pulsing of silver-green so uniquely his own. An answering magic pulsed within the wolf, coursing hot through his body, trickling into every pore and crevice. Loki tentatively grazed against a sliver of his blood in Book’s body.

A miscalculation. The wolf lunged, teeth tearing through fabric and flesh as Loki staggered backward, flinging up more chains about the wolf’s muzzle. He clutched at the three wet gashes torn across his savaged arm. Warmth welled up between his fingers. They wouldn’t kill him, but they were too deep to waste his magic on. Gritting his teeth he finished tearing away most of the ruined sleeve.

“Yes, let’s bite the only one capable of helping you.”

The wolf thrashed against its bindings.

“Your rage will not help you, Book. It never has. You are more than the monstrous blood in your veins. Remember.” Loki searched for any sign of recognition in the beast’s eyes. Only blind fury. There was nothing of the boy left to call out to.

Suddenly, his gaze snapped back to his wound, transfixed by the way the red carved its way like savage runes down his arm. Hesitantly he reached out with his good hand, fingers hovering over the torn flesh and tatters of cloth, tracing figures through the air. The glimmering of an idea began to take hold.

He strode over to the wolf, kneeling by its bound head. A deep growl reverberated through the chains. The red tongue showed behind bared teeth. Loki reached for the wolf’s paw. He had needed a focusing point and now he had it.

Taking hold of his magic, he pulled from the deepest wells of his being, smelting it together with the words forming on his lips. He spoke quietly, rhythmically. “Cole, Madison, Montana, Deirdre, Simeon. Cole, Madison, Montana, Deirdre, Simeon.” Over and over again the names came. Loki infused the names with every ounce of power, everything they stood for. The promise to overcome. The oath to not succumb. As the litany continued, ephemeral letters gleamed to life. The wolf began to still. They wavered, morphing into runic slashes of light. Loki’s eyes threatened to roll back in his skull. It wasn’t enough. There wasn’t enough magic. Hands shaking, he moved one to the wolf’s broad forehead. For an instant, he clung to his last drop of magic. Then he drove it into the spell. The letters flared, sinking into the wolf’s fur.

Loki slumped forward, eyes sliding shut. That was all he had to give.

When he gathered the courage to look into the beast’s eyes, he didn’t see Book. He still saw the anger and pain. Wearily, he placed his hands together and folded them open. [Book.]

Nothing.

His heart dropped. He saw nothing but animal cunning in those eyes. Nowhere the laughter or curiosity, the eyes filled with endless questions and excitement. Loki swallowed. At one point those eyes had looked at him with something like love. He’d never deserved it, but it had been there nonetheless. And now…

Loki barely managed to prop himself up on one hand, too tired to drag himself farther away from the monster that had devoured his boy.

“I’m sorry.” The words were thick, slightly slurred. “I never intended…I suppose it doesn’t matter what I intended. This is the result.”

Weakly, he raised a hand and rested it against the wolf’s outstretched paw. Ignoring the warning growl, his fingers began to twist through the names woven into the spell. Again and again. He had no magic to give them, but he continued to silently chant the names against the thick fur. What had Book called them once? His “Hail Marys.”

Eventually the moon slid over the mountain ridges, drenching Loki’s slumped shoulders in moonlight. Occasionally words would slip from his lips as he knelt next to the beast, but mostly there was silence and the perpetual twitch of his fingers through the names. As the moon crept higher into the crisp sky, Loki’s fingers began to slow, tightening with cold and fatigue.

“Come back, come back, come back,” he murmured, tongue running over his chapped lips and a rasp beginning in his throat.

The wolf whined.

Loki’s head snapped up. There was fear and confusion. There was Book. As the simmering rage slid away, the wolf’s form shrank down to a less monstrous size. The chains fizzled into nothingness as they realized their job was done.

Book took a hesitant step forward, looking to Loki for explanation and comfort. Remembrance jolted through him. He paused, one paw in the air as his eyes narrowed and the fur along his back bristled. Scampering backwards, he tripped over his own feet and sat down hard.

A sigh weighted with exhaustion and relief was all that Loki would allow himself. Coughing  thickly and massaging his hand, his gaze slid sideways toward Book. “We have a dilemma.”

Book glared at him and snorted.

Loki raised an eyebrow at the thought he read in Book’s gaze. Captain Obvious, indeed. It seemed he’d been learning to read the boy just as readily as the other way around. “You will never be human again.” The wolf growled. “At least not without my aid.” He peered at Book. “How desperate are you?”

Book turned his head to the side, refusing to look at Loki.

“What would you have me do?” asked Loki wearily, his hands draped in his lap. “The past is already done. Yes, I have killed—more than you even know,” he toyed with a golden leaf, spinning it between his thumb and forefinger, “and I am not yet so noble as to repent of them. Monster I was born and monster I became—but what I have done to you is perhaps the most horrible of my crimes.”

Book lowered his head, ears laid back.

“You doubt me? Good—I am not to be trusted,” Loki staggered to his feet. “But what choice do you have? Who in this realm could help?” He swallowed against the wave of nausea rippling from his once more hollow core. Every last drop of magic had leeched into the spell. Glancing up at the cloud dotted sky, he pretended to take a moment to get his bearings though he knew Stark’s house laid some miles behind him. “If you remain as you are, it is only a matter of time before death finds you—or you it. Without training, the wolf will take control. And whoever gets in your way then may not be as lucky as Stark.” He turned and began strolling in the general direction of the house.

Large paws pounded against the churned earth. Book swung into view, cutting off Loki’s route, eyes wide and questioning.

“It seems you and Banner have something in common now—a tendency to lose control and harm those you care about.”

Taking quick, mincing steps, Book edged forward, a low whine in his throat.

Loki sighed. “Stark will likely recover with little more than some scars to impress his lady friend.” He continued walking, brushing by Book. It didn’t surprise him when he felt the boy padding along at his side, distaste radiating off of him.

It was some miles before a grunt from Book drew his attention. Why was the question in the boy’s eyes.

“Why encompasses a great many things. Perhaps you ought to be more specific.”

The boy growled and Loki merely raised an eyebrow.

“I made a deal with the Chitauri to save my own skin and escape the outer realms, both fleeing and running to what I had seen in the void.” He stared up at the patches of darkened sky visible through the grasping tree branches. “Freedom is the greatest lie ever told—we are all of us slaves to a destiny we cannot change. It is better just to give in—and take what pleasures one can in the meantime,” he glanced slyly at the boy, “and the Avengers were entertaining enough.”

Teeth flashed in the darkness. It seemed the boy did not approve of his brand of entertainment.

And me?

“Games again, though not one of mine. You were sent to throw me onto a different path.”

The boy was silent for a long while.

Did it work?

The question startled him. Skuld’s unusual interest in him had placed him in situations he had never expected to find himself. He certainly felt less like he was latched onto the back of a rampaging bilgesnipe, at any moment in danger of being flung free into nothingness. That had been a mad feeling, ecstasy and terror coursing through his veins while he’d laughed at the universe. That tenuous grasp was gone now and his control felt less like a veneer than it had in a long while.

“Saving you has led into the unknown. You are an undiscovered country.”

If I’m not your redemption ticket, what am I?

“Currently? A wolf,” said Loki, ignoring the snort as Book rolled his eyes. He smoothed back his hair. “I saved you because it was what I wished to do.” He cocked his head to the side, listening. “Isn’t that right, Skuld.”

The Norn slid from the tree shadows. “The boy yet lives I see.” She turned toward Book and placed a pale hand on his head. “Hello, child. Know that there is worth in your suffering.”

He hunched away from her touch. You did this.

“After a fashion. I do not force—merely nudge and suggest.” She blinked languidly. “You do not yet understand your place in this tale. It will be clear before the end.”

Don’t want it.

The Norn’s gaze softened. “You say that only because your gaze is narrow.”

Book bristled, the hackles along his spine standing up.

“And is my gaze narrow as well?” asked Loki, the edge of challenge in his voice.

“Myopic,” replied Skuld, regarding him with a half-lidded gaze. She slid backwards so that she could view them both at once. Book had unconsciously drawn closer to Loki and away from the Norn. Something in the tableau of wolf and bloody Asgardian seemed to please her. “You are nearly ready.”

For what? growled Book. He sidestepped away as he realized how close he was to Loki.

“Broaden my gaze,” said Loki suddenly, “Why twist the very will of Yggdrasil for me?”

Skuld twitched her head to the side. “Why indeed—ungrateful one.”

The woods had gone strangely silent around them. Book stood unmoving, eyes fixed vacantly ahead of him. Stray leaves hung suspended in their downward, drifting path. Even the moisture laden air had grown still around him, thick and damp. It seemed Skuld wanted this conversation to be a private one.

Her eyes held an invitation to ask what he would, and she would answer—to a point.  He straightened his shoulders. “I was the perfect villain and that is my role to play. Ragnarok is my doom. I will loose the forces of darkness upon existence itself. I will destroy everything. But not before I and all those I once held dear are gone. It is the final ending. Why me?”

Skuld’s robes whispered about her feet as she floated forward. A strange, sad expression curled her mouth. Long fingers cupped Loki’s cheek in a gentle caress. “Oh child, don’t you know you were always one of my favorites?”

Favorites? He slid back, wariness tight across his shoulders.

The Norn smiled. “Ever since I first beheld you, clinging to your mother’s skirts—I knew you were something different. Frigga came to the well herself, beset with shadowy visions of her two sons growing into enemies. She hoped the well of Urd would clear away the veil. That was when you became real—as a green-eyed babe staring in confusion at the heart of all things. Confusion and some fear of the power you felt, but could not understand.” Skuld gripped Loki’s shoulders in earnestness. “And then your brother—little older than you—took your hand. In all my eons, I had never seen two such great destinies tightly intertwined. I had written you as brothers on a whim—motivated by boredom. A more right choice I could not have made. I could see your destinies pulsing as one, gold and silver bound together.” A hunger and unhampered joy shone through her eyes. “What a story I could tell with the two of you.”

“No petty tale of revenge and usurpation. The sly younger brother coveting the elder’s strength and crown—a hundred thousand times has it been written, even by lowly human wordsmiths. Envy is simple, it is expected. Rising against the darkness is hard—unlooked for.”

The Norn’s features tightened. “My sisters, however, are conventional. They saw you holding the flaming brand of chaos and wove you a tale of villainy and pain.” She paused. “We cannot see beyond the coming darkness. For you, who can barely cast your mind a day into the future, you cannot understand the terror of it for we who can see and know all that has been and will be and even the deepest secrets of the heart. My sisters were afraid. They lashed out and wove your path of nettles.”

“You did not share their fear?” said Loki.

“I was terrified. Uncertainty was not something to which I was accustomed. But I saw the chance for something new. My existence is one of watching lives to which I already know the ending. How exciting to be surprised. And you surprised me, Loki. You had so few fixed points in your life to guide you toward, and though we still prodded you toward your fate, you were constantly sliding round to the side or leaping ahead in ways rather different than we’d plan. Verthandi spent many a time cursing your name as she unraveled your knotted threads.” The image these words conjured seemed to please Skuld.

“They were right,” said Loki. “I’ve seen it—the horrors of the end. There I stand amidst it, glorying in it. Where is the chance for anything but villainy?”

Skuld pressed her slender fingers together and turned away from Loki, gazing up. Clearly she saw beyond the veil of turning leaves to the stars beyond. Likely beyond even them. “Why must Ragnarok be the end?” It was a contemplative question. “Just because our sight does not penetrate beyond its consuming fire, why must it be a horror? I will not sit quietly to make such an end as that. I would write a new story, one where that might be just the beginning. What if this flame and darkness we see is not the flame of a funeral pyre, but rather that of a fire in the forest,” her hands swept toward the surrounding trees, “cleansing the old age so that a new may spring up under a fresh dawn. And you Loki, bear the destiny of this. Not as the destroyer of all things, but as the herald of what is to come.” She turned and placed the back of her slender hand to his cheek. “It could be a glorious purpose.”

Chapter Text

After Skuld vanished, the world leapt back into motion with startling swiftness. Loki noticed that she hadn’t answered all of his questions, or hinted at how Book becoming a giant wolf was remotely useful to any of them. That she had been pleased at this turn of events was clear.

Book, however, was not. The moment he’d realized Skuld was gone, his full attention returned to Loki, clearly having decided that this was all his fault.

Typical. He endured the damp, moonlit miles back to the cabin as Book alternated between seething silence and detailing what a horrible individual Loki was. He peppered these stretches with questions, many that Loki was either unable or unwilling to answer. No, he didn’t know if Stark was all right; he wasn’t sure exactly why this happened; no this wasn’t some twisted plan; of course he understood Book; no this wasn’t because he hadn’t been loved enough as a child.

Neither were particularly happy with the other’s company by the time they approached the lodge, the new sun at their backs. It seemed the rest of the Avengers had beaten them back if the vehicles parked in front of the house were anything to go by. The fine gravel beneath their feet crunched loudly in the morning stillness. Both of them were damp with dew, Loki’s shoes soaked all the way through. Despite the vigorous walk his feet were freezing—it would seem even a Jotnar didn’t find damp socks pleasant. A haze of water beads coated Book’s muzzle where his breath had condensed, and his shaggy coat was streaked with dark patches from pushing through brush and squeezing along narrow paths. 

Flares of morning light slanted off the windows and lights still glowed on either side of the large double doors. Loki paused as he realized the crunching of gravel had grown softer. He turned to find Book hanging back, shoulders hunched and head lowered warily. Loki glanced from the door to Book. He huffed lightly.

“They’re not going to stuff you,” he said.

The wolf glared. One paw clawed nervously at the earth and he looked away. And if I killed Tony?

“I imagine a party would be in order.”

Book offered a short, low growl of disapproval.

Loki sighed and rolled his eyes with a touch of dramatic flair. “I can promise you that we will have the joy of further enduring Stark’s company.” He gave a hint of smile. “As he convalesces. Can you imagine how irritating that will be?”

A snort of suppressed laughter.

The crunching began again as Loki headed toward the house. It only took a brief hesitation before a second set of footsteps joined his. As they entered the lodge, Loki held the dark-paneled door for Book to enter, nails clicking over the flagstone entryway. Voices came from the great room. Again, the wolf hesitated.

“Shall I go first?” Loki asked.

Book’s ears angled back in unease. He nodded, somewhat reluctantly.

“Very well.” Leaving Book in the hall, Loki headed down the darkened corridor and emerged into the vaulted light of the great room. All Avengers were present sans Stark. Thor, never one for being still, paced the length of the room while Bruce sat on the stairs and nursed a mug of coffee, eyes dark with lack of sleep. Rogers leaned against the fireplace, staring out the vast expanse of glass to his right into the still twilight shrouded trees. On the couch, Clint slumped against Natasha’s shoulder, mouth slightly open in sleep.

Bruce saw him first, silently rising to his feet. Sensing the disturbance, the others turned as well. Natasha nudged Clint. Eyes, clear of any trace of sleep, snapped open and the archer took in the room at a glance. When he realized all was well, his pose relaxed a bit and he stretched broadly, rolling out his neck.

“Well?” asked the archer, a touch bleary now that there was no active threat.

“I was successful.” Loki paused and reconsidered. “After a fashion.”

“And that means what, exactly?” asked Barton.

Rogers stepped in before Loki could answer. “Where is Book? Is he okay?”

Loki indicated behind him with an inclination of his head. “Here, and well.”

Leaving his mug on the table, Bruce started forward, “I should examine him.”

“You’re sure he’s fine?” asked Clint.

Loki nodded. Without turning he called for Book, watching the Avengers’ faces. He could tell the moment Book entered the room just from the shift in expression. Natasha was, not surprisingly, the subtlest reaction, cocking her head and pursing her lips—she might have worn the same expression when finding her keys in an unexpected place. Banner took off his glasses and slowly cleaned them with the corner of his shirt while Steve took a step forward, clearly surprised.

Clint shook his head slowly. “You and I have very different definitions of ‘fine’.”

“Brother, is it Book?” asked Thor.

“In mind, if not in body.” Loki smiled as the wolf padded forward meekly.

The others crowded a bit closer, but still left a fair bit of space between them and the wolf.

He raised his eyes to Loki. Ask them if Tony is okay.

“If I must.” Loki grinned at the confused look of the Avengers—Thor was less surprised that Loki was able to understand Book. “He wants to know if he succeeded in ridding the world of Stark.”

“Tactful,” breathed Widow.

Bruce smiled and shook his head. He ran a hand unconsciously through his hair. “Tony’s fine. Nothing too horribly deep and Steve got him here quickly. I picked out the shrapnel and cleaned him up. He’s sore, but that’s to be expected. He should be resting now.”

“Which probably means he’s planning his escape as we speak,” said Natasha.

The entire group smiled, but Loki knew the comment had been meant for Book. It worked. Some of the tension eased from the boy’s shoulders, though he still refused to look up.

Tell them I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. He paused and steadied himself, soldiering on resolutely. They can lock me up now.

Of course that was what Book would think, that he ought to be locked up so he didn’t hurt anyone else. Loki relayed the message.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Rogers kindly.

The wolf’s head hung low, his drooping tail giving a fitful wag. Bruce was the first to approach, crouching a bit so he could look the boy right in the eye. The doctor reached out and gently patted his patient’s head. Understanding shone in his eyes. “You’re a lot cuter than I am when I have a bad day.”

“He wasn’t earlier,” muttered Clint.

Loki wished he still had a shred of magic to fling at the archer.

“We’re glad you’re back,” the doctor ruffled Book’s fur and was rewarded by a hopeful tail flick. Bruce stood, scratching idly at the back of his head. “Will this wear off?”

“In all likelihood.”

“Likelihood? You turned the kid into a giant freaking wolf! Which by the way is so much cooler than a house cat,” said Clint.

Book snuffed in agreement.

“What I mean is that I have no point of reference—to my knowledge this has never happened before,” he held up his hands to stop the brewing questions, “but it is not uncommon for the initial shift to overwhelm the shifter. Much as it did with me. Eventually the rational mind surfaces and then he should learn to reverse the process.”

Silence fell as every person latched onto the one word of uncertainty—should. Though no one would voice it, each wondered if Book would ever regain human form. Steve wasn’t sure what would be worse—to be trapped still thinking in a beast’s body, or to slowly lose all rational thought. Natasha acknowledged the attack scenarios that would be needed if Book lost control again. She knew her twinge of guilt at so easily—and quickly—strategizing ways to kill this child didn’t show on her face. Clint wasn’t quite that good and hid his similar discomfort by adjusting his wrist guards. He knew exactly which arrows he would need, and where to put them if Book went rabid.

“I still do not fully understand what has happened,” said Thor—either oblivious to the concerns of his teammates, or too at ease with people turning into monstrous creatures to be phased by it. Just another Tuesday in Thor’s world.

“Second that,” said Clint as he dropped onto the back of the couch, one leg dangling, the other pressed against the arm rest.

Turning reluctantly to Loki, Book cocked his head in question.

“You could not hope to understand what has happened on a magical level, but in simple terms…”

“Yes, let’s keep it away from magical techno-speak,” said Clint.

Bruce smiled in a quiet self-amused way. “Actually, I’d like to hear details.”

Clint rolled his eyes, and Thor clapped Bruce on the shoulder. “I imagine you will have your wish at a later time. My brother likes nothing more than to discuss magic at length.”

“If I may?” He waited for a moment to make sure his audience really was done interrupting him—and one another. He turned his attention back to Book. “My knowledge is incomplete, and this is something new in the annals of magic. But it would seem the blood magic was to blame.” He gestured at Book. “Most of his blood is actually mine. Blood is life, it is magic…” he glanced at Banner as he remembered their conversation that first day by Book’s bedside, “it is self. With the raw life and power of the ritual, I saved Book’s life. I had nothing to offer but the life in my veins and I didn’t know exactly what it would do.”

Clint’s disgust was evident. “You didn’t know?” He scoffed. “Why am I not surprised you didn’t think about the consequences.”

Something feral broke from Loki’s grasp and savage words tore from his lips before he could stop them. “I didn’t care about consequences!”

The Avengers all stiffened at the sudden burst of rage. Loki smoothed back the mask of composure. He was becoming lax. Unintended emotional outbursts were really more Thor’s area. When Loki gave vent to sudden storms of emotion it was because he allowed it to happen. Few were the times when something slipped beyond his control without his permission.

And now Thor was giving him a look of warm understanding. Loki huffed. Understanding was not a look the oaf wore well.

Banner cleared his throat. “So it was more than a simple blood transfusion. Which would of course explain the fact that his shredded heart was somehow keeping him alive. But I don’t fully understand the physical manifestations.” He gestured at the very visible streak of black fur on Book’s forehead.

Loki tilted his head back in thought as he searched for the correct words to express a process he didn’t fully understand himself. “The blood magic kept him alive and also sought to correct the damage. It used the echo in my blood as a template.”

Banner appeared to process this, clearly filing away notes and questions for later. “So…it was starting to rewrite his DNA to copy itself? Like a virus?”

“Appropriate,” snorted Clint. Natasha flicked him upside the head. He winced.

“And because you’re a shapeshifter…he’s a shapeshifter,” said Rogers, connecting the pieces.

“It seems rather sudden,” said Natasha. “All these weeks and then…”

Book whined in agreement.

“The traits lay dormant, hidden in the background. I imagine he would have had nothing more than a scar and some coloring changes from me if we had not awakened those abilities.”

“As he healed, his own blood would have diluted out and replaced yours,” mused Banner.

Loki inclined his head.

“But we woke them up. Like a condition not flaring up until the body is stressed,” said Rogers. The room turned to look at him with mild surprise. He smiled slightly “I used to know all about the joys of many medical conditions before,” he gestured at his impeccable form, “before all of this.”

Banner was nodding. “I’ve seen the records…I’m not really sure why you were leaving the house.”

I didn’t try to do this! Book jumped in, one paw digging at the floor in frustration. Loki relayed his message.

It was Thor who answered, kneeling down next to Book and laying a hand gently on his head. “This is a not a learned skill, it is one you are typically born with—instinct is all it takes. You were angry and frightened and you wanted to lash out.”

“He managed that,” said Loki dryly, clutching at his arm.

“I know the feeling,” said Bruce.

“So it takes no conscious effort?” asked Natasha.

Thor shook his head. “Loki’s first transformation was very much an accident, and he was a young child at the time.”

Loki gave a nasty smile, voice soft with a sliver of steel in it. “Oh, I was more prodigious than that. I managed my most successful change when a mere three days old.”

Though clearly intrigued, the Avengers let Loki’s comment slide, the bitterness in it warning them away. It was a warning that would have been completely lost on Stark, and Loki was grateful that the inventor chose to stagger in just after that particular comment. Rumple-headed and shirtless, he blinked dark-rimmed eyes at the group. In the center of his chest, the arc reactor glowed strongly amidst a swath of bandages and thick gauze pads strapped to his torso.

“You’re not supposed to be up,” said Bruce, immediately rising to his feet.

Tony just flapped his hand at him. “I’m not supposed to do a lot of things—do ‘em anyway. It’s kind of my thing.” He slid over to the wet bar and plucked out a bottle, pouring two tumblers full of amber liquid. Grabbing the bottle and both glasses he made his way—a bit unsteadily—to the couch, passing Loki’s spot in the corner. He paused and deliberately set a glass in front of the haggard looking trickster. “You’re bleeding on my floor.”

Loki glanced down at the splattered droplets of red and then back up to the red soaked remnants of his sleeve. It seemed his wound had reopened. “Ah.”

“Bit of salt paste and lukewarm water,” said Natasha. “Takes the stain out.”

“Don’t want to know why you know that,” muttered Steve.

Bruce was suddenly in front of Loki and rolling up his sleeves. “Let me take a look.” He ignored the fact that Loki flinched a bit as he peeled the shirt out of the gumming wound. He squinted at the gashes and hummed in contemplation. “You have just earned yourself a set of stitches.” Bruce sighed and pushed off of his knees as he stood up. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

Incredulity flashed across Loki’s face. “You?”

“Weren’t planning on doing it yourself were you?” Bruce asked. He squinted at his patient, “You were…well how about you let the person with two good hands take a stab at it. I promise I’m way gentler than the other guy.”

Loki managed a wan smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “One would hope.”

Chapter Text

The weight of the previous day settled over the house and the Avengers finally allowed themselves to rest. Thor was perhaps the only one that didn’t take the opportunity to catch at least a few hours sleep. Emotionally drained, Book had eventually collapsed from exhaustion on the great room couch. Clint was supposed to be sitting with him in case he woke up, but the archer had drifted off as well, face pressed into the side of the armchair, mouth slightly open.

Even Loki had given in. Given in to the exhaustion. Given in to the knot of distress balled beneath his ribs. Given in to the empty tear where the magic had been.

He’d nearly drifted off in the shower as he rinsed away the ache in his fatigued muscles. Mortals were not built for the kind of night he’d had. A bleary thought wormed its way into his sleep fuddled mind: he’d run Clint far longer than this during the invasion. He hadn’t even considered the fact that the archer was mortal and didn’t have the stamina reserves of an Asgardian. He didn’t remember ever seeing Barton sleep, he’d just been there, loyal, and ready to serve at all times.

If he’d been less wrung out, Loki might have laughed at the maudlin absurdity of such thoughts. But he was too tired for such defenses. The thing was, he’d liked Barton, and yet he hadn’t thought a thing about what he was doing to him. Another few days at Loki’s side and Clint would have been dead. His mortal frame would simply have given out. Staff or no staff, anyone else would have given in to the need for rest—but not Clint. The staff couldn’t create loyalty or dedication—it merely directed it all to a new source. That tenacity was all Clint Barton.

Collapsing onto the bed, Loki wondered what it would be like to be truly worth of such devotion rather than a usurping pretender.     

It was moonlight rather than sunlight that finally woke him. The sliver of light cut through his curtains and prodded him into unwelcome wakefulness. His first movement brought a painful reminder of all that had occurred. Book was a wolf. And he had made him that way. Worse, he didn’t even know where to begin fixing it because, despite his optimistic lies to the Avengers, he very much doubted this would resolve itself. Skuld wasn’t likely to make it that easy.

He needed to think—and stretch his cramped muscles.

Slipping soundlessly through the house, he let himself out and stepped into the hazy autumn moonlight. His breath fogged in the cool stillness. A handful of lights in the house spilled amber light onto the lawn. The sense that he was being watched drew his eyes upwards. Above him, Book stood on the porch, caught in the shadow of the jutting kitchen.

The brown and green sparks of his eyes gleamed in the darkness, but Loki couldn’t understand the swirl of emotions he saw there. Instead, he turned away, pretending he hadn’t seen Book. The woods closed around him and he left the house behind.

 Thor dropped down beside Book, carefully setting his hammer at his feet. Silhouetted against the moon, Loki could just be seen up the side of the hill, feet dangling over the edge of a rock outcropping. Book’s head was on his paws, watching the distant figure. His sides lifted in a wolfy sigh.

“You are confused,” said Thor finally. He did not look down to see the questioning look settle in the mismatched eyes. “He has walked in darkness, betrayed you, and you can practically see the stain of blood beneath his skin. He cannot be trusted.” Thor clasped his large hands together and let his head drop to rest against them. “But you wish to.”

Book gave a questioning grunt.

Thor looked down with a gentle smile. “That you care for him is obvious.” The boy growled and hunched his shoulders. “And his actions do not eclipse that love. You look at him and it is as if you are looking at two different people at once. The one you thought you knew and…the other. The creature of blood and shadows, twisted malice and madness.” Thor waited, one eyebrow raised in question.

Jerking his head away, Book refused to look at him. He gave a snort. With reluctance he turned to gaze up at Thor and gave a quick nod.

The Thunderer gave a heavy sigh. “I wish that I could simply tear this poisonous taint from him—but even if he could return from this, he will never be free of what he has done. And I,” Thor paused and shook his head, “if he were anyone but who he is, I would hate him for what he has done—and perhaps I do, but I also love him and wish that I could wipe away these past few years.”

Book raised up, eyes wide with understanding. He bobbed his head in agreement. A large hand rested atop his head as Thor looked him full in the face.

“But wishing will not make it so. We must deal with what is, no matter how painful it may be.”

The boy’s face fell and he gave a plaintive whine.

Thor looked out at the backlit figure that was getting to its feet and turning toward them. “We walk uncharted paths—we must simply keep going for brighter days.” He looked down in surprise as Book laid his shaggy head in his lap, sorrow written across his face. The Thunderer reached down and gently stroked the silken fur, twining his fingers through the black streak. “You are no longer alone—and though he may deny it, my brother cares for you. As do we all.”

The two sat in silence as the night sounds faded into sleep, replaced by the first birds of morning. Quiet footsteps approached.

“Should I be worried at this truce?” murmured Loki as he leaned against the deck railing.

Book gave a short yip.

Thor frowned and turned to Loki for a translation.

Loki gave a disgruntled huff. “He says you’re not as much of a jerk as he first thought.”

Chapter Text

Loki had known the minute he drained his magic that he wouldn’t be able to help Book. That didn’t keep him from lying to himself and everyone else for a few days and trying to find another way to get the boy out of the wolf. Futile. Even if he had magic, he doubted it would have helped. Changing shape was as easy for him as breathing—he didn’t have to fight for it, it just happened. Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to guide Book through the process. Ultimately it just wound up with both of them frustrated with one another.

It probably didn’t help that the broken edges of their bond ground against one another any time they were even in the same room.

“Turn your focus inward, focus on your core.” Loki sat on the arm of the couch, one leg drawn up and tucked into his chest. “Look for your center, for what makes you, you.”

Book crouched on the floor, stiff-legged, back arched in acute concentration.

“Think of what it is to stand on two legs, to turn the pages of a book, to write your name.”

The wolf growled. Shut up! I’m trying!

Loki arched back and gazed at the ceiling. He took a deep breath to even out his words. They’d been at this for over an hour and not so much as a quiver of change. Book couldn’t even remember what it felt like to become the wolf—that had been lost in pain and fear. Why would a human be expected to know what it felt like to wear the skin of another—it was hardly natural? “You’re trying too hard. Let it flow naturally, you can’t force it to happen.”

Book snorted and flashed his teeth. I can’t do it! He sat back on his haunches and looked away, ears back.

“Yes, you can. You just have to find your way back to yourself…”

A sharp bark of anger cut Loki off. The wolf stood before him, fur spiked along its back, growling. No more of your space-buddha-zen-magic snake-oil! It’s not working.

Loki started toward Book, but then thought better of it. Instead he clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace between the two steps down into the great room and the fireplace. Book was right. It wasn’t working. It wasn’t going to work. Even if Loki had more than an imperfect knowledge of what a shift ought to feel like for someone who wasn’t a native-born shifter, he needed magic to spark the change and guide Book back to himself.

If it was even possible.

A human was never meant to be anything but human. There was every chance this was a one-time transformation. Loki tried to ignore that line of thinking, but it lurked at the edges of his thoughts. He may not have liked it, but his dislike did nothing to lessen the probability.

He paused at the mantel as if struck with a thought. He turned on his heel. “What if we were to try…” he trailed off as he met a wolf stare inches from his face. The boy’s size and ferocity seemed to be the only things that would change. The wild eyes bored into him, sticky breath on his face.

You’ve got nothing. He snorted. And you know it. A shudder ran through the wolf from ears to tail.

“Not…nothing.”

The wolf growled, clearly not having any of it. I want to bite something. The words came calmly, as if stating a fact. It would be better if you weren’t an option. The wolf allowed that to sink in for a moment and then padded for the door, nudged it open, and disappeared over the porch railing.

“Loki?” Steve Roger’s voice came from the front of the house as he stepped down into the great room.

The Asgardian sank onto the hearth, attention focused on the darker whorls within the hardwood floor. He studied them as the Captain started into the room. “I have decided that they were wrong. There are no men like me.”

Curious as to where this was going, Steve dropped his coat over the back of a chair and closed the distance between them. He didn’t speak, waiting for Loki to finish his thought.

“A bit of kindness and I repay with a monstrous curse. Book would have done well to leave me in the gutter.” He shook his head at the thought, remembering the night so many, many months ago when the child stepped into the rain to bring him somewhere warm and dry.

“That’s not entirely fair,” said Rogers. “You did save his life.”

Loki waved it away. “I prolonged it. There is a difference.” His gaze grew distant. Images of the Allfather clutching a child against the blowing cold mingled with spears of memory from the weapons’ vault. His terror, disbelief, wildly clutching at anything to make sense of the world. The man who had been his father at his feet. “Better to die than live to be made a monster.”

“Book is still Book. Just because he’s a bit different on the outside now doesn’t change who he was before.”

Do you speak from experience, Captain? Loki thought.

Steve picked up two glass pebbles from the game Stark and Banner sometimes played. They scrapped against one another as he rolled them between his fingers. “I’m guessing you didn’t see this coming. It wasn’t your intent, but your actions did get the ball rolling. Maybe you can’t fix Book, maybe he stays this way for the rest of his life—but you owe it to him to make sure that he’s looked after.”

“That will be rather hard from the depths of the Allfather’s prison,” said Loki blandly.

Steve looked at him with a friendly, open smile. “Oh, I don’t know, you seem like a pretty resourceful guy. I’m sure something will come to you.” He dropped the stones back onto the board and gave another smile as farewell.

Loki pondered the Captain’s words—ultimately useless as they were. Was there an angle that he hadn’t considered? A resource dismissed out of hand? His eyes narrowed as they fell on the gleaming glass stones. Green and brown…just like Book’s eyes. He stooped to catch up the stones and held them in his palm.

That was something he hadn’t fully considered. He and Book were no different than these gaming pieces. Skuld maneuvered them toward some outcome beyond his knowledge. And it suited her ends for Book to be the wolf, for Loki to be powerless. But why?

Shaking his head, he stalked onto the porch, scanning the fog-shrouded trees for any sign of the wolf. Pale morning sunlight struggled through the mist, but it was still too dense to see more than the soft shadows of pines and the muted colors of other trees.

As he pressed his hands against the railing, a sound began to swell out of the still woods. The lonesome howl lanced through the crisp air, ringing back from the mountains in an echoing chorus. The single howl spawned a pack of echoing replies.

In that moment, Loki knew exactly why Book was a wolf. It was the same reason he’d taken in Loki in the first place. His jaw clenched as the echoes faded away and Book’s single, lonely howl remained.

Conviction gripped him. Book was not going to remain like this, Loki owed him that much. The tension in his shoulders melted away as he realized he only had one choice. Now he understood why Skuld had played the game that she had. She wanted him backed into a corner. She wanted him desperate. It had been masterfully done too. There was only one person in the universe that could help. A person Loki’s self-interest would never have allowed him to turn to. But right now, with that mournful cry still hanging in the air, his own interests didn’t seem that important.

A gentle warmth rose in him, filling the empty pits of his being. His eyes slid closed as he raised his face to the sky. Magic—his own magic wove itself into the hollowness. It seemed Skuld approved of his choice.

There was no euphoria, no rush of giddy emotions like when he had siphoned power from Mjolnir. He blinked hard as the world suddenly jumped into clearer focus and the weakness of his body fell away. He simply felt right and whole in a way he had forgotten was possible. The last of Skuld’s chains had dropped away. Everything that had been stripped from him was returned. His voice, his shape-changing, his magic, and his strength.

His first instinct was naturally to bolt. A depreciating laugh slipped from his lips as he immediately dismissed the idea. The Norn would have shackled him again in the space between one thought and the next.

Another howl swelled from within the mist.

A thought struck him and he could only shake his head. He wasn’t free of Skuld’s restraints at all. She had neatly slipped one last chain around him unawares. He tipped his head in acknowledgement, well played, my lady.

Caught up in his musings, Loki didn’t hear Thor approach until they were standing shoulder to shoulder.

“That is a sound to wring the hearts of those who hear it,” murmured Thor.

Loki couldn’t keep the amusement from his voice. “That was very nearly poetic. I didn’t think you capable, Thor.”

Thor leaned with his arms against the railing. False indignation rang in his words, “My tales have always been received with the highest regard.”

Pursing his lips and humming in the back of his throat, Loki took the offer of comfortable patterns that Thor extended. “But not, I think, for their skill in the telling.”

“Then for what?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” he said in an offhanded manner. Thor watched him closely with skeptic worry, clearly not buying the easygoing façade. A thought equal parts amusement and pain occurred to Loki—he’d spent hundreds of years wishing that Thor would actually notice what was really going on and now that he was…he wasn’t sure he liked observant-Thor. It used to be that almost any shoddy semblance of truth would have been enough for him. Not so now.

“Something troubles you.”

“I managed to turn a human child into a gigantic wolf,” he said in sarcastic exasperation, “of course something is troubling me.”

Thor shook his head, hair brushing across his shoulders. “I wish that you felt you could tell me what you were thinking.”

That my story is about to take a wholly unexpected turn. Magic crawled beneath his skin, anticipating his actions before his own thoughts had fully formed. He flexed his fingers, idly twisting strands of magic—a childhood habit he’d never fully suppressed. The physical movement wasn’t really necessary for someone of his skill, but magic had always seemed very tangible to him and it felt odd not to acknowledge that physicality.

Uncharacteristically, Thor waited in silence by his side. As a child he’d been annoyed by his brother’s constant “fidgeting.” As they’d grown it had become one of the many things he’d teased Loki about—not always unkindly Loki now had to admit. In turn, Loki had mercilessly mocked his attachment to Mjolnir, often referring to the hammer as Thor’s first love.

“I have uncovered a way to return Book to how he was,” he said.

Thor frowned. “Yet this does not seem to please you.” His eyes narrowed as he edged forward. “Brother, what are you planning?”

Still contemplating his hands, Loki let his glance slide sideways, a weary smirk edging into view. “Something rash.”

He plucked at the world fabric, twisting his fingers into the seams and slid through the space between.

Chapter Text

He hadn’t meant to appear during court. There were simply too many people to contend with. He hadn’t meant to appear in the throne room at all. When he’ stepped up into Yggdrasil’s branches he’d meant to follow a trail to a rather more secluded spot. Not one that would have put him at the center of hundreds of onlookers and with the King and Queen enthroned above him. Odin was on his feet before he had probably even registered who exactly it was that had appeared in the center of his court. Frigga merely gripped the armrests of her chair, but Loki knew her comprehension had been instantaneous.

“Hold if you wish to see your next heartbeat,” growled Odin, Gungnir leveled at Loki.

A ring of weapons suddenly encircled him. Oh, Sif, how kind of you to greet your former king with such zealous attention, Loki thought as he noted the eagerness in Sif’s stance as she joined the ring of Einherjar about him. He couldn’t stop himself from giving her the smile she most despised. I hate to disappoint, dear lady, but I shan’t be giving you an excuse to use that. He proceeded to ignore the very sharp blade aimed at his neck that she so clearly wanted to use.

The shouting guards and yells of the crowd were exactly the kind of spectacle he’d been hoping to avoid. Thank you ever so much, Skuld. Invisible though she may have been, Loki felt the Norn’s presence in the crowd. He imagined she rather enjoyed the pandemonium. If he was honest he rather appreciated how his simple presence could cause such an uproar. Still…Odin didn’t seem to be in the mood to let him so much as speak without separating his head from his neck.

“What mischief is this, Loki?” The Allfather’s single eye regarded his once son shrewdly.

The urge to taunt Odin was strong—but that would hardly help him in his current situation. “Well, one does so grow to miss the hospitality afforded by your dungeons.” He practically felt the Allmother wince at that. Sometimes Loki just couldn’t help himself.

“Then to the dungeons you shall go,” said Odin, giving a brief gesture of command.

Loki’s hands raised before him in submission. “A word first, Allfather, and then you may place me in the darkest hole you can conjure and be rid of me.”

The barest narrowing of Odin’s eye betrayed his distrust of the apparently honest declaration. Even now, Loki imagined the King of Asgard sifting through every possible reason for the prisoner’s appearance. Odin may have been a fool, but he wasn’t stupid. Loki’s talent for lying was too well known, and an honest Loki was nearly unheard of.

Search all you like Allfather, you’ll never in your wildest imaginings divine my purpose. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that what was about to happen next would come as a shock to all concerned.

“Your words have too often meant poison to this court,” said Odin. “I will not hear more of them.”

Guards descended, catching Loki around the arms and wrenching them behind his back. He strained against their grasp. Even as he fought, he kept his eyes on Odin, the buzz of the crowd in his ears. Loki wondered if he was too proud to beg—even if it wasn’t for himself. It wasn’t that he’d never begged before, but it had never been more than an act. He swallowed the vindictive words that he wanted to shout across the chambers.   

A sudden hush descended over the crowd. Loki pulled his gaze from Odin to see that Frigga had risen from her place and started to descend the dais. A ripple of voices whispered through the crowd, “The Queen rises.” Allmother and queen she may have been, but it was a rare day when Frigga asserted her authority before the people. Her words and actions were confined to her own affairs or to the private conversations with her husband and other advisors. The sun of the throne room was Odin’s realm, while Frigga moved beyond the sight of the people. But she was an Aesir queen and had every right to power.

A half shadow of confusion flitted across Odin’s face—invisible to all but those who knew him well. Frigga did not meet his gaze. She looked only on Loki. It was not the motherly concern he had expected—and half hoped to find. This was not his gentle mother. This was the Queen of Asgard, Far-seer, and Unraveler of Mysteries. Her gaze held only regal contemplation, cold and aloof as she stared at the one she had once called son.

“My lord,” she said, smoothly, “I find it impossible that you should be both king and father in one instant.”

Grim understanding settled into the corners of Odin’s mouth.

“Too often has the mantle of kingship necessarily obscured the native duty of kinship.” As she spoke, Frigga descended the stairs, her gown trailing behind her. Shafts of sunlight caught in her jeweled hair.

The guards’ grips tightened on his shoulders as they forced him to his knees before the queen. Just as quickly the weight lifted away at a dismissive flick of her fingers from Frigga. They continued to hover just behind him, clearly ill at ease with having their queen so near the prisoner. The Allmother had no such hesitation. There was steel in her step as she advanced on Loki.

He tried to meet her eyes, but instead focused on his knotted hands.

“Look at me,” Frigga commanded. A cool finger under his chin raised his gaze to meet his mother’s. Briefly, her thumb ghosted across his lower lip, hesitant over the twisted scars.

He had forgotten the glamour. In a flickering, the scars vanished from sight.

There was a flash of motherly concern, but it was quickly filed away for later consideration. “Look at me, Loki Silvertongue. What games do you play with this court?”

He swallowed. “None. I come to suffer for what can never be set right.”

For a long moment Frigga contemplated her son. “You are not yet so noble. Suffer you may, but not in search of justice or motivated by shame.” There was a hardness to her mouth as she continued. “You come to bargain.”

A slight widening of his eyes was all that showed Loki’s surprise.

“Do not think me blind. I have had a great many veils ripped from my sight in recent years,” she said. She folded her hands before her, agile fingers pressed together. “Desperation guides you.” A tremor shot through Frigga’s voice, though her posture remained stiff and calm. “Your feet would not have led you home unless you had nowhere else to turn.”

He remained silent, dropping his head. The Allmother was right of course. There were few places he would rather be less than his one-time home. Every nerve sparked with the urge to run. His magic trilled enticingly, inviting him to let it free, to slide away from the judgmental stares, the murmuring voices, and the all too heavy sense of hostility.

A small hand on his shoulder snapped his attention away from the call to run pounding through his skull. Warning narrowed his mother’s eyes. She had guessed the turn of his thoughts and likely felt his magic rising.

“Loki, what have you done now?” she asked, her voice tinged with weary resignation.

He must choose his next words carefully. They must ring with truth, but not art. These could not be the words of the Silvertongue manipulating to get his way. He raised up onto his knees and looked his mother full in the face. He willed every barrier, every wall, and lock and bar to drop away, to let her see the truth unmarred by guile or artifice. He licked his lips.

“I have saved a life.” He drew in a shuddering breath, “But in so doing, I have stolen it as well.” He paused, if she thought he was manipulating her, all was lost, but he couldn’t stop the words from spilling forward. “I can’t fix this, Mother.”

Frigga stiffened and Loki cursed himself. Why had he said that? He hadn’t meant to, but the words were gone before he had even realized what he’d said. A clouded look of pain rolled across Frigga’s eyes as she turned away. But Loki saw something else he didn’t recognize beneath it all. The Queen’s calm was outward only.

With firm steps she strode away from him, pausing at the steps that led up to Odin’s throne. For a long moment she stood in silence. Suddenly, a new set came into her shoulders as she rolled them back and raised her head, every line of her body screaming defiance.

“My lord, before you stands a citizen of Asgard, guilty of crimes against his king and his people. None can raise a voice in his defense,” said Frigga, her voice ringing across the crowded hall. “He stands alone—even his own father must sit in judgment.” At this, Frigga turned over her shoulder and looked at Loki, her face softened with sadness. “It is not right.”

Still holding Loki’s gaze, Frigga’s voice echoed, “I claim right of kinship. The inherent right of a mother to plead for her son.”

Loki sat back on his heels. He had not expected this. It was an old Asgardian custom that family had the right to petition the king for mercy for the accused. Typically they were the mothers, down on their knees at the base of the stairs, begging for their children. Mothers of noble birth dared to ascend a few stairs toward the throne before dropping to their knees.

Frigga took the stairs with measured tread, rising all the way to Odin’s throne. There she sunk to her knees. A gasp and then whispers fluttering through the crowd.

“My lady!” one of her maid servants moved as if to pull her up, but a wave of Odin’s hand stopped her. His gaze remained locked on his wife.

Loki was on his feet, his steps halted by blades crossing before him. She couldn’t be doing this, humiliating herself. His mother was a queen, she could not stoop to this. Something clenched within him as Frigga bowed her head to the ground, her jeweled hair brushing the edge of Odin’s robes. The throne room was in a clamor now. Their queen, in all her finery, lay prostrate and begging like the lowest among them. Never had such a thing happened.

A thunderous rap from Gungnir echoed across the chamber, silencing the crowd. “We will hear the traitor’s request.” He gently raised Frigga to her feet. “Your mother makes a powerful argument, Loki. May you be worthy of her love. Speak, what would you have of us?”

The spears vanished as Odin gestured the guards to retreat and Loki straightened his hoodie. It was time. “I ask Asgard’s aid—not for myself,” he added hurriedly. “But for another. Do not be alarmed, he looks fierce, but all will be explained.”

He hoped Book remembered to look as non-threatening as possible. Asgardians weren’t likely to be overly frightened of him—as long as he wasn’t in “battle-mode” as Clint had put it—but it was generally better not to startle highly trained warriors who carried large, pointy sticks. He’d explained all this to Book as he tried to convince him to be a willing participant in his plan. An unwilling-Book would have made matters more difficult. As it was, it had taken a fair amount of convincing to get the boy to trust him enough to agree. Not surprisingly he had still balked at being “stuffed into magic hammer-space and teleporting to another world for the worst family reunion ever.” Strictly speaking, that wasn’t a particularly accurate description of what Loki had done, but ultimately Book had agreed. He really wanted to be human again.

Odin stepped defensively in front of Frigga as he felt the swell of Loki’s magic. The crowds drew back as his shadow lengthened and solidified into the form of a large wolf. Guards lowered their weapons, shouting to one another as they closed ranks between Loki and the rest of the court.

“Monster!”

“It’s a trick!”

“Wait!” Loki’s hands were raised in a pleading gesture as Book shook off the last shreds of shadow. “He means you no harm.”

“Hold,” rumbled Odin. “What is this!”

Loki stopped next to the wolf and wrapped an arm protectively around his neck—a gesture the beast grudgingly allowed. “This is Book,” here Loki paused, “and he is human.”

Frigga’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh, Loki.”

He wasn’t surprised she had figured it out first.

“Speak quickly,” growled Odin. He wasn’t as versed with shape shifting as his wife, but he was beginning to guess at exactly what had happened.

“It is for Book that I come. He is…my friend, and I have wronged him.” He straightened but kept a protective hand on the wolf’s back. “There is a long tale to be told, but there was a battle that Book should never have been in. He was injured because of me—killed.” Loki’s jaw worked as he hunted for the right words to convey exactly what he had done. It had been easy enough talking of primordial rituals with the Avengers. Not even Thor would have understood the gravity of what he had done, the danger in such arcana. But he wasn’t on Earth anymore. Here there be sorcerers, Loki thought. Every Aesir with more than a smattering of magecraft would know exactly what kind of rash deed he had attempted. “I had no magic and did the only thing I could think of.”

“Blood rites,” whispered Frigga. A tremor shot through her straight-backed frame. “You could have been killed!”

Loki blinked at the rage that flushed across his mother’s face. He shook off his surprise. “Yes. Thankfully Book is very small.” The wolf cocked his head to the side and raised a questioning brow. “Normally. The rite was successful. My blood had,” he gestured vaguely, “unfortunate side effects.”

The wolf snorted.

“And that is why you come to us,” said Odin. “You give yourself to our judgment and we mend your mistake.”

Loki could not ignore the unspoken words in that statement, another of your mistakes. “That is my bargain,” he said through clenched teeth. “Help the boy and I will serve my punishment—willingly.”

Silence descended over the hall as mild surprise settled across Odin’s features. It had been many an age since Loki had willingly accepted a punishment. And in his madness he had thought only of himself. Yet here he stood, pleading for a frail human child. He had returned freely to imprisonment and worse.

A flash of red and gust of wind announced Thor’s presence. “Father!” He shouted as his booted feet hit the floor, Mjolnir still clenched in his fist. “Loki is…”

“Far ahead of you, as always,” said Loki.

“What do you know of this, Thor?” asked Odin. His one eye watched his eldest carefully. It did not seem to surprise him that Thor knew exactly where his brother was, even after he had been missing for well over a year. His damaged sight did not mean that he missed the quick look that passed between the two—so similar to the ones they shared as boys when brought before him for fighting with Freyr, or attempting to break into the vaults, or any number of other youthful misadventures. It was a scheme to decide exactly what to tell him, and how exactly to phrase it. Naturally these strategies had largely been controlled by Loki—whether Thor was aware of it or not. After a time Loki could get Thor to speak or take responsibility even while Thor believed he was going against Loki’s wishes by doing so. And yet—it was Loki who would often make the blame fall on himself, even when both were clearly at fault.

Odin repeated the question. “Your king awaits an answer!”

“Some weeks ago we found Loki on Earth—Midgard—living in poverty and stripped of his gifts. The boy had been a boon to him during his entrapment there and when he was injured in a battle, Loki attempted to heal him.”

“With blood magic,” said Frigga stiffly. She folded her hands before her, fingers locked together. Thor nodded.

“Yet only now you come to us,” said Odin, leveling his spear at his eldest. “While a traitor and murderer walked free in your care.”

Raising his chin, Thor looked at his father with a steady strength—not obstinate, not defiant, simply a quiet resolve. “Book mended slowly, and without Loki none of us had the knowledge to deal with the unintended consequences of the ritual.”

Frigga took a step forward, “You speak of stolen power. Who could do such a thing?”

“Oh, I’ve been waiting for this.” Loki’s broad grin surprised everyone. “Do, show yourself.”

A ripple of awed voices filtered through the crowd as they dipped their heads, Skuld striding out of their midst. “The Norns were at work in this, Allmother.” She gave Frigga a small smile. “For the betterment of all.” She turned her attention to the throne. “You should take his bargain, young one—it is given in sincerity.”

Thor and Loki both had to stifle amusement at the graying Allfather being called “young.”

“This would not be the first time he has come with words full of seeming truth. And in the end they are all lies,” said Odin. A rasping growl laced his words, “what has changed?”

Skuld crossed the room and placed a long hand on Loki’s shoulder. “He has.”

“Father,” said Thor, “for Book’s sake if none other’s.”

For a long moment Odin considered the scene before him, stonefaced and scowling. His eye roved over them, hardly acknowledging Book as anything more than a nuisance and lingering unsettlingly on Loki. A hand brushed Odin’s elbow as Frigga subtly caught his eye. Neither spoke, but understanding passed between them. A subtle upward twitch of Frigga’s eyebrow sent Odin’s attention back to those before him, ultimately coming to rest on the Norn.

Loki could see the cunning in that bright eye as Odin Allfather appraised each of the pieces on the board before him. Thor and Loki were known quantities, Book an oddity but worth little appraisal. It was the Norn that stayed Odin’s hand. She was not a being whose will could be circumvented, even by the swift winged thoughts of the Raven-god himself.

Abruptly Odin rapped Gungnir against the ground, a decision reached. He spoke now in judgment. “So it shall be. I accept your bargain, Loki Silvertongue.” He nodded to his guards. “Escort them both to the lesser throne room that the Queen may aid this unfortunate soul.”

Just as the guards made to move forward, a voice cracked through the hall. “Willful child!” A tangle of misty threads formed out of the air, weaving into a lean, towering figure. “What have you done?” 

The weight of eons crouched in the words, driving Asgard to its knees before this skeletal thing. Four arms tipped with long nailed fingers folded neatly behind her back as she swiveled her head to fix the royal family with a hard, glittering eye. In its depths lurked the span of each life and between those sharpened talons all lives ended.

Where Skuld played at being mortal, her sister didn’t even try.

Chapter Text

“Norn Verthandi,” said Frigga breathlessly, bowing her head. As one, the court dropped to the ground, faces pressed into the stones. Loki stayed on his feet, refusing to even bow his head as Thor did. He did not miss the narrowing of Skuld’s eyes at the reception her sister received. The youngest Norn seemed to know what it was to be in shadow as much as he did.

The Weaver’s gaze twitched away from Skuld and flicked over Frigga’s face. “I have no time for pleasantries, Queen of Asgard. I am come for my wayward sister.”

Skuld slid in front of Loki. “You need not have made such a show.”

Verthandi’s four spindle arms curled in anger, long fingers clenched into fists. “Show? Have you any notion what your useless romances have done? Can you not see the chaos you have wrought?” She threw out her hands to the shimmering mirage curling into the palace behind her. The image grew stronger, gigantic twisted roots arching into the aisles and stretching away into the towering rafters. Citizens scattered from the solidifying vision. Masonry groaned as the roots grew more solid, appearing to have grown right out of the pavers. Where once the throne room had looked out onto the city, now it flowed directly into the Heart of Yggdrasil.

Loki caught his breath. He had been but a child the last time he had seen the Heart. The twining roots and branches cocooned around the Well of Urd, a shining sphere of water suspended at the center of all things. Shifting images ghosted across the water’s surface, dancing above the star strewn depths of the well. In the center, like a fly suspended in amber, floated Urd herself, gauzy dress and trailing hair gently floating in the water about her. Her eyes still closed in sleep as she dreamed the dreams of the world tree, mind riding the universe’s song through the long ages.

“See the knot you have made,” snapped Verthandi, pointing at what Loki had originally taken to be multi-hued spider webs. Looking closer he could see the crystalline weave of the very threads of fate. The glinting tapestry strung throughout the Heart, caught like a thousand webs between branch and root. The threads themselves pulsed with a subtle energy, rippling with color much like the Bifrost.

It wasn’t hard to spot the problem. The tapestry ended in a horrific snarl of knotted threads. Here the lights spasamed fitfully.

Skuld faced her sister with a half-lidded stare. “I have re-written the ending.”

Verthandi shook with an anger that Loki felt in his marrow. “How dare you attempt to thwart the will of Yggdrasil!”

The younger Norn threw back her head. “The only will I thwart is yours,” growled Skuld. “My tale does not change his doom. It simply tells it better.”

“For too long have I indulged your fancies. Catered to your childish imaginings. You have endangered us all. To fight fate is to risk the breaking of all things!” The Weaver turned toward Loki, pointing in accusation. “That thing will end us all—and yet you would have us imagine more than villainy in his heart?”

Thor edged toward Loki, fingers gripping Mjolnir.

Skuld’s voice came quietly. “Admit your fear, sister. This small one and the destiny he bears terrify you.” She looked up. “You hate him. Every stitch you’ve made for him was retribution for what is to come.”

“And why should the Father of Monsters and Bringer of Ragnarok not be made to suffer?”

Frigga’s hand went to her mouth as she leaned back into Odin’s protective arm. Fearful whispers curled through the throng, splintering into anger and loathing. The weight of their gaze settled across Loki’s shoulders as he ducked his head.

“And you thought I’d never amount to anything.” At his side, Book leaned into him and gazed up, an unspoken question in his glance. Loki absently patted his head.

Leveling his hammer at the Norn, Thor spoke in defense of his brother. “Even Loki would not do such a thing.”

A pale hand settled onto his arm and forced it down as Loki stood beside him. He didn’t face him, merely gazed into space. “What do you know of it, Thor? The void looked into me and I saw it…I always told you that it was too late. I am the architect of all destruction.” He glanced sideways through his hair. “Impressed?”  

Verthandi whirled on her sister, the move sickening in its swiftness. “This is the creature you would give succor to? Would try to reunite with his family—even after all he has done and all he is yet to do? A fool’s mission.”

“You have always refused to see the possibilities in him! In the future I could write.” A ghosting of runes skudded just beneath the surface of Skuld’s skin. “My only use was for recording what you devised—the trite, obvious interpretation of every vision. I can write a future just as well as you can weave one!”

A tremor shot through the hall as Verthandi darted forward, looming over her sister. “Your scribblings are not but the sentimental daydreamings of a selfish child!”

“Cease.” A voice echoed through the hall, soft but commanding. It sucked all other sound into it and rang so truly that Loki wasn’t sure whether he heard it at all, or whether the meaning simply reverberated through his soul.

The well drew all attention to itself. Frigga sank weakly to the stairs and Odin sagged against Gungnir. Urd’s eyes were open.

To hold her gaze was like falling into the depths of time, universes spinning out their days between her lashes. Death and life, beginnings and endings all flared there, and the song of Yggdrasil haunted the darkness. Rarely did the sleeper pull herself from the dream enough to open her eyes.

Her vaguely childlike features did nothing to ease the weight of her presence. The discord between what your eyes told you and the sheer ancientness in her gaze pushed the mind toward madness. Loki tried to turn his attention anywhere but those churning, vibrant depths. Yet he had never wanted to give himself over to something more.

The sisters started forward as Urd descended from the well, dropping through its shimmering surface to stand, dripping, among the roots of the tree. Verthandi placed one hand to her mouth, the others clutched in confusion. The dreamer had not left her well since she entered it at the start of all things.

The eldest Norn held up a hand, stopping her sisters. For a moment she merely stood, lank hair dropping all the way to the floor. Water spread out from her in a sparkling puddle. The vastness of the universe vanished briefly as she blinked. She then bent and ripped a stretch of cloth from her trailing gown and bound it across her eyes. A thousand shuddering sighs blew across the hall as the Asgardians remembered what it was to breathe.

“Why have you brought your debate to young Odin’s halls?” asked Urd, nodding her head toward the throne.

Verthandi swelled with smug superiority as she steepled both sets of hands before her. “Our sister has forgotten her place—she overreaches herself.”

“There is no need to take joy in the fact, Verthandi,” said Urd. The quiet rebuke settled on the other Norn’s shoulders. Urd ghosted across the floor to stand before Skuld. It was not so much that Urd moved, but that the world moved around her so that she was always exactly where she wished to be. “Why have you knotted your sister’s work?” An inquisitive tilt appeared in her posture as she looked up at her much taller sister.

“You know.”

“This creature.” She gestured offhandedly at Loki, causing Thor to stiffen.

“If you only looked at him, you’d see his potential—what he could become if given half the chance. Look at them. Yggdrasil itself has woven together their destinies. Who are we to set the sons of Odin at odds?”

Without turning, Urd swiveled so that her shrouded gaze fell on Loki. The twist of cloth did nothing to soften the weight of her hidden eyes. It rushed over and through him, peeling back the lies and delusions, casting about in the darkest of corners and seeing even beyond who he was to who he would be. “Oh, but I do see him. More clearly than any.” She reached out to grip the ends of Skuld’s long fingers. With a gentle squeeze and a sad smile the Norn shook her head. “Your fondness for the boy has clouded your gaze.”

A muffled gasp broke the silence as Loki stepped forward. Urd turned to acknowledge him, or rather the world turned so he was facing her. His magic roiled within him in a way that felt a great deal like nausea. Swallowing deeply, he gave a terse bow. She inclined her head, amusement lacing the gesture. “You would speak, child of Jotunheim?”

“Child of Asgard,” Loki corrected, “though I doubt they’d wish to claim me.”

“Who would,” growled Verthandi. Urd held up a hand to quiet her sister.

With a smile bordering on cheek, Loki continued in an unconcerned way. Or at least what he hoped came across as unconcerned. “I have within me wells of rage, bitterness, and jealousy—and perhaps a touch of madness,” he threw a wink to Book who shifted uncomfortably. “And when I saw the burning of all things it all made sense, this apocalypse made just for me. A mere trickster no longer, but an architect of chaos.” He bared his teeth, bitter acceptance mixed with the relief of final revelation. “Finally there was a reason.” He looked to where Odin stood. “A reason for the lies. I was raised for a throne that I had no hope of. But I was made to rule nonetheless. Not that backwater of a realm, nor even Asgard herself. Yggdrasil has given me a power even greater than the Norns. The Tree granted me the power to end all things.”

“I close my eyes and I see it. The burning and then the emptiness—not even darkness or silence will remain.” A manic pitch crept into his tone. “There are not words to describe what I will do—to understand what is to come. And the tree picked me. Oh, I am honored.”

A breathy laugh escaped his lips. “So what does any of this matter, really. What I do now, the consequences, who I hurt. Because I know that I will be the monster at the end of all things.” His voice quieted, though he could still be easily heard throughout the hall. “Why not get a start on it—I’m well on my way already.”

“Lies.”

Loki jerked round to face Thor as the Thunderer marched up to him. “Lies,” Thor repeated. “Always lies with you. Even to yourself. You are no monster, Loki.”

“I imagine the Jotun would think differently.” He cocked his head in thought. “And the Midgardians, possibly the Chitauri, and of course let’s not forget your own people, Thor—if they knew.” His voice raised feverishly as he pivoted round to the court, “shall we take a vote?”

Large hands clamped onto his shoulders and whirled him around. “You have done monstrous things, brother.” There was a deep sorrow in Thor’s voice, one which spoke of a rent that could never be mended. But in his eyes shone conviction. “Yet you are no monster.” He prodded him gently in the chest with Mjolnir. “You will be one only by your own choice—and that is easily changed.”

For a moment the brothers could only stare at one another in a silent battle of wills, Loki disbelieving and Thor urging him to see the truth in his words. Finally it was Loki that shook his head, almost fondly, and looked away. “You are a sentimental fool…but you anticipate my point. May I continue, or do you have any more words of wisdom to add?” Loki held out his hands as if ceding the floor to his brother. Thor gave a quick jerk of his head, a slight discomfort warming his cheeks as he realized he might have interrupted his brother’s train of argument with his passion. The teasing amusement in Loki’s eyes seemed to say that Thor’s outburst had been unneeded. The hint of a smile said that it was no less appreciated, however.

He returned to the patiently waiting—and perhaps somewhat amused—Norn. “My thoughts on the matter have undergone a transformation. I do not wish to be that thing I saw in the void. And perhaps—perhaps I can choose not to be.”

Verthandi wheezed in a cracking kind of laugh. “What but a creature of darkness would tear down the foundation of all things?” She slid forward in sharp, scuttling motions and leaned into his face. “And do it while smiling.”

“Then you should be asking why it was my brother smiled,” said Thor.

A grim pleasure filled Skuld as she stood behind both of her sisters. There seemed to be almost gleeful pride as she watched Thor and Loki continue.

The dark haired prince bowed again to Urd. “Dreamer, you see only the fixed points of fate. Your sisters interpret and weave the threads that connect those points. But what if your interpretation is not the only one. If I…choose not to be a beast—perhaps this Ragnarok is not the horror that it appears. Not the end, but the beginning.”

“These ideas, I think,” said Urd, “are not of your own making.” She drew Loki closer to her, peering up at him, her presence towering over him despite the fact that she barely came to his chest.

He felt no trespasser in his thoughts, but his magic prickled anxiously, like a hound before an oncoming storm. Though he could not feel it—or hope to stop it—he knew that Urd was shuffling through his inner self. When she looked at him, did she see the blue, scarred skin beneath the misty shreds of his Aesir form? What did he look like with all lies stripped away?

“Oh, I think you well know my muse,” he said, still trying to sound undisturbed by the Norn’s regard. The slight hum in her throat said that she well knew his discomfort and wondered why he yet bothered to try and lie to her.

Verthandi made a sound of disgust. “Your muse is a child at play, trying to usurp her betters.” She folded one set of arms across her chest. “I have woven every step of your life. Do not think that I see you any less clearly than Urd.” She circled him, bending stiffly down to hiss in his ear. “What a selfish, petty, hard-hearted creature you are. Is it little wonder Yggdrasil chose you to bring ruin to us all? This good you think you’ve done with that mongrel-child Skuld sent you? You cannot be so blind as to think it stems from some spark of nobility in that shriveled Jotun heart of yours?”

Evidently Book had heard, the hair on the back of his neck bristling. He lowered his head. A deep growl rumbled from his chest.

Skuld started forward, but Urd’s upraised hand stopped her as Verthandi swiveled to look at Book. The slit-like nostrils flared in distaste. “To think my sister would try and elevate you to a role of prominence. I could snip your thread right now,” she pinched two of her long talons together, “and not another thread would snarl because of it. You would not even leave a hole.”

Fangs flashed as Book drew back his lips in an ugly snarl, quivering with rage. He stilled as Loki rested a hand on his back.

“And you think me petty,” said Loki.

Lightning flashed in Thor’s eyes. It seemed they were in agreement on their dislike of the Weaver at least.

“Verthandi, do not antagonize the mortal. It is beneath you,” Urd said, her reprimand bringing her sister up short. The eldest Norn turned to her youngest sister. “How do you plan to make his path meet what Yggdrasil has ordained?”

Skuld drew a quill across her arm, its nib darkening with her blood. She then flicked the inky droplets into the air where they curled and flowed through intricate swirls of runic script. Verthandi sneered as she stalked in and among the spell like a spider inspecting something distasteful caught in its web. Urd merely stood at the center of the migrating letters, head back, palms turned toward the sky. The layers of runes began to flow together, whirling like a flock of startled birds around the Norn. Closer they came until they were nothing more than a long, swirling ribbon of jumbled text. The spell coiled ever more tightly around Urd before diving into her open palms, sinking beneath the skin to curl through her.

For a moment all was silent as the runes disappeared into Urd’s pale flesh. Her hands dropped to her sides, but she continued to look skyward. Ticks of emotion flashed across her face as she saw what Skuld would make of Loki’s destiny. A small sound of surprise escaped her. “Oh, Skuld. It is beautiful.” Her head bowed as lines of black tears slipped from beneath the blindfold to disappear into nothingness. “So beautiful.” She gripped Skuld’s arms. “If only it could be so.”

Skuld returned the embrace, something like panic shifting in her dark eyes. “We can have this hope. If he is not cast in the role of evil, perhaps his actions at the end will carry beyond our sight into something new and wonderful.”

“I wish what you envision could come to pass, but you try to make him into something he is not. You see in him that which is not there and the Loki you imagine—could never exist—it is not in his nature. It was for this he was formed and this is the role for which he is destined.”

For the first time during this exchange, Skuld looked at Loki, an apology written across her features. His shoulders tightened. They had lost. Urd did not believe.

“We must undo what you have done, untangle Verthandi’s thread and start anew.” Urd turned to the Weaver. “How far back must we unravel the tapestry?”

Verthandi was in among the threads, picking at first one, then another. She finally settled herself amongst the knot of threads, hands poised above the shining weft. “A few years at most—the damage is not too great before.” She glared at Skuld.

“Lady Urd, I do not understand,” said Frigga quietly as she descended the stairs, shooting a nervous look to her sons.

The Norn smiled. “My dear child, do not be anxious. Verthandi must undo her work and start again. What has passed these last years will fade away into the nothingness of having never been. And your new futures will be woven according to Yggdrasil’s will and our design—Skuld’s interpretations will be erased.”

“Then all that has transpired these past few weeks will be gone?” asked Thor, moving close to Loki’s side.

Urd nodded. “It will never have been.”

Loki didn’t think to be annoyed as a comforting hand rested on his shoulder. His time on Earth was going to be undone—all the trials, and insights—gone. Book would vanish from his life. He felt the pressure of a shaggy head against his palm as the boy butted up underneath his hand, leaning against his side. It seemed he had realized the implications of Urd’s words as well. They would never meet. An advantage to Book—but for Loki…a loss immeasurable.

“Please.” Thor spoke, head bowed humbly. His tone was one of beseechment. “Do not take my brother from me again.”

Loki blinked as if to clear the image away. It couldn’t be possible that Thor would ever bend his head to anyone in supplication. Ritually perhaps. In acknowledgement or honor, but never as supplicant. The image grew stranger still as the crown prince of Asgard dropped to his knees before the Norn.

Loki cleared his throat in discomfort. “Get up.”

Thor gave his head a firm shake. He raised his eyes to Urd, but not his head. “Please.”

Compassion radiated from her small form as she seemed to glide over the floor to stand in front of the kneeling Thunderer. “You have a great heart, child of Asgard. A strong heart.” A tiny hand cupped his cheek. “One strong enough to bear even this.”

His shoulders slumped at the Norn’s words.

Across the hall, Verthandi scuttled amongst the threads, plucking and testing them until she found just the right ones. She snipped through threads with a pinch between two sharpened nails. Between the cut and snarl, the lights died. What had pulsed with energy fell silent and crumbled away into nothingness.

The Weaver looked up, specifically holding Skuld’s eyes, and started to unravel her work. Unease whispered through the masses, punctuated by startled screams as the hall around them began to fade away, growing dim and sheer. A scream suddenly cut off as the owner simply vanished, a hole in the crowd. Fear swirled into anger and panic as people began to slip away with the palace or fall out of existence entirely.

“Children of Asgard!” Odin proclaimed from the dais, standing tall and regal. “Remember who we are.”

The crowd latched onto silence, holding fast to it even as those around them disappeared. The silence only added to the unnaturalness of it all as a vast white nothingness devoured the floor beneath them and the heavens above.

“Please, let me bid him farewell,” said Skuld as she looked at her sisters. The hall continued to unravel around them, whiteness eating up the pillars, people fading into the vast blankness of it all. There was a swirl of red as Thor reached for Loki, but his fingers vanished even as Loki stretched out. Verthandi gave a quick pluck at a snarl of threads and Thor’s pleading eyes were swallowed by the whiteness.

“Sisters, please!” begged Skuld.

Urd lowered her gaze sadly. “You haven’t much time.”

Skuld sent a grateful smile to her sister and knelt before Loki, gripping him by the shoulders. “This is not what I wished for you. We were writing a new story.” A dark tear traced down her cheek.

“Will you...will you look after Book?” asked Loki. The furred presence at his side faded away leaving a wretched chill in its place as his fingers suddenly grasped at nothing.

Skuld nodded. “His thread does not mingle with the greater weft; I will see that Verthandi weaves him a less tragic path.”

“Skuld! The unweaving!” snapped Verthandi, a green thread twinned through her fingers.

Loki glanced at his hands—or rather, through them. Already the tips of his fingers were fading, the nothingness spiraling up his arms.

“There is no time. I am sorry,” Skuld brushed back his hair and pressed her lips to his forehead. A strange nothingness settled vaguely in his stomach, spreading outwards. He was only aware of the wet pressure of Skuld’s lips against his skin. The world began to narrow as whiteness crept along the edges of his vision. The last thing he saw was Skuld’s face, her lips tinged black as a drip of blood trailed from the corner.

“Make mischief my little trickster,” she whispered, her words fading into the void. “Make mischief.”

Chapter Text

This world would submit. Its tiny crawling masses would bow before him. Worship him. He closed his eyes and relished the sounds of battle as the Chitauri army—his army!—swarmed across the city. He felt the sun warm his skin. He smiled. So this was what it felt like to stand free of shadows.

“Loki!” Thor dropped to the deck below him.

His eyes narrowed. Of course Thor couldn’t be trusted to let him enjoy this—just for a moment. No matter. He hadn’t really expected his false-brother to stay away. Thor still thought he could persuade him to give all this up and trot obediently back to Asgard in his footsteps as he had always done. Loki snarled as he leveled the scepter at Thor, saying something about there only being the war.

Even as he clashed with Thor, his thoughts ran in distant paths, oddly disconnected from his body and words. The chaos around him ought to have been enjoyable. He could only conjure up mild amusement. 

He locked with Thor, Mjolnir pressing down on him.

“Look at this. Look around you. You think this madness will end with your rule?”

The uncomfortable sense of playing this part before wormed through Loki as he looked out at the destruction. The whine of Chitauri speeders and concussion of explosions laced the air with the too familiar sounds of war. He’d been here before. Acrid burn of concrete dust and energy rifle on his tongue and in his nose. Thor, pleading, so desperate to stop it all and save his little ants. Loki knew what was coming. The knife thrust.

“It’s too late. It’s too late to stop it.” He let the desperation creep into his voice. The best lie grew from a sliver of truth. And it was too late, far too late to turn back even if he wished to. Did he wish to, asked a small voice? What else did he have but vengeance and conquest? To think any of his old life—all lies—could ever be reclaimed was ignorant folly. What had he told the Widow? A child at prayer.

“We can together,” said Thor. He looked so earnest that for a moment Loki wished to believe him. A doubt wrapped round his thoughts. Thor only had need of him when he was useful to Thor—Loki was no more valued than Mjolnir—less so. Another doubt appeared, carrying clarity that burned through him. Thor would do anything to save his precious human pets.

The cool of the knife settled into Loki’s hand. A swift jab to the ribs. Thor wouldn’t see it coming—hadn’t the first time either. Loki felt a prickling along his spine. The first time. He had done this already. The situation wasn’t just similar; he had walked this path before.

Thor gave him a gentle shake. “Brother?”

He’d been silent for too long. The knife was still in his hand, ready to be used. Why not, given what was coming, he couldn’t possibly make things worse for himself. Make Thor suffer in any way possible along the way because Loki had long since given up hope of ever truly being Thor’s brother. What hope had a Frost Giant in the halls of Asgard? He tried to imagine Thor’s face if he knew what he really looked like. Tried to imagine the disgust and rage as Thor saw the blue creep over Loki’s skin.

Something like memory tugged at him as he suddenly lost control of his own imaginings. He could see it, the cursed blue on his skin and Thor watching him. But there was no disgust or rage—instead the idiot closed the gap and hugged him.

The knife clattered to the ground as Loki stumbled backwards, hands clutched to his head. It was too late, too late—he’d said the words, now he was supposed to jab in the knife. That’s what happened.

“Loki?” questioned Thor as he warily advanced. The presence of the knife probably didn’t surprise him as much as it should have, but this behavior seemed to unsettle him. Loki imagined Thor was trying thickly to figure out what kind of trick this was.

“It’s happening again,” he wheezed, wincing against the pain in his head. Images, feelings, fragments of thought all boiled up from somewhere deep within him. None of it made sense or fit together. What he did know was that he and Thor had been on this rooftop before. But somehow he guessed he wasn’t supposed to know that.

“Loki, I do not understand, but we must stop this,” said Thor.

“But I didn’t, don’t you see. I stabbed you and then—then I rolled over the side and later,” his eyes went wide, “later I met your Hulk.” Things were beginning to slot into place. A faded whisper echoed through his mind, Make mischief my little trickster. He brushed his hand to his forehead.

Thor moved warily, like one did with a skittish horse ready to bolt. Loki could read in his eyes distress and confusion over this new tune of madness, but there was pity and compassion there too. Unfortunately there was also the slow decision forming to incapacitate Loki before his ravings swung in another direction. Of course, fix the problem by hitting it—typical Thor. Loki’s raised hand halted his brother’s advance.

“This isn’t madness, just—just let me think.” Thor’s expression was dubious at best. Loki rolled his eyes and tossed his scepter to Thor, “take it if it will make you feel better—but for pity’s sake don’t lose it. We’ll need it before we’re through.”

Pacing across the glass strewn balcony, he ignored the way the shards ground beneath his boots. This world was wrong—had been for some time. When had he first felt that he’d lived all this before? When the Hawk had noticed his weakness? His deal with the Other? The Void?

No. Jotunheim. The moment he and the others emerged from the Bifrost, the sense of repetition nearly overwhelmed him. He’d traveled the realm of ice and darkness before—but what realm hadn’t he visited in his solitary explorations—but he knew that all six of them had never ventured to the Frost Giants’ home. And yet a thrill of recognition had coiled up his spine.

That was the first time. Since then so much of life had unfolded in a seemingly predestined pattern, more and more frequently Loki felt that he was somehow repeating himself. But with the knife at his feet, the nagging knowledge that he’d done all this before no longer pressed against his thoughts. He was making new choices now—somehow things had changed. And Loki got the distinct impression he’d thrown a serious wrench in someone’s plans.

“Loki?” Thor questioned.

“Ah yes, the battle.” He glanced over the edge of the balcony. He grimaced in mock concern, “it doesn’t seem to be going well. You might want to think about closing that,” he pointed at the rift in the sky belching Chitauri drones and Leviathan.

Thor’s face bunched up in anger. He was well on his way to the furious indignation he’d been sporting so often lately. Loki grinned, throwing up his hands as the larger man began to march toward him. “Take the staff to the generator—I allowed that scientist of yours to build in a loophole.”

“Allowed?” asked Thor, glancing down at the glowing staff in his hand. Clearly he wondered what form of misdirection this could be. “Where are you going?” he asked as Loki sauntered toward the lounge.

“To pour myself a drink,” Loki called over his shoulder, “and wait for the powers that be to show themselves.” Thor made no move to follow Loki’s instructions, or to rejoin the fight, his grip growing ever tighter round the staff. “Tick-tock, brother. I doubt your human friends will last much longer.” He didn’t bother watching for Thor’s decision, rather he made for Stark’s bar, rummaging through the bottles until he’d found something with enough kick to make up for the repulsive flavor. He downed three glasses in quick succession. Vile.

The sounds of battle seemed somewhat less intense than they had mere moments before—it would seem Thor and that Selvig fellow had managed to slam the rift in the Chitauri’s faces. He smiled a bit and poured himself another glass. The Other would have been furious. Since the Chitauri had sent nothing but drones, he imagined that those trapped on this side likely neurally short-circuited when they found themselves so suddenly ripped from the center of their hive minds. Perhaps one or two could overcome the sudden loss of instruction, purpose, and togetherness brought by their dependency on the queens. But even an average human ought to be able to deal with them in the state of confusion and withdrawal the drone would experience.

That left him as the only remaining threat, and he doubted they’d leave him be for long. Certainly not long enough to order his thoughts. “Pity.” He wandered over to the couch, dropping down and propping his feet up on one end and staring at the ceiling as he lay back. Idly he tossed the empty tumbler in the air, catching it, only to flick it spinning upwards again. Allowing the action to fall into pattern, Loki slowed his breathing, focusing on dropping all the walls he’d erected between conscious thought and—what he’d thought—were nothing more than unnerving visions. He embraced these snatches of thought and memory. A whole other life began to slot together. Foremost in these images was a plain, human child—and the emotions attached to this child swept over Loki in a confused slurry of guilt, anger, exasperation, amusement, and—fondness.

Boots on the stairs. Ah, so the Avengers were here at last.

Loki ignored them. Something about the child seemed important. He knew he had never seen him before, and yet he had. Narrowing his focus, he turned all his attention to the child’s face, trying to imagine the sound of his voice. Suddenly, his thoughts shifted, as if someone were tugging them away. Digging in, Loki latched onto the image. The boy was the key. If only he could remember his name.

The Avenger’s burst into the room. He refused to be distracted, even as Clint pressed the tip of an arrow into his forehead. Suddenly, Loki smiled.

“Book,” he said calmly. The image in his mind grinned back.

A shriek of rage split the air as the world around him shattered, dropping away like shards of stained glass. Stark tower vanished, as did the Avengers—all save Thor. Asgard’s golden pillars faded through into substance, the people shifting in unease. Odin and Frigga stood tall upon the dais, seemingly unfazed by the sudden shift in reality. The rigidness in his mother’s stance betrayed an unease she would not show to her people. Book’s head hung heavily between his legs as he shook it back and forth slowly as if to rid himself of lingering sickness.

Verthandi crouched within the disintegrating web of her tapestry, a predatory tenseness quivering through her. The prismic threads shattered into a sparkling shower. Scintilla faded into ashy flakes as it rained down on the assembly. Verthandi’s gaze followed the drifting ash to where it settled on Loki’s hair and shoulders. A guttural howl tore from her throat as she launched herself across the room, slamming him to the ground. She loomed over the prince, pinning him to the marble floor.

“It is ruined!” she snarled, hatred lacing her words.

“Oops.” Loki knew it was the wrong thing to say, and yet the incensed look that crystallized on Verthandi’s face made it worthwhile. It was a look that promised she would tear out his throat with her teeth.

“Burn the prophecies! You die now.” Her taloned hands screamed downwards.

Several things happened at once. Thor surged forward while a spell nestled in Frigga’s hand. Neither of them was close enough. Book was.

The Norn tumbled across the floor in a tangle of limbs. Regaining her feet, she slid to a stop, her talons screeching across the golden floor to slow herself. She looked up with murderous rage at the wolf that had barreled into her. Bristling and three times the size he had been a moment before, Book stood protectively over Loki, front feet planted firmly to either side of him. White sabers showed against the red of his mouth as his lips peeled back in a snarl.

Loki looked up in surprise. He propped himself up on his elbows and craned back to be able to see up the broad chest to part of Book’s face. Book glanced down, confusion darted through him to match Loki’s own. Neither of them had expected this.

Thor drew up next to Book, his hammer raised against the Weaver. “Do not think he stands alone.”

Verthandi straightened her robes with a sharp tug. A blade of laughter cut across the room, “Always the fool, Odinson. You do not know what it is you protect.”

Thor raised his chin defiantly. “I protect my brother.” He pointedly ignored Loki’s sigh. “Till the end of all things if I must.”

A terrifying, serpentine smile twisted across Verthandi’s face, almost tearing the skin across her skull. “Oh, you won’t make it quite that long, Thunderer.”

“Enough.” Urd’s quiet words sliced through the scene. Yggdrasil’s power flowed through the voice, bending everyone to its will. “You forget yourself, sister. Do not let the ways of mortals poison your actions.”

Verthandi stiffened as she turned to face her sister. “You can’t possibly allow this,” she growled. “This thing,” she pointed in disdain at Loki, “has ruined the threads—they will never take that pattern again.”

“Then it seems we have little choice but to trust Skuld. Let us see what our little sister can do.” A quiet affirmation rested in the statement that brought Skuld’s head up in surprise. Urd nodded to her. “Come, Verthandi, your threads need tending. It will take all your skill to weave this new tale.”

Stiff backed with anger, Verthandi cut back to her snarled web, teeth clenched so tightly Loki could have sworn he heard them crack. She offered no farewell or polite acknowledgement. As she stalked past Skuld she halted just at her sister’s shoulder and hissed out a string of words too soft for others to hear. The subtle tightness around the Scribe’s mouth and the pale hurt that sank into her face made the general content of the words clear enough.

“Play with your nest of vipers then and scrawl out your childish fantasies,” said Verthandi as she pulled away from her sister like someone whipping away from a particularly vile smell. Reaching upward and outward with all four arms, she gave a swift cutting movement and the heart of Yggdrasil vanished back into the high hall of Asgard. Conjuring sparking threads, she looped them quickly through the air around herself, pulled them tight and vanished in a curl of brightness.

Skuld watched the spot with something that almost resembled hurt. When Urd drew beside her to look at the same spot where their sister had been, she gently brushed the back of her hand against Skuld’s. “Do not despair. Her anger will fade and she will see the value of your work. Perhaps in a few hundred years.”

The Dreamer turned back toward the dais and gave a slight incline of her head. “May this be the last time the Norns so intrude upon your lives. I bid you well, young Odin, young Frigga.” She focused especially on Odin, “you would do well to heed my sister’s council.”

While her words still echoed across the vastness of the assembled Asgardians, Urd seemed to soften and pale, then simply blow away like dust scattered by the breeze. Her words robbed everyone of speech. No one seemed able to process what had just transpired before them. The fates themselves had come down and waged a battle of wills, and all over the Trickster. How was it that he could be a tipping point of history? What madness it was.

“Well…that was entertaining.”

The Allmother smiled fondly and shook her head. Of course it would be Loki to first shake off the air of uncanniness that still clung to the hall. The boy-wolf rolled his eyes and shared a commiseratory glance with Thor. The queen noted the connection. She had not expected such—as she understood it, the boy had spent only a short amount of time with Thor.

She placed a hand on Odin’s arm. “Perhaps what is to be done ought to be resolved more privately?”

Odin nodded. The weight of what he had just witnessed did not drain any power from his voice as it boomed out across the chamber. “People of Asgard, these days are strange indeed when the Norns walk among us,” he paused, very much aware of Skuld’s continued presence. “Let us do them the honor they deserve and consider what we have been privileged to see. I must speak with the prince.” The throng bowed like wind blowing over a field of grass as the royal family adjourned the grand throne room.

“You’ll be walking on two legs again soon,” said Loki as he followed the retreating golden forms of his one-time parents. He tried to ignore the guards that had fallen in on either side of him. And behind him. And behind the guards themselves. It was really quite flattering that they thought him such a threat even unarmed and next to naked in his Midgardian attire. The giant wolf at his side might have had something to do with it as well.

“I do not understand,” said Thor, suddenly falling in stride with Loki. With Thor at his side he felt much more like the Einherjar served as an honor guard than as jailers escorting a prisoner.

“That is not unusual.”

Book snorted. Thor frowned in response.

“I appear to have become somewhat of an object of interest for the Norns,” said Loki. He glanced up at the golden visages of kings past as they flowed down the corridor. How many times had he trailed behind the king and queen through these very halls. There behind Bor’s raised battleaxe he had spent many an hour sequestered away from the world, or hiding from Thor and the Warriors Three after a particularly successful prank.

“Is what they said true? Will you really usher in Ragnarock?” rumbled Thor.

Loki was surprised to see concern there. “So says Yggdrasil.”

“And you’ve have known all this time?” Thor shook his head wearily. “That is a heavy burden to bear.” The look in his eyes said that it was one he judged Loki’s shoulders far too slender to hold. Old barbs tore at Loki as he fell short once more of a standard so far beyond his reach as to be impossible. But Thor’s hand resting briefly on his shoulder was not one of condescension. Loki peered at his brother, tearing down the veils of bitterness that so often clouded his vision where Thor was concerned. The set of the mouth, the slight stoop of the shoulders. This was the worry of an older brother who would forever see his little brother bearing the hardships of the world.

A wetness against his hand brought his attention to Book who had offered a reassuring lick. “Less heavy than I once thought.” He glanced at the Norn gliding just outside his range of vision.

Ahead, guards in flowing cloaks bowed low as they opened the great door to the lesser throne room. Smaller than the vast reaches of the grand throne room, this columned hall served for more intimate day to day functions and the less formal tasks of state. Though comparatively less grand, its vast ceiling still arched far overhead and the sun flared through the crystal inset behind Odin’s throne. Asgard did nothing small.

Nearly as one, Odin and Frigga turned in a swirl of fluttering fabric to face the group. At a nod from the queen, the doors were shut, though the guards remained. Skuld drew to the side, watching. There was permission in her watchfulness and Frigga proceeded without consulting the Norn.

“Shall we first see to the boy?” she suggested.

“His testimony may be needed before we pass judgment,” said Odin, face still closed against his younger son.

“You’ll find him quite willing to regale you with my many faults,” said Loki.

Frigga came and knelt before Book. She gave him a reassuring smile. “There may be pain, or at least discomfort. You may also feel as if someone else is invading your self. I swear that I will only come so far as is needed to guide you back to your true form.” She placed a hand upon his head. “Be at peace and focus everything on what it felt to be you. To stand upon two legs, to feel the wind against your skin, to…”she trailed off as a glow enveloped her hand. She looked for Loki, a question in her eyes.

“To hold a book in your hands,” he supplied.

A quivering shudder ran the length of the boy’s form, setting every hair on end. His tail curled tightly against him and a low whine escaped his throat. Frigga placed her other hand on his chest and turned her face to the ceiling, eyes closed. Book’s form seemed to shrink and fold in upon itself, hair vanishing or falling off in tufts. There was nothing smooth about it, and the whine turned to a throaty groan as he hovered between the two forms like a grotesque abstract.

“Just a bit more,” encouraged Frigga. “Feel the memory in your bones.”

With fits and starts the wolfish features slid away, until nothing but the boy’s trembling form remained. He crouched, braced against the floor as his head hung between his shoulders. Frigga’s hand remained there, gently stroking. “Well done, young one.” Her fingers lingered especially on the black streak.

Thor pulled his cloak from his shoulders and swirled the fabric around Book’s bare form. His fingers clutched at the cloak as he finally raised his head, the light in his green eye fading.

No one but Skuld noticed the swift stiffening of Loki’s spine or the tightness around his eyes that spoke of pained recognition. The changes were subtle, the slightest adjustment, but the changes were there nonetheless. This was not the same Book who had tried once more to run from his problems.

This Book wasn’t human.

A mortal might foolishly mistake an Aesir or Vanir for human, but the reverse could never be true. The eyes of an immortal were too keen for that—if they knew what to look for. And Loki knew. Perhaps more unsettling was a familiar hungry leanness that had shaved away some of the roundness of Book’s face. Shadows pooled around his eyes and in their depths the wolf stalked.

Skuld looked on this new creature with pride and the cunning of a gamester seeing yet another piece fall in line. Loki wondered what she could possibly have dreamed where Book’s unnatural state was worth smiling over. Her pleasure did nothing to reassure him.

After a few experimental breaths to steady himself, Book managed a wan smile and looked up at Frigga. “Thank you.” He coughed and cleared his throat.

She let her hand rest warmly on his head. “I think you will find in the long run that it is I who owe you thanks.”

Book’s confusion didn’t quite coalesce into words as he frowned at the Allmother. Loki likewise turned a shrewd eye on his mother. A look which she returned with one of her own ladened with a secret Loki couldn’t quite puzzle out. It was certainly one which seemed to bring her both joy and quiet amusement as she smiled at her younger son.

“Are you well, Book?” asked Thor as he helped the child to his feet, steadying him when he swayed. Taking a great swallow, Book nodded, then frowned and raised one shoulder, grunting noncommittally.

The urge to close the distance between them and check Book over himself snatched at Loki with far more force than he had been expecting. His eyes told him that the boy was not ill, if not in the best of shape. But suddenly he did not trust his eyes and he wanted to actually place his hand on that slight shoulder and feel that the life within his body really did run smoothly. This ran deeper than sentiment—this draw stemmed from his magic flaring within Book as the wolfblood settled into the recesses. That piece of himself called out.

The sensation of eyes drew his gaze to Skuld. There was a kind of glee in her expression that made Loki feel as if he ought to be armed. It was the glee of the hunter as his quarry steps within range of the bowstring. Loki had the distinct impression that things were not going to go well for him.

The rap of Gungnir brought their attention to the Allfather as he stood, drenched in the light of the dying day. Frigga gave Book’s shoulder another comforting squeeze and then retired to her husband’s side. She sought his eye, fingers gently brushing against his as she took her place beside the throne. Rare it was for the Queen to remind her king that she too had a say in these proceedings—though ultimately it would be the Allfather’s decision.

Loki folded his hands behind his back and raised his head—perhaps a bit too obstinately if his mother’s expression was anything to go by. It was a look that warned him not to make it worse. A delicately arched eyebrow answered her concerns. Now, mother, when have I ever done such a thing? If she had not been a queen, he imagined she would have sighed.

He squared his shoulders and faced Odin, ready for the anger and disdain. Ready for the disownment. He really hadn’t gotten much of it the first time the Allfather had stood in judgment. That time his one-time father had been unnaturally silent and dismissive, barely looking at his erstwhile son. There had only been the command to lock the prisoner—and that was all Odin had referred to Loki as—in a cell that would keep him until a suitable punishment could be deliberated upon. And in that cell Loki had waited—never getting to hear the verdict due to Skuld’s interference. He had imagined the scene a hundred different ways and he was curious as to which scenario would play out before him

Odin surprised him.

“Oh, Loki.” He sank into his throne, almost as careworn as when Loki had driven him into the Odinsleep. “What are we to do with you?”

Loki involuntarily looked to Thor to make sure he’d heard correctly. The shock on his brother’s face at the Allfather’s admission meant that he wasn’t the only one to hear it. In all their hundreds of years, Odin had been a rock—one that Loki had made a habit of flinging himself against time and again despite it never moving—and always knew his own mind and what he planned to do. Odin Allfather did not question, did not sit like a man lost, unsure of which branching path to take. He strode with confidence, never doubting his decisions, and never doubting the road beneath his feet.

“If I may suggest,” said Skuld, sliding forward with that same gleeful expression, “consulting with the wisdom of the Norns?”

A tired, knowing smile hovered around Odin’s lips. “And what would the Norns advise?”

Skuld stood before the king and conjured a string of runes that settled in his palm. His eye grew distant as he considered the future Skuld proposed. The rigidity of his posture said that he did not approve of what he saw.

“Have courage, brother.” Thor rested his hand on Loki’s shoulder.

A few weeks before, and Loki would have shrugged the hand away. Instead he left it there, conscious of the warmth radiating out from the weight of it. “Despite what you have always thought, courage is not something I lack.” He paused, thumb tracing circles along his palm. “What would you do if it were you upon that throne?” he asked beneath his breath.

Thor looked at him sharply, his grip tightening slightly, but not falling away as Loki had expected. Thor seemed to be deeply considering the question. “Though I would wish away your crimes these past years, I cannot. The blood upon you must be answered for. And what wer-gild could be asked? Even to die would not balance the scales.” Thor’s solemnity lightened some as he glanced at Book, huddled nervously off to the side, clearly uncomfortable with the proceedings. “And yet I see that the brother I once knew is not fully lost to me.”

“Though I am impressed to hear you speak with such eloquence and with so many thoughts strung together,” Loki glanced pointedly at his brother, “that is no answer.”

“Your debt cannot be paid,” Thor took a steadying breath, “but I would see you strive to do it nonetheless. And that, I think, would be my sentence. That you spend the rest of your days—in whatever ways possible—using your skills to safeguard the people of Midgard and Jotunheim.”

Loki blinked in surprise. He couldn’t say it was truly what he deserved, but there was a certain kind of wisdom in it. Perhaps Thor may yet make a king of Asgard worthy of the throne.

“So be it, Skuld of the Norns,” said Odin suddenly, “though I do not yet see what it is that you do.”

“Is it little wonder, Allfather? You have but one eye and two sons. Is it so strange that one should not share as fully in your gaze?”

There was a reprimand in her words which Odin accepted with a stiff nod before rising to his feet. He stood now as a king, Gungnir gripped in judgment. “Loki…Odinson.”

Loki’s head snapped up. Odinson.

 “There is no punishment, no act in this universe that can right the wrongs you have wrought. You have razed cities, and irrevocably wreaked a world, torn into the roots of a realm and shattered it. What price could be placed upon the countless dead that lay at your feet? What amount of penance could wash the blood from your hands? The Law calls for your death and the spirits of the dead clamor for justice to be done.” Here Odin paused, gaze hard and unflinching. “And it would be justice.”

Beside Odin, Frigga stood still and silent as a marble pillar, calm etched into her features. She didn’t look at her husband, or even her son. Instead, she kept her eyes fixed on the Norn, even as a tear traced its way down her otherwise impassive face.

Odin’s continued. “And yet, a Daughter of the Tree pleads that justice be tempered with mercy because the man standing before me may not be the same man who committed the atrocities. Death will not bring back those caught in your madness.” His next words came out clipped and harsh. “So, you shall live in opposition to all your selfish ambitions. No longer will the good and ends of Loki blot out all others. You will live. But you will live for others, not yourself.”

Loki fought the urge to glance at Thor. How had he so thoroughly anticipated the Allfather’s response? Or had the thought stemmed from Skuld? The Norn’s impassive face revealed nothing. Nothing except her knowledge of the direction of Loki’s thoughts.

Oh, Odin is still talking, Loki turned his attention back to the Allfather, trying to pick back up the thread of conversation. It didn’t seem he’d missed much.

“You will never sit on the throne of Asgard.” Odin paused, glowering down at Loki, keen-edged suspicion bright in his one eye. His lips puckered as if he just swallowed something distasteful before he moved on. “You may one day—if you prove worthy of trust—stand behind it and lend your keen mind to Thor’s rule. For Jotunheim and for Midgard you will live to do what good you can in those realms—no matter how distasteful you may find this or how unwelcome you are. But most of all,” Odin paused, his next words settling like shackles on Loki, “you will live for this boy.”

“You have knotted your life so fully with his that the two may never be undone. He cannot return to what life he had on Midgard.” Loki’s protest died on his lips as the Allfather leveled Gungnir at him. “He is no longer even human. The decades of training it will require for him to be in full control of his newfound abilities fall upon you. This boy’s life now rests in your hands—be worthy of it.” The doubt as to Loki’s worthiness to do anything of the sort laced his voice. If it had not been for Skuld, Loki knew his only course would have been to the dungeons or the executioner.

Odin continued. “Though you have escaped the axe and the cell, do not think that you shall be given your freedom. Approach.”

Warily, Loki took the first tier of steps, catching his mother’s eye as he passed her. She dipped her head in encouragement. Odin did not descend from the throne to meet him, forcing Loki to rise nearly to the throne itself.

“Kneel.”

Gritting his teeth, Loki lowered himself to the top step in an awkward jumble of limbs.

“Your hand.” Odin beckoned as he left Gungnir standing upright in the throne.

Slowly, Loki extended his left hand, only to have it gripped tightly by Odin. The Allfather shoved back Loki’s sleeve and wrapped his hands around Loki’s wrist, thumbs pressing into the soft tissue on the underside of his arm. A burning sensation flared beneath Odin’s grip as Loki gasped, jerking forward. Surely he ought to have smelled searing flesh. It was as if a hot brand had been jabbed into the tender skin of his inner wrist.

Odin released his hand and sagged back against the throne. Loki cradled his wrist, looking in horror at the rune stamped into his skin. Welted and angry red, it vaguely resembled two ravens circling a sphere, which taken together looked like an eye. Loki could see the shimmering, interlocking magical runes within the greater rune fading away. He’d never seen a binding spell of this sort.

He raised his face to Odin.

The Allfather’s mouth was set in a grim line as he leaned against Gungnir. “I would not see you loosed upon any other realm. Your movements are no longer your own and you have forfeited all rights to secrecy. Even you will find the magic of this rune’s watchful eye impossible to circumvent. And I need not tell you the Watcher will give you his special attention without any need for me to ask it of him. I think you will find it far harder to avoid his gaze with this mark upon you.”

Wordlessly, Loki nodded in acknowledgment and descended the stairs to Thor, who gave his shoulder a light squeeze.

“And you, Book of Midgard,” Odin paused here, “that is no true name. What are you rightly called?”

Book answered automatically, clearly thrown by the Allfather’s previous announcement that he would not be going home. “It beats the alternative.”

Frigga stepped forward and smiled at him. “You begin a new life here on Asgard. You ought to have an Asgardian name as well.” She pursed her lips in thought, glanced at Skuld, and then murmured something to Odin. He nodded.

“The life you have lived is over now—and though you made no choice of it, Loki’s blood runs through your veins. You are bound together by that blood and the magic it brings.” Odin rose straighter, “And so it is that I, Odin Allfather, do give you over to Loki Odinson and proclaim you Fenris Lokison.”

The proclamation rang across the hall, settling upon Book with the authority of all the kings of Asgard. Loki read the rejection in the boy’s stance. He could imagine Book shoving Odin’s words back at him, telling the Allfather how he didn’t want any part of this. Loki watched the outrage and shock coalesce as Book turned to face him. No, Book hadn’t asked for any of this…least of all Loki. But another emotion skulked behind all the others, one that Loki couldn’t place. It almost seemed to be recognition or shades of sudden understanding. Something in Odin’s words had struck the boy.

His own emotions were clearly too visible as Book’s eyes hardened with grim satisfaction. At least he was taking pleasure in the fact that Loki was suffering too. The Trickster tried to school his features, shaking off first one emotion then another. Eventually he settled on disbelief.

 “Father, the boy is not one of your subjects. We cannot keep him here,” ventured Thor.

“I will do what I must. Could your Midgardians aid him? Who among them know of, much less can wield, the kind of power in that boy?” Odin’s voice softened some as he looked from Thor to Book. “I would release him to his own kind if it were possible.”

It seemed to Loki almost as if Odin were talking about Book like some animal he had foolishly brought home and now could not be returned to the wild. It surprised him the anger such disregard kindled within him. “You cannot use Book like a shackle—his life is his own.”

“That life ended. The boy you knew died at the hands of the Chitauri,” said Skuld. “The boy who stands before you does so only because of you. You gave him the life in his veins. His new talents he inherited from you. Your blood betrays you even in his very face.” Book toyed uncomfortably with the black streak in his hair. “He is Lokison.”

Loki turned to Odin. “Allfather, you cannot possibly…”

“My decision stands.” The finality in his voice brooked no argument. “See to it that the boy is properly housed and attired. It will not due for a prince of the royal household to wander around in naught but a cloak.” With that, Odin swept from the room. He did not so much as spare a glance for the newest member of his family.

“Welcome, Fenris,” said Frigga, smiling broadly. Before Book could react, she had closed the gap between them and pulled him into a hug. She pulled back and held him at arms’ length, surveying him with a gentle smile. “Son of my son.” She glanced up at Thor playfully. “Your brother is well ahead of you, Thor. Why, you have not yet even introduced me to your Jane, and already Loki brings delight to me in my twilight years.

“Mother,” hissed Thor, turning nearly as red as his cape.

An indulgent smile did not fully offset the wicked gleam in her eye as she took in her eldest’s embarrassment. She turned back to Book. “Your Uncle will fight an ogre without care, but he lacks the stomach to introduce the girl he fancies to his mother.”

Book laughed a bit at this, though there was an edge of desperation there.

Frigga placed a hand under his chin, forcing him to look at her. “This must be nearly more than you can take in,” she said gently. “But all will be well. The future can take many unexpected turns—but I know that this is where you belong, just as surely as I knew when Odin placed Loki in my arms as a babe that he was mine. You are home.”

She gathered her skirts about her as she rose to her feet. “I will see that rooms are prepared next to yours Loki, and some clothes sent up.” A shrewd edge entered her gaze as she looked between Book and Loki. “Thor, you will assist me.”

Thor seemed to consider protesting, but instead nodded. “Yes, Mother.” He turned and nodded to Loki and then to Book a bit more hesitantly. His mother ushered him out of the room, beckoning to the guards to follow. The great doors closed solidly behind them, the noise reverberating through the nearly empty hall. Only Book, Loki, and Skuld remained.

Chapter Text

The shock of it all was wearing away as Book grew increasingly tense, scowl deepening. This would not be pleasant. Loki took the last few minutes of silence to order his thoughts and try to understand his own emotions before Book recovered himself. Unfortunately, the boy moved rapidly from stunned silence to very vocal indignation.

“Do I even get a say in this?” he asked.

“It would seem neither of us do,” said Loki has he sank onto the steps, propping his chin on his hand.

Book turned on Skuld. “How long have you been planning this?”

“I wrote you into his life when he,” she pointed at Loki, “was but a babe in arms.”

“I’m not some pawn in your grudge match with your sisters! Do you think I want any of this! You can’t do this, send me home,” said Book. He jerked his gaze toward Loki, all the betrayal and hurt boiling to the surface.

Loki glanced up sharply as the boy’s anger sent a ripple of change skudding beneath his skin. Closing the gap between the two of them, Loki gripped Book tightly by the arm. The boy quivered beneath his touch, fists balled, eyes clenched against the wolf rising within him. Loki pressed two fingers to the boy’s forehead.

“Breath,” he commanded.

His lungs swelled alongside Book’s shuddering breath. As they both exhaled, Book’s brow smoothed as the wolf’s burst of energy flowed from him and into Loki. The Trickster’s eyes darkened with savage wolf-hunger. He blinked it away. For a moment Loki continued to crouch in front of the boy, hand still gently resting on his arm. Book remained with his eyes closed, slightly leaning into the touch.

“I don’t belong here.” He drew back, hugging his arms across his chest. He looked evenly at Skuld, accusation in his glance.

“And where else would a son of Loki belong?”

“I am not his son.” There was cold, measured anger in those words.

How often had similar words snarled through Loki’s mind. Not my father, not my brother, not my father, he’s not, he’s not, he’s not. The anger tasted different in Book, but had an edge Loki recognized all too well. It was an anger that didn’t belong in this child. Loki swallowed the bile rising in his throat—some coloration and shapeshifting wasn’t all he had given Book.

Skuld knelt before the boy and brushed a hand through his hair. He twisted his head away. “The two of you share a bond of blood and magic—your ability to change your skin is his. In every way but birth, you are now his. I chose you to play this part because of who you are, Fenris, who you will yet become—but most importantly because he needed someone like you.” Distant contemplation crept into the blackness of her eyes. The shadows of different lives, visions, and revisions swirled across like oil over water. “There are few others in the Nine Realms who could have done what you did, who would allow me to rewrite the doom my sisters had devised for Loki.”

“Then use one of them!” Desperation clung to him as he paced the hall, the overlong mantle trailing crimson behind him.

The setting sun burned through the golden halls of Asgard, throwing a glimmer over the entire hall. Book’s shadow stretched dark before him, a blot against the polished stones. Skuld stood, her own lean form engulfing the boy’s.

“I could, if this were his story alone.” The Norn passed her hand through the air, trailing runes that vanished nearly as quickly as they came. She gave an almost human sigh, face softening. “If you are not Fenris, Book of Midgard, what use are you? Yggdrasil has no care for a child of Midgard so unwanted his own mother threw him away.”

Freezing, Book stood frighteningly still. A strangled intake of breath forced its way through his lips before he could stifle it. Emotion shone in his eyes and marked the harsh press of his lips into a thin, breaking line.

Skuld pressed a long-fingered hand to his heart. “See the lives upon his head, the blood upon his hands,” she glanced over her shoulder at Loki. “See the burden of such evil choices, see the lost child of Asgard. The liar.” A sliver of ice crept into her voice. “Know that he has lied to you, unwanted child of Midgard.” She brushed aside Thor’s cloak so that it dropped from Book’s shoulder to hang over his arm and pool about his waist. A knot of welted scars puckered the skin of his chest in a criss-cross of ragged, pieced together flesh.

Long fingers traced through the air above the scar, not quite touching it. A smile crept into the corner of her mouth. “He lied. But not, I think, about all.”

Book shuddered as she placed her lips to his forehead and vanished in a swirl of runes.

The empty space between Loki and Book gaped wide. The universe stood between them, vast and broken. Neither broached the silence, though the growing twilight was heavy with unspoken words; each grappled with their own thoughts.

The swirling majesty of Asgard’s night sky pierced the clear blackness of space before either spoke. Loki had retreated to the steps, sprawled out in an unprincely manner. Book paced restlessly, hands knotting in the cloak. Abruptly he stopped in the middle of the room, back to Loki. Swaying slightly, he tipped back his head. His gaze swept the grand hall, taking in the massive pillars and then stopping as the nightly light and fire of the universe came into view. The boy folded in on himself, hunkering close to the ground, hands fisted in his hair.

Loki made to rise, but when Book remained completely still, he reconsidered and let the boy be—no matter how much some treacherous instinct wished to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

The night deepened and still Book stayed silent.

Emotion ran tight across his shoulders as he gave a strangled kind of laugh. “You know, not that long ago and I think I would have wanted this. You and me, I thought maybe we could be…” he trailed off, clutching the cloak around him, shaking his head in disgust. “Stupid little orphan dreams…you don’t ever really grow out of them.”           

A fetid riot of emotion dragged at Loki’s chest—sitting like lead on his heart and lungs. Book had wanted…him. The moment Loki had delved into the forbidden, he knew what Book meant to him—he’d simply refused to acknowledge the depth of it. As for Book…he’d known he held the boy’s trust, his affection…his heart. That had been the goal after all. But he hadn’t seen this, hadn’t fully understood the turn of Book’s dreams or the future he kept in silent desires too fragile and dear to be spoken. He was a fool. Book didn’t just care for him. He loved him, loved him enough to choose him as his family. And Loki had poisoned it.

Book gave a sudden huff of decision. He uncoiled and closed the distance between them. Whatever turmoil had twisted through his silence he’d locked away behind red-rimmed eyes. He dropped onto the stairs near Loki, crossed arms resting on his knees, hunched over so that his chin rested on his arms. “Whatever your version of Hell is, it’ll freeze over before I call you ‘dad’,” he said finally.

Loki rolled his shoulders. He didn’t have the best history with fathers, and he certainly didn’t feel like one. “That would be odd,” he agreed. Until he’d read the human stories of his supposedly vast—and terrible—brood, Loki had never really thought about fatherhood before. In the abstract of course, he’d imagined that eventually he would find himself married to a decent Asgardian—or perhaps Vanir—girl of rank and that the natural progression of things would be children. Not being the crown prince had certain advantages—such as not being pressured to provide an heir for the kingdom. Besides, at little over a thousand, Loki still felt a bit young to have worried about such things. Perhaps in a few hundred years.

“We could run,” he said suddenly.

Book rolled his head to the side so he could stare up at Loki.

“Find somewhere to avoid attention for a time, just long enough to train you.” He glanced at his newly branded wrist. “I can get around this…probably. You’re a quick study—and then back to Midgard you go.”

“Trying to shirk your responsibilities already? Typical.” The shadow of a tired grin showed through.

“I’d thought you’d wish to be rid of me, Book.”

“Yeah, me too.” He gave a grunt of frustration and lunged to his feet. The excess folds of Thor’s cape trailed behind him as he paced. “But the thing is—Book’s not my name.” He raised his eyes to meet Loki’s. “Fenris is.”

Loki couldn’t keep the confusion from his face.

“It’s like…like I’ve been waiting all my life for someone to call me by it. I don’t know how, but it’s mine. Like it’s been a part of me. It’s right and it’s home and it’s me.” He dug his hands through his hair. “And it doesn’t make any sense!”

He blinked viciously. Hot drops of shame, frustration, and boiling emotions still escaped the corners, only to be dug away with a swift swipe of the back of his hand. How often had Loki done the same. Book blew out a long breath. “And if I’m Fenris…I’m yours. We’re meant to be…family.” He slowly shook his head. “We are seriously messed up.”

That was perhaps the understatement of the millennia. “We are indeed.”

Book shrugged and dropped down onto the stairs again. “Well, I guess I’ve had worse.”

“I attempted genocide and led a bloody invasion of your homeworld.”

The boy hunched his shoulders. “Which I am having some serious issues with—but you’ve still been better to me than some of my foster families—better even than Simeon. Even if you did basically turn me into a giant wolf that’s going to kill your father.”

Loki raised an eyebrow.

“What? I did some reading after we met.”

Of course you did. Loki couldn’t help the smile. “Wait until you see the library.”

“And now you’re the one showing me the ropes. The tables have turned.”

The banter was a little forced, uneasy, but Loki would take it over the boiling anger. A smirk tugged at Loki’s lips. “I will be your Obi-wan.”

Book gave a huff of laughter. “At least you finally get the reference.” He sucked the inside of his cheek, curling his bare toes against the tiles. Suddenly some of the tension went out of him. “All right then. Let’s do this thing.”

Sliding to his feet, Loki motioned for Book to follow him. “Very well.”

“Just don’t let anyone named Tyr put their hand in my mouth,” muttered Book.

Loki managed a wan smile, “Fair enough, as long as you keep me away from mistletoe.”

“Deal.”

They made their way down one of Asgard’s long, colonnaded walks, the golden towers of the palace stretching away to one side, lights from the city winking through. Starlight cast soft bands of shadow as it broke upon the columns. No one else disturbed the night—nor were they likely to. This had been one of Loki’s favorite haunts due to its solitude. It was a path little used as it lay in an older part of the palace and other paths offered quicker routes to places still in use.

His magic curled contentedly within him, leaving a warmth that soaked through him, easing the ache of its long absence. It was like feeling every muscle loosen after being knotted with abuse and hard labor.

Idly, he brushed his hand along the sculpted stone railing. He paused. There was a presence here, layers of one. Frowning, he forced his magic to twine around this echo. Someone had walked this way many times, often lingering. His gaze softened as he deciphered who exactly had spent so much time resting against the stones. Mother. If anyone had seen his smile, they would have recognized a much younger, less haunted Loki.

A sudden trumpeted whinny startled both Loki and Book. The echoing clatter of hooves like a dozen horses stampeded toward them.

“Oh no,” said Loki with a groan.

“What?!”

Loki interrupted Book by sweeping him to the side. “Keep clear.”

The streaking gray form of a horse materialized from down the corridor, head down, running at top speed. He slipped a bit against the polished stones, but all eight legs dug in as best they could. Another whinny burst forth, shrill and elated.

Mother!

Loki barely had a chance to brace himself as Sleipnir crashed into him, sending him sprawling. Plunging in a dancing kind of hop, the great stallion circled Loki, butting him with his head and jerking playfully at his clothing. Finally, he stopped and lowered his head to blow out a whickering breath in Loki’s face.

“This was cute—when you were little,” Loki said as he levered himself upright, brushing at nonexistent dirt on his sleeve. Sleipnir’s hooves flashed on either side of him as the horse skipped forward. Loki reached up a fond hand and gently combed his fingers through the horse’s forelock. Sleipnir leaned into the touch as Loki lowered his forehead to rest against the stallion’s, fingers twined through his mane.

Neither made to move. Loki let the sweet aroma of hay and open fields beneath the sky surround him. It had been ages since he’d taken Sleipnir running—even before the fall. His gaze had turned inward to his own pain and schemes. An ache of guilt twisted within, a tight knot just beneath his lungs. He glanced sideways to where Book stood in the shadows—he couldn’t even parent a horse, what the Norns was Skuld thinking giving him a child?

Don’t leave me again. Sleipnir pushed a bit more forcefully against Loki.

Loki merely gave Sleipnir a pat on the neck and then hooked his hand behind the horse’s head. “Up.” Sleipnir arched up, hauling Loki to his feet. “You’re not supposed to be in the palace.”

The horse pawed somewhat sheepishly at the floor, stopping when he saw the streaks he left. Suddenly he stamped. Don’t care. Needed to know you were real.

Loki stroked his muzzle. “Real enough?”

Sleipnir gave a snort and dipped his head rapidly.

“This is so weird,” said Book, stepping forward. “Does it actually understand you?”

“He,” Loki corrected. “And he understands well enough.”

Sleipnir arched his neck away, ears erect as Book stood next to Loki. Who is this? he snorted, clearly not in favor of the newcomer at his mother’s side. He snuffed Book’s hair. He smells like you.

“This is…Fenris, my…” Loki couldn’t bring himself to say it, “my ward.”

A what?

“Someone I take care of, raise. He is my responsibility.” Loki tried again to explain.

A horsey frown settled across Sleipnir’s face. A pet?

With a sigh, Loki leaned against the pillar, one hand at his temples, covering his eyes. “He is…he is your brother,” Loki said grudgingly.

The horse paused for a moment, then gave a trumpet of delight, dancing around Book in gallivanting leaps. A brother!

A flash of the wolf gleamed from Book’s startled eyes as Sleipnir reared in celebration, four hooves pawing the air. The massive horse came down, snorting in a friendly manner, pushing his nose against Book’s chest.

“Let’s not overwhelm him,” said Loki from his place by the pillar.

Nodding, Sleipnir stilled, looking at Book with large, black eyes. Biting his lip, the boy edged forward and stretched out his hand. He flexed back at the last instant, leaving his palm hovering in front of the gray nose. Gently, Sleipnir stretched out, pressing his soft muzzle into Book’s palm. The cares of the day broke away in the smile that leapt across Book’s face.

“Oh, Coon would love you,” he murmured, his hand running up to stroke the horse’s forehead. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Sleipnir. I’m—I’m Fenris.” Sleipnir nodded his head and wickered softly.

Suddenly Book leaned forward and took a deep sniff. Realization of what he’d just done sent him stumbling backward, confusion and horror evident in his expression.

“Do you believe Odin now?” asked Loki quietly. “Do you understand how very changed you are?”

Book managed a few steps before his hands were on his knees and a horrible retching tore his throat. Soft, warm breaths ruffled his hair as he crouched there, shaking. Brother? Sleipnir draped his neck over Book’s shoulder comfortingly.

“Well, that is vile.” Loki eased the boy to his feet but left his hands on his shoulders. With a glance, the mess magically vanished. Book tensed at his touch, but didn’t draw away either. “I think a rest is in order. Sleipnir, is it not past your time to retire as well?”

The horse stomped somewhat petulantly. I’m not a foal.

Loki raised an eyebrow.

Yes, Mother. He gave one last nudge to Book and paused for Loki to scratch him behind the ears before traipsing off down the corridor. Good night, Brother! His trumpet echoed behind him.

Loki guided Book in the opposite direction, nearly supporting him by the time they reached the chambers Frigga had prepared. There Thor waited beside the flickering fire. Between them the two brothers unwound Book from the cloak and led him to an adjacent bath, easing him down the stairs into the warm water. The boy was too overcome with exhaustion to even protest or argue for modesty. Dirt swirled through the clear water, followed by scented suds as the two princes silently scrubbed Book down.

The black marks beneath his fingers gave Loki pause as he splashed water against the thin, pale arm. The dark column of names stood stark against the skin around it, unfaded by the water. Runes had replaced the scrawled letters, but Loki knew that Book would never have need to re-ink them again. They would remain more surely than any tattoo or scar, a sign of Book’s willingness to overcome.

He had no need for his nightly ritual any longer. He had escaped the streets, the gangs, the drugs—all the dangers of his former life. Loki rubbed his thumb over the marks. Book had escaped, but what greater dangers did he now face as Fenris? A child of Midgard was unlikely to be skewered by a sword or run afoul of dangerous magics. But a child of Asgard? A prince? There were dangers in the nine realms that Earth knew nothing of because of Asgard and her people. And beyond the Nine?

Loki stiffened at the thought of what Thanos would do simply because Book was now Lokison.

The boy swayed between the brothers as Thor caught Loki’s eye and they silently helped Book out of the bath and swaddled him in warm towels. Before long, Book was dry and dropped into the finest set of clothes he’d ever worn, merely to go to sleep. Loki scooped him up and laid him between the sheets.

Thor hesitated by the doorway as Loki refused to move, considering the sleeping form dwarfed by the size of the bed.

“Will you go to your chambers?” asked Thor.

Loki gave a quick jerk of his head and lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress. Thor nodded in response and silently drew a chair up next to Loki and settled himself in it.

The silence deepened as Loki pulled up one knee and rested his chin on his arms. Book looked no different than he had many of the other times that Loki had stood over him while he slept. Sometimes his thoughts had been ones of contemplation, or of weighing the value of that single mortal life—others had been thoughts of worry or relief—especially as Book had lain in that snarl of wires and tubes with his life ticking out on a dozen humming monitors. And yet there was a difference now. Now he had every right to whatever emotions of distress or fondness could overtake him. Because Book—Fenris—was his. He wondered how often his mother had waited as he did, watching over either Thor or himself as they slept.

“I…have a son.” Disbelief and a kind of wonder wrapped themselves about the words as Loki looked to his brother in confusion.

A deep, throaty chuckle reverberated in Thor’s chest. His smile was fond. “I think that you have had one long before Father’s pronouncement. You simply weren’t willing to admit it.”

Loki twined his fingers through the black streak in the boy’s hair, memories flitting over everything that he and Book had been through. The nights of cold and days of hunger. Arguments, laughter, trials, and triumph. Working as a team and having a language all their own. Book had drawn him into his world of soup kitchens, cardboard for bedding, and holding your life in a ragged bag. And, inadvertently, Loki had drawn the boy into his. Into a world of Chitauri assassins, blood rites, and shapeshifting.

He had a son.

A bitter laugh escaped his lips, causing Thor to look up in surprise. “Oh, how very domesticated I’ve become.” How the man he once was would have mocked him. How the failed conqueror in a cage would have sneered at such a maudlin scene. Loki remembered Skuld’s words as she left him hollowed out on the side of a half-forgotten Midgardian road. He looked vaguely at the ceiling. “You told me once that you truly knew how to make a prison. I believe you now, Scrivener.” He listened to the now familiar breathing at his side and felt the warmth of his own magic threaded through the sleeping form beneath his hand. “This is a well crafted trap.” Loki glanced from Book to his brother. “And I think I may yet even come to…tolerate the bars.”

Chapter Text

Book and Frigga knelt facing one another under the shade of a spreading tree in the palace gardens. Loki observed from a distance. It seemed his mother was having far greater luck tutoring Book with his shapechanging than he had. The tension that remained between them made it difficult to get anywhere without tempers flaring.

He buried his head in his arms. Things had been simpler when they were vagabonds and didn’t always know where their next meal would come from. Then he had had Book’s trust. Now it seemed whenever a tenuous bond was re-forged the lingering anger and mistrust would tear through it leaving them once more as wary strangers forced to play the part of family.

“Tell me there comes a time when I am not salt to his wounds?” Loki mumbled into his arms before raising his head to look at the Norn who had appeared beside him between one thought and the next.

Skuld seemed unsurprised at his knowledge of her presence. “It is said that time heals all.”

“Little comfort to someone with a possible lifespan of millennia.” He let out a slow breath. “He will never forgive me for what I’ve done to him.”

“To him?”

He paused. Book was less than thrilled at his new pedigree; however, in true Book fashion, that seemed to trouble his thoughts far less than other things. “To Earth, to New York.” He let out a slow breath. “Even to Jotunheim.”

The Norn hummed in contemplation. She knelt beside him, folding her long limbs down somewhat uncomfortably. “Forgiveness is a weighty thing, little understood. Often more concerned with the one that grants it than the one that receives.”           

Loki fixed the Norn with a sidelong glance. He had little love for the Norn’s insights—not because they were in error, but because he rarely liked what she had to say. That so often she seemed to be correct only made it worse.

Skuld continued. “Forgiveness is not something given in condescension to the ragged beggar pleading at the royal’s feet. Nor is it a prize awarded because someone has worked for it—has earned it. Forgiveness is given to those who do not deserve it, and never can—even to those who do not wish for it and try to throw it back in the giver’s face.”

“Then I ought not seek forgiveness?”

The Norn gave a slow blink. “Strive to walk a new path, regardless of whether Fenris, or any other forgives you. Turn from blood and madness, do what is hard, even if there is no thanks in it.”

She caught Loki’s face in her hand, turning him to her even as he tried to duck away. The sharp lines of her face seemed to soften. “But I do not think that if you walk this new path you will walk it alone.” Her gaze drifted back to where Book had finally flopped over in the grass and thrown an exhausted arm over his eyes. “At least not for long.”

Loki watched as Book said something—probably a ridiculous observation—and his mother’s shoulders shook as she hid a smile behind her hand. She then settled next to Book, spreading out her skirts and engaging her grandson in conversation.

“It appears he has already won over one new devotee,” the Norn observed.

“Two if you count Sleipnir. Who is ecstatic to have a herd-brother by the way and rather too eager for me to produce more. He is, of course, somewhat confused about the process.” Loki pursed his lips. “I think he’s still under the impression that eightlegged horses spring from a particular field on the Shining Plain.” Resting his chin on his arm he watched as Book’s arms flailed about him in concert with whatever tale he was recounting to Frigga. His ghost of a smile faded. “Not all of Asgard will be so welcoming.”

“You think not?”

Loki snorted, lips curled. “He is Lokison.” A shard of bitterness sharpened within his green gaze. “Already I see the looks of derision and hear the whispers floating through the court. He is no warrior. What use does Asgard have for a prince who loves books too dearly?” Teeth clenched. “And within he carries the kind of monster it has been Asgard’s pride to slaughter for eons. Better that he have lived in obscurity on Midgard.”

“Never desire that.” The sharpness in Skuld’s words brought Loki up short. A chill crept up his spine as the Norn’s features hardened. “Though an innocent may lead a charmed life, all charms fade.” She flicked her gaze to the side. “And darkness festers in the hearts of men.”

Loki closed his eyes against what he read in the Norn’s inky stare.

She softened. “Do not be troubled by what might have been. As Fenris, his fate wends a very different path.”

“One free of struggles?”

“There are no such lives. No tales free of tribulation. Perhaps once we could have told such tales, but now there are no unbroken creatures or worlds untainted.” A long finger pressed into the center of his chest. “Trust that he is where he ought to be—and that all will be well.” A sudden glint of humor quirked her lips. “I know—I’ve read the ending.”

Loki’s shoulders jerked with a bark of surprised laughter. “Then pray tell, oh wise one, how exactly is that,” he motioned to where Book seemed to be demonstrating—badly—one of the martial exercises he’d tried to copy from Loki, “meant to learn to live as an Asgardian? As a prince?”

She gave a few rapid blinks. “Practice.”

An over enthusiastic lunge sent Book sprawling into the grass.

The Norn cleared her throat. “A good deal of it.” She cocked her head to the side as Book’s laughter floated up the hill to them. “He need not face this challenge on his own. Fenris has you to aid him. And you are clever.”

Loki sucked on his teeth. “I begin to think I am simply conniving rather than clever.”

“It is possible to be both, and you come by your scheming tendencies quite honestly,” said Skuld.

A tightness ran across Loki’s shoulders as his fists curled. “Laufey.”

The Norn smiled. “Hardly.” She watched Frigga pull a book from her satchel and beckon the boy over. Laying the volume in her lap, she started pointing things out to Book as he leaned over her shoulder. “There was calculation in your mother’s choice to bring her two young sons to Yggdrasil’s heart when dark tidings overshadowed her visions. The journey to Urd’s well is no easy feat. Yet she brought you and Thor with her where I might see you firsthand. And take an interest.”

Loki looked up sharply. “You imply that she—”

“Do not underestimate the lengths to which a mother will go for her child.” She traced an idle nail down her forearm, runes scudding beneath the surface of her skin. Loki felt an answering heat along his arms and above his heart. The runes of the blood rite, though long-healed, flared briefly beneath his flesh. “Or, I think, a father for his son.”

A kind of awe filled Loki as he considered his mother. His well spoken, decorous mother. Who glittered through the court and read poetry to him while his head rested in her lap. His mother who smelled of laurel and whose soft fingers had often rubbed circles on his back as she listened through his childhood tears. Loki pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. His mother who was the reason he knew his way around a knife better than any on Asgard, who could silence a room without ever raising her voice. His mother who sat upon the throne during the Ice Wars and used her words as skillfully as he did—if less cuttingly. His mother the Farseer.

As if she knew he was thinking of her, Frigga raised her head and gave her youngest a beaming smile that edged almost into a smirk as she beheld Skuld at his side. Frigga placed a hand lightly to her heart and bowed her head to the Norn. Skuld in return offered a knowing salute and inclined her head in turn.

“I have always found Frigga Fjorgynsdottir a delight to write.” A strange heaviness settled in her words. The depths of her eyes peered into a might-have-been with such sorrow that it made Loki’s heart twist within his chest. “It is well that you ruined Verthandi’s original weavings.”

Quiet settled into the space between them. Loki reined in his thoughts before they could spiral too far down the dark possibilities implied by Skuld’s words. A breeze wafted over them, almost apologetically ruffling the feathers in the Norn’s hair. It filtered through the tree above Frigga and Book, shaking loose a handful of tiny leaves that skittered about before some dropped onto the pages spread across Frigga’s lap. Loki shook his head as Book picked one up and twirled the little leaf between his fingers, clearly asking Frigga about it. Little wonder, Midgard had no such trees.

Turning from the scene Loki slid up onto his feet and peered down at Skuld with an appraising look. “I find myself with a horse and a giant wolf for sons. Are the scribblers of Midgard to be believed? Should I expect a serpent and a half-dead girl to work their way into my life at some point?”

The Norn cocked her head to the side—unintimidated by the way Loki loomed over her. “When the imaginations of Midgard are seeded with Urd’s prophecies their minds sometimes bear strange fruit.” Unfolding from the ground, she reached up and played a strand of Loki’s hair through her fingers, the color shifting from onyx to a fiery red. “Do you know they think you to be a redhead?”

Loki snorted and pulled back, giving his head a quick shake to shift it back to his natural shades.

“I had toyed with it when we first conceived your tale.” Her eyes glinted. “But I like the look of night upon you far better. Strange that the humans should find that detail among my discarded imaginings.”

He flicked his gaze up to her face. She was trying to distract him. “That is no answer.”

Pressing long fingers together, she shook her head. “You have naught to do but live your life, Loki Odinson and find what lies ahead.”

“After all that you’ve put me through, not even a hint? I am your favorite after all.” He put on his most charming smile. Clearly calculated and certainly not something Skuld would ever mistake for genuine. But it was very charming.

Her eyes flicked over him for a moment before the strangest noise escaped her lips. Though it was odd to his ears, Loki felt the effect of the sound deep in his soul and a mirth rose up to meet the bizarre sounds of joy. Skuld was laughing. And when one of the fates laughed, you couldn’t help but share their delight. Loki’s features softened into an easy grin that would have seemed familiar to those who knew him when he was less careworn. He shrugged. You can’t blame me for trying, Scrivener.

She raised an eyebrow. Can’t I, Silvertongue? The words echoed within his mind. Suddenly, she darted in, her breath cool and raising the hairs on the back of his neck as she bent to his ear. “I could tell you that there are great strivings in the coming days. That you will walk in strange realms and find unlikely allies. I could speak of the child abandoned to the cold who could not leave others to a similar fate. Perhaps I could pen tales of the fires that he will face and of the unexpected delights. Of the dark nights that may come. Of nights filled with anguish and with tears, and nights whose emptiness has been filled to overflowing and that have no room for nightmares. I could speak of the children at your knee, the brother at your side, and yes, even of the friends at your back.”

Though the words were whispered, he caught every one of them. “I could speak of the tale we will tell,” the Norn drew back and offered him what he interpreted as a mischievous smile, “but that would be spoiling things.”

He turned her words over in his mind. It seemed Skuld had grander plans for the course of his life than he first imagined. He’d thought she’d mostly been interested in his role at the end of all things. He worried the edge of his surcoat between his finger and thumb. “You envision a future with paths more…intricate than I would have imagined. I don’t exactly have the freedom I once did.” He held up his branded wrist. He could almost feel the magic constrict within that watchful eye at the mere thought of trying to slip beyond the boundaries of his leash.

Pale fingers traced idly over the mark. “I wished to save you from the role of villain.” She glanced up at him with a look that knew full well he’d already been trying to find ways to circumvent Odin’s strictures. “I didn’t mean for you to be boring.”

He quirked an eyebrow. Boring…now that was something he would never abide. Abruptly he took her hand and bowed low over it, brushing his lips lightly across the ink infused flesh. “My lady.”

Long fingers gently raised his chin upward. Inky eyes met his, glimmering with possibilities and secrets of things to come. She shook her head fondly as her thumb brushed his cheek. Pride tinged with amusement flooded her voice. “My trickster.”