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Hunting a dragon, Thor thought, sounded far more exciting in theory than it seemed in practice.  

They'd left their horses behind a short while ago, and at the moment their expedition consisted of trudging through undergrowth of varying density and watching Loki stop every few hundred steps to mutter his tracking spell. 

“Are you certain this is the way?” Fandral asked, and not for the first time. 

“Yes, I am certain,” Loki snapped back. He didn't bother to turn around, only stomped forward a few steps before muttering the spell again. 

“It's only that we've been at this for hours, and we've yet to see so much as a suspicious puff of smoke. I have never heard of a dragon so clever it could hide its monstrous bulk entirely.”

“Based on the strength of its aura, I judge it to be still a ways off.” Loki lowered his arms from this latest iteration of the tracking spell, and he turned, slowly, back to face them. “By my estimation, the dragon is still several miles dist—” 

The flash of claws came from nowhere, and Loki's eyes went comically wide before he dove out of the way. Hogun snapped upright while Fandral stumbled, and it took him two rushed tries to successfully pull his sword from its scabbard. Loki rolled back to his feet, a knife in one hand and the other tucked close to his side. 

Thor spun to face the dragon—and it was the dragon—before he'd finished unhooking his axe from the straps holding it to his back. The beast caught sight of the movement and swung to stare him down, letting out a low, menacing growl. 

The dragon itself was smaller than Thor had imagined, only about the height of a man, with short wings that looked like they'd barely be able to lift it off the ground. Heavy, overlapping scales covered vital areas, ringing the dragon's throat and parts of its face and chest, but the rest of its skin seemed soft and leathery. It was difficult to tell, though, because large areas of its skin shone with gold plates, uneven clumps of the metal that looked like they had been melted haphazardly onto the creature's skin. Two curved horns rose tall out of its head, and he dodged as the creature lowered them and charged. He brought his axe down as it passed only to have it glance off one of the gold plates. 

“A challenge, then,” Fandral said, and laughed. The dragon swung around to hiss at him, its nostrils trailing thin wisps of smoke, but the swordsman danced back out of reach, coming to a stop beside Volstagg. Thor used the opening to rush in, but the beast's long tail thrashed and swept him off his feet. He went down with a grunt before he could swing. 

Sif leapt forward, positioning herself to protect Thor, but the sudden movement attracted the creature's attention. He cried out as it lunged for his companion, quick and deadly. 

One second the dragon was slashing out towards Sif, lunging forward in a rush of needle-sharp teeth, and the next it had recoiled, rebounding off the empty air like a bird that had smacked into a glass window. The air before it shimmered just slightly, green and translucent, the color of Loki's magic. He could just see his brother out of the corner of his eye, pale and drawn from the power it must have taken to stop the dragon's advance. 

The dragon itself staggered back, disoriented. For a half-second, it neither moved nor attacked, and he used the reprieve to line up his next strike. With a single blow, his ax drove straight through the dragon's neck, and the lizard sprawled on the grass. Its head, separated from its body, rolled a short way before rocking to a stop. 

He turned to face Loki, still breathing heavily and with the thrill of battle quickening his pulse. “Still a ways away, eh, brother?” Loki panted back at him, and he nearly laughed at the wrung-out look of him. He seemed just a touch too pale, though, too winded, and Thor's amusement faded to concern. “You were struck,” he said as it dawned on him. Loki had fallen during the dragon's first charge; he'd dismissed it when his brother had pushed back to his feet, but his relief may have been premature. “Are you injured?” 

Loki snorted, his features twisting up into an expression that aimed for disdain  but was still too exhausted to reach it. “Hardly.” 

Thor had spent too much time around his brother to trust an answer that seemed to skirt a denial without stating one outright. He scanned with his eyes, searching out any sign of injury, and settled on a tear in the leather of one vambrace. “Your arm. Let me see it.”

Loki rolled his eyes. “This? Really, Thor, not even Mother would drag me to a healer for such a tiny scratch. It did not even break the skin.” Thor grabbed the arm and brought it closer to inspect the wound. Sure enough, the vambrace had split, but while the scratch underneath stood out reddened and angry, it didn't bleed. He let go, and Loki jerked his arm back. “You see?”

“You could've told me,” he grumbled, relieved nonetheless. 

“Am I to detail every small annoyance to you now? Because I've four persistent pains in my—”

“What you are both ignoring,” Fandral cut in, “is that we've just slain a dragon. Look at it!” 

Thor turned his attention back to the slain beast, which, despite its disappointingly small size, still looked fierce even in death. The evening sun glinted menacingly off long teeth and sharp claws. 

“It is quite the accomplishment,” Volstagg said proudly. “Might even make a fine tale, with a bit of embellishment. Any of you lot ever tasted dragon?” 

“The meat is poisonous and inedible,” Loki said, and Volstagg's face fell a little. “In fact, dragon's blood as a poison was once a favored tool of assassination among the Vanir nobility, before they were brought under Asgard's protection.”

“Is it real gold, do you think?” Fandral rested a hand lightly on a patch of the bright yellow sunk into the dragon's hide. 

“It looks real.” Sif drummed her knuckles against the metal. 

Fandral slid the flat of his blade between metal and skin, using it as a wedge to pry off the flattened mess. It came free with a crack like a splitting oak. 

As for Thor, he assessed the creature to determine what would make the greatest trophy and proof of their victory. The decision did not take long—the horns, steep and curving, were both distinctive and fierce. He took a few steps over to where the head lay and turned it over with his boot. It took several swings of his axe to remove each horn, and once it was done, he fastened them to his back alongside his weapon. 

He turned back to find Loki kneeling at the dragon's side, a short knife in his hand. With a wrenching motion, he tore off several scales, thin and translucent, and wrapped them in cloth before stowing them in a leather pouch. As though he sensed Thor's gaze, he looked up. “Dragon's scales are an invaluable material in crafting several instruments of study,” he said, almost defensively. “Their durability is unmatched for a material so thin.”

Thor shrugged. “Have you collected all you need, then? I shouldn't think you'll have another opportunity so convenient.” 

He nodded, and Thor turned his attention to their other friends, standing a little ways off and observing the wide gold plate Fandral still held. “In that case,” he said, “I think it's time we head back to the halls of Njord. Think they shall commission a feast in our honor?” 

“Well, we did slay the fearsome beast.” Fandral grinned, and beside him, Hogun nodded. 

“I certainly wouldn't complain,” Volstagg added, boisterous as ever. Thor couldn't blame him—the good cheer was catching, and an easy victory was a victory all the same. 

Sif rolled her eyes. “You never complain about a feast, my friend.”

“Of course not! That'd be ungrateful, and I'll not have it said that we lack manners!”

“A feast to the dragon-slayers, then,” Thor said happily, half in jest. 

But then again, Thor Dragonsbane could have a nice ring to it. 

The Vanir court was in session when they returned, the Lord Njord seated in his grand hall and hearing petitions. Local sorts of things, Thor would expect, neighborhood disputes over land and titles, minor criminals arguing for clemency before their sentences were carried out, matters of inheritance. Odin did the same thing, in Asgard, dull as it was, and a part of Thor hoped without much hope that the necessity for it would pass before he himself took the throne. 

Odin, of course, would not still be addressing domestic issues when a band of noble warriors returned victorious, but then, Njord did not have his ravens or Heimdall the Gatekeeper or the long-seeing eye of Hlidskjalf to aid him, so Thor could be gracious. Nevertheless, he strode purposefully into the room, momentarily gratified when the chatter of voices fell silent. 

He thought they must look quite the picture, standing there, still disheveled from the fight and with dragon's blood spattered across their armor, and he with the creatures mighty horns slung across his back. Still, Njord's gaze on them seemed harsh and hardened, and he found himself bristling under it. He took great care, at the center of the room's attention, in unslinging the long horns, and he bowed low and respectfully as he held them out towards Njord. 

The Vanir lord himself had a face that lent itself naturally to scowls, with a heavy jaw and dark, well-defined brows, so it was difficult, at times, to tell when something had actually displeased him. Thor found it irritating, especially now, when the man should be impressed or at the very least relieved by their victory. He must be, even if it didn't show on his face. 

“We present to you the horns of the dragon that has been troubling your people,” Thor said, but the muttering that rose up around them seemed a far cry from awe or gratitude. “It fought valiantly, but—”

A messenger burst through the door, interrupting Thor's speech. Usually, an errand boy would have waited for the prince to finish, but he rushed forward, breathing so hard he could barely speak and with a glazed sort of panic to his expression that immediately drew the curiosity of the onlookers. Thor felt a twitch of unease as the boy gasped, gathering himself to speak. 

“The dragon,” he said, the second he could force out the words. “It's attacked several villages outright, and ventured as far as the North Woods.” He stared forward, eyes unseeing as he forced out the rest of his message. “My Lord—none of the attacks that came before were so vicious. Its onslaught is that of a beast enraged.” 

Njord frowned. “I see.” Thor felt a flush creeping up his cheeks. Beside him, his companions had gone pale. 

“The dragon we slew was a juvenile,” Loki said from somewhere at his side, and something dropped like a lead weight in Thor's stomach. “It is possible that this is one of its parents.” 

Njord's expression hadn't softened. “So it would seem.”

“Then we shall slay this second dragon as well,” Thor said quickly. To act would be infinitely better than standing here and hearing of the destruction they had failed to prevent. 

The look Njord turned on him was far too assessing for his comfort. “Perhaps it would be wiser to contact the Allfather and request more warriors,” he said cautiously. “After all, a mature dragon is far too large for that pair of horns you've brought back.” 

“We are the finest warriors Asgard has to offer.” More heat crept into Thor's cheeks, but this time not from embarrassment. “Do not question our ability to—” 

“What my brother means to suggest is that it would be swifter to send us than to call for reinforcements,” Loki cut in, resting a steady hand on Thor's shoulder. The painful strength with which he squeezed made Thor suspect he had recovered from his prior use of magic. “With the situation so dire, it would be sensible to respond with as much alacrity as is possible, and while the dragon we so recently slew may be small, it can serve as a testament of our skill. We can employ that same skill against this new threat. With your permission, of course.”

Njord had that look that people often wore when arguing with Loki, a look that said they didn't agree, exactly, but they also weren't sure how to disagree. The look often heralded Loki's victory, so Thor found himself hopeful. 

After a moment's consideration, Njord sighed. “Very well.” He gestured to the boy who brought the message, who had wilted off to the side, still pale with exhaustion. “He can lead you to the site of the attacks.” 

The boy went colorless, looking up at them with visible apprehension. Thor dropped a hand on his shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. “Excellent!” he said, “We shall leave at once.” 

On the way out to the stables, he intentionally fell into step beside the boy, who hurried to keep up with the warriors' long strides. “What is your name?” he asked, lowering his voice just a little from its usual boisterous volume. 

“Leif,” he said, still glancing about nervously, as though he expected the dragon to materialize from behind the ivy-covered stone pillars that lined the walkway. 

“Well, Leif, you have nothing to fear,” he said cheerfully, “because you now keep company with the finest band of warriors in all of Asgard. I promise you, you shall be safe with us. No dragon shall get the best of this group!” He brought a fist to his chest to emphasize the words, keeping his expression confident. The boy stared up at him with wide eyes that held as much wonder as fear, and that was nice, after Njord's near-open skepticism. “Now if you run ahead to the stable, and tell them we need—do you ride?” 

Leif flushed. “Not very well.” 

“Tell them we'll need six horses, then,” he said. “You can ride with one of us.” The boy nodded and scurried on ahead. 

Thor sped up just enough to catch up to the rest of the group and fell into step beside Loki, who didn't look at him. He had the sort of peevish expression that meant he wasn't particularly pleased with something, but wouldn't say what if Thor asked. 

“Nicely done, talking down Njord.” Thor slapped his brother heartily on the back, causing him to stumble a half-step forward. “I do believe he'd have kept us here otherwise.” 

“Perhaps that would have been wise.” He shot his brother a hard look, but Loki only rolled his eyes. “No, don't look at me like that. I'd be in favor of sending someone else if I didn't know you lot would all sneak off to try and fight the thing anyways. At least this way we won't be in trouble on our return.”

Thor's grin returned. “You do know me well, though I don't believe you aren't as eager to try your hand against the beast as the rest of us.”

“Believe it,” Loki muttered. “Unlike you lot, I've actually got a brain in my skull, and I'd like to keep it there.” 

Volstagg laughed, and clapped him on the back heartily enough that he stumbled forward again. “Keep talking like that and you'll be able to leave your knives at home,” he said. “The sharpness of your tongue will suffice.”

“Jests aside, it's all the more reason you should come,” Thor added. “Perhaps this dragon will be the crafty foe we were promised, in which case we may have need of your wits. Surely you won't leave us to march into such a battle unarmed.” 

For a second Thor thought he'd miscalculated; the emotion that flickered across Loki's face looked almost like true worry. It passed too quickly for him to be sure, though, and then his brother was rolling his eyes in the exaggerated way that meant Thor had won, but Loki was still prepared to put up a front of grumbling and forbearance. “I never said I wasn't coming. Norns know how our parents would react if I let you go get yourself eaten.”

Thor scoffed. “I'd hardly just let myself get eaten,” he said. “Besides, I'm sure the dragon would prefer someone with more meat to him, eh, Volstagg?” 

Volstagg snorted. “Me? The beast would choke!” 

“No one's going to be eaten,” Sif said, and rolled her eyes. “And none of you are funny. People have been killed, and recently. It isn't something to jest about.”

“We are a little funny,” Thor said, at the same time as Loki muttered “I wasn't jesting.”

Leif emerged with the horses, saddled and laid down with the traditional expedition fare, bedrolls and provisions and rope and tinder. Thor thought they were unlikely to need all of it, not when they had nothing more to do than slay a dragon and return, but he didn't object. 

The boy himself needed to sit behind one of them. Probably best if they rotated, for the horses' sake, though probably best not to include Volstagg, as that poor beast had enough to carry as it stood. 

“Leif.” When he had the boy's attention, he held out his hand. “You'll be with me, to start, at least. I can help you up.” 

The boy smiled, shy gratitude replacing some of the fear in his expression, and it soothed Thor's misgivings. Here, he was in his element, problems easily fixed for a grateful audience. 

The sun passed its zenith as they rode, sinking slowly down towards the horizon and filling the air with the late-spring heat, and he found himself impressed with the boy's fortitude, to have run so far on young legs. He told him so and earned a flushed smile. 

“Do you lot happen to have a plan for when we find the beast?” Loki asked, and Thor frowned at the skepticism in his voice. 

“Slay it,” he said easily. 

Loki looked at him over his shoulder, making deliberate eye contact before he rolled his eyes. “Obviously. Any idea how?” 

“With my axe,” he said, touching the handle of the weapon. 

“And my sword,” Fandral added. 

“And mine,” Sif said. 

“Put me down for another axe,” Volstagg said, and Thor smiled. 

Hogun grunted, a clear indication that he and his mace were also on board. 

Loki looked faintly peeved. “Very touching. Am I to assume we have no strategy, then?” 

“You make too much of things,” Thor argued. “Not everything has to be some elaborate, difficult scheme.”

“Well pardon me for wanting to survive this ill-advised quest,” Loki muttered, and then fell silent. They continued on, the clip of their horses' hooves the only sound. 

“There it is.” 

They stopped. Leif pointed on ahead, and his hand trembled. Thor snapped his head up, half expecting to see the dragon, but it was only the boy's village. 

A second later, his heart sunk down into his toes and stayed there. Houses had been crushed to flinders, and the trees had been ravaged, the ones still standing covered in scores and shredded bark. The cloying smell of blood brought with it a wave of nausea, and he spotted the source a second later. An entire field dotted with dead sheep, the white and red stark against the golden grass. They looked as though they had been toyed with, the wanton cruelty of a cat with a mouse magnified to a much larger scale. 

“Where is everyone?” Thor asked, even though he had a feeling he didn't want to know the answer. They dismounted, leaving the horses at the edge of the once-settlement to snort and stamp uneasily. He ran a finger over the jagged edge of a wall, ripped apart as though by giant teeth. 

“Most of them fled into the hills,” Leif said. Thor didn't ask what happened to the rest. 

“How far to the nearest safe settlement?” Thor asked. 

Leif pointed. “There's a system of caves a mile or so in that direction. People are sheltering there until the dragon is gone.” 

Thor glanced down at the boy. “Can you make it there on your own?” He nodded, and Thor clapped him on the shoulder. “Go, then. We are grateful for your help.”

Leif gave him an uneasy look, then nodded, bringing his fist to his chest in a salute. “May fortune smile upon you, and the Norns grant you safe travels,” he said, then turned and sprinted away. 

When he faded into the distance, Thor steeled himself and truly looked at the village. It seemed...less viscerally horrifying, now that he knew what to expect, but it still stood too still, too quiet, and it was wrong. Oppressive. He wouldn't say haunted, because that was a word for fools and children, but something about the emptiness still itched uncomfortably at him. 

“Gruesome,” Fandral said, and Thor almost wanted to hush him for breaking the silence. “No wonder everyone's in an uproar.” 

 “I suppose here's as good a place as any to start our search,” Thor said. He let his eyes sweep the ground noncommittally. There was very little chance that a beast like a dragon would leave a trail conventional hunters could follow; times like these were when it often proved useful to have a sorcerer along. “Loki?” 

“Give me a moment.” 

Now that he looked, his brother had gone a little pale, and his lips had disappeared into a thin line. Ordinarily Thor might have teased him for being squeamish, but the lingering uneasiness kept him silent. 

Loki moved a little ways away, squeezed his eyes shut and muttered, his fingers tracing arcane gestures in the air. Thor watched him for half a minute before his attention wandered, and his eyes were pulled almost against his will back to the nearest sheep carcass. He'd killed things before, of course, during hunts, but the thought of slaughtering an animal to leave it behind felt obscene, somehow. 

He pulled his eyes back away from the carnage in time to spot a shadow skimming across the ground. He glanced up and—

“Down!” he shouted, and he and his friends flattened themselves against the hillside as the dragon dipped and skimmed overhead. Loki started out of his trance and, with an uncharacteristic lack of grace, stumbled over his own feet and wound up only barely salvaging the roll out of it. 

The next second Thor's axe was in his hand, and he dropped down into a tense crouch, facing the dragon. It opened its mouth and screamed as it circled overhead, the sound impossibly deep as it resonated through the ground at his feet. 

Something small flew through the air and clattered off the dragon's armored side; it took him a second to recognize Volstagg's axe. With a whirl of wings and scales the dragon dove after the source of the irritant, and Sif jumped forward to defend their now-unarmed friend. 

The beast swerved at the last moment to snap at Hogun, who sent his mace flying from the other side then darted back and out of range. The dragon's feet touched the ground and its wings folded, leaving the beast standing almost on top of them. A hind leg thick as a tree trunk crushed half a shed, and Thor took a second to be glad the village was already empty. 

The rhythm that followed reminded him of a pack of hyenas taking down a lion. The five of them circled, keeping their distance as the dragon hissed and snarled. Then one of them would strike, and as the dragon turned to retaliate, another would move forward to take the offensive. Thor shouted as he leapt into the fray, swinging wildly and then catching a large claw on his axe as it swiped at him. The grating contact struck sparks.  

The next swipe caught him against his side, blunt but hard enough to bruise his ribs, and he went flying to the side, plowing into the wreck of what had once been a barn with enough force to splinter the wood. 

As he clawed himself back upright, fighting against a shower of dust and splinters, he heard Loki shout, saw a blur as he rushed forward with a dagger in each hand. 

The dragon didn't turn to look; its leg shot out, huge and tipped in menacing claws, and stomped his brother into the ground like a cat batting down an annoying beetle. Thor felt rather than heard himself shout, and he rushed forward as the dragon swung around and fixed its attention on Loki, who lay sprawled on the ground where he had been struck and didn't move. 

A clipped blow from the blunt side of his axe hit hard enough to stagger it, but it didn't swing around to face him like he expected. No, it lunged towards his brother's prone form, and for a second he was certain he was about to watch as it ground him into the dirt, crushed his ribcage or his skull while Thor was too slow to stop it. 

Instead, the enormous, vise-like foot closed around Loki's chest, and the dragon leapt into the sky with its remaining three legs, flapping broad wings that kicked up clouds of dust as it rose steadily. Thor screamed in frustration, but already they were too far off the ground to reach and rising steadily. 

He had time enough for a single shot, one chance at hitting the beast and forcing it to drop Loki (and hopefully somehow catching him after). He pulled back the axe, feeling the strain in his shoulder as he held it in place and aimed, carefully, for the joint of the leg holding his brother. 

With a great, explosive effort he let the axe fly. It arced up perfectly, aimed precisely for the weak spot at the back of the creature's knee, and for just a second he thought he'd done it and let the breath rush out of him in a sigh of relief. Too soon; the dragon screamed and swerved, and the axe flew just by it, passing a hairsbreadth away from the dark head dangling limp from the dragon's claws. 

His heart stuttered and restarted, but the axe was already falling, tumbling end over end until it hit the ground a handful of yards away. The force of the fall left it half-buried in the ground where it struck. He sprinted over to where the handle stuck up out of the ground, still vibrating with the force of its landing, and he had to yank with all of his strength to free it from the split earth. 

He turned and raised it again, debating if another throw was worth the chance of accidentally hitting his own brother, but the dragon had already grown small in the distance, too far for him to have a prayer of reaching it. Another few seconds and it disappeared from sight entirely. 

“No,” he shouted after it, “no, no, no!”

Without thinking he started running in the direction it had gone, fighting against panic that left his mind blurred. The field had gone almost unnaturally still with the beast gone, and the only sounds were his feet hammering against the ground and his heart hammering in his ears. “No,” he said again, coming to a stop a little ways away and staring up at the sky as though he could make them reappear. 

“Thor!” He turned to find Sif sprinting up behind him, and when he turned to start running again she grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him back. “Thor, the horses,” she said. “We'll make better time if we catch them.”

No, he wanted to run and not stop until he caught up with the monster, but Sif was right. He turned without meeting her eyes and nodded, trying not to notice how pale she had gone. 

He spotted his own mount a fair ways away, a bay mare he'd chosen for her speed and easy temperament. She hovered beside a large stone outcropping, almost pressed up against the grey stone. Without conscious thought he took off towards her at a sprint, spurred to urgency by mental images that were half memory and half gruesome imagining. 

As soon as he got close to her, though, she skittered back, tossing her head with eyes so wide they showed thin crescents of white. When he pressed forward she turned and jumped and bolted, sprinting a little ways off before slowing. 

He cursed, and when he brought a hand to his mouth it was shaking. His heart hammered in his chest, speeding up as if to remind him there was no time for this. 

He strode out again, steps quick and purposeful, and while his horse didn't run, she did shy back, keeping intentionally just out of his reach. Impatient, he made a lunge for her bridle, only to have her thunder past him again. 

With a growl, he turned to follow, but a hand caught his arm. “Let me go, Sif.” He shook the hand off. “We have no time to waste.”

The grip closed back around his arm, stronger than before. “Hogun can do it faster,” she said, “he's already caught several of the others.” He followed her pointed finger back to Volstagg and Fandral, and they each held the lead of one of their horses. The animals didn't seem ready to bolt, even if they still shifted uneasily. 

“Give me one,” he said, and within seconds he had the bridle for the horse Fandral had been holding. It sidestepped but he held it steady, then swung up onto its back. 

He left the cries of “wait” and “hold up, Thor” behind him and urged the horse into a sprint in the direction the dragon had gone. 

The moon barely shone, nothing more than a thin cuticle of light in the deep black sky. 

Thor had charged through the stone and dirt streets of small villages, and then over grassy trails and rolling hills when the villages faded away behind him, and finally through the forest, slowing down only after hidden tree roots tripped up his horse so badly it had nearly sent him flying. But the dragon had left no path through the clear sky, and that sky took on shadows and colors and then gradually faded to a vaulted ceiling of stars far overhead. He could barely see, and if he were honest with himself he was no longer certain which direction he needed to go. He could be going the wrong way, or he could have passed the dragon's lair long ago and ventured beyond it. 

The possibilities were maddening. 

He turned around once, twice, trying to orient, then dismounted, sliding to the ground on legs gone numb from hard riding. The horse had long since calmed, settled from running hard enough to burn off its nervous energy, so he left it panting as he stumbled forward. 

The sky watched him with placid, uncaring stars as he screamed in frustration. There was nothing satisfying nearby for him lash out at, so he aimed a wild strike at the closest tree, and either the bones in his hand or the bark of the oak crackled ominously. 

A vicious voice deep inside him with a voice that was almost familiar said good job, stand there fighting a tree while—

But he drove his fist into the trunk again, because he didn't want to think about the while, to imagine what might be happening as he stumbled around lost and useless. 

His friends found him a short time later, quickly enough that they could not have been far behind. 

“Thor,” Sif said, so quietly he could barely hear her over his own ragged breathing. “We have to go back.”

“No,” he said immediately, and he felt his anger rising as though it had been waiting for a target that was not him. “That you could even suggest—”

“I don't like it either,” she said, so earnestly that Thor believed her. “But we are doing no good running aimlessly. It could be that someone back in the city has information that could lead us to wherever the dragon has gone.”

“And if they don't?” Thor challenged. 

Sif bit her lip. “Then we shall have to ask Heimdall.”

Thor shook his head, feeling dazed. “No,” he said again, “that would be—it would take days, to travel back to the Bifrost site, speak with Heimdall, and return. A week, perhaps more. That is not—that cannot be an option.”

“It can be a last resort,” Sif offered. “It shouldn't come to that.”

Thor looked back to the sky and then to the forest ahead; nothing in either gave him any sign, any clue to where he should go. He took a deep breath and deflated. 

Something inside him urged him to movement, to action, but he didn't know where to go or what to do, and every option made him feel more sick. 

“All right,” he said at last. “We head back, but only for information. Only so we can find it.” He took a breath, and it shuddered on the exhale. “It's only,” he said, carefully, so his voice didn't crack, “What will become of him, while we delay?” 

Sif's lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't answer. 

Loki awoke to darkness, and to a suffocating weight pinning down his chest, his limbs. With a burst of panic he managed to push through the weight, tossing it up and off of him as he sat upright. 

To his surprise it seemed to dissolve as he pushed against it, and then he was sitting, what felt and sounded like small bits of metal falling from him in a cascading rain. They clinked against the ground, piling in his lap with surprising weight. 

He blinked again, but the darkness remained absolute, the only sound the scrape and plink of metal whenever he moved. With a small gesture he brought to life a small flame for light, remembering a second later that he didn't know where he was, or with whom, or what, and the flame could draw an enemy's attention like moths to a beacon.

He needn't have worried, though; he was alone. A cavern stretched around him, long and dark and devoid of all life save himself. 

When he looked down he had to hold back a startled gasp. His lap and legs were still buried, but what he had taken for scraps of metal were actually gold coins and small pieces of jewelry, rising and falling around him in enormous, haphazard piles. He brought one knee to his chest, dislodging a small landslide of gold coins that went sliding over their fellows, then did the same with the other, fighting against the weight to push to his feet. Without looking he could feel them lodging in the crevices of his armor, down his collar, wedged into his boots.

“What the Hel,” he said into the darkness, and it echoed just slightly. His head throbbed, pounding with the beginnings of a headache now that he was fully awake. “Thor?” he tried, even though by all appearances, nothing else had drawn breath in this place for a long while. “Sif? Fandral?” The only sound that greeted him was his own footsteps, crunching and clanking over still more gold. “Hogun? Volstagg? Thor?”

He sent his light upwards, bidding it divide and spread out until it could illuminate the entirety of the room. A monstrously high ceiling rose overhead, so tall that even with his light the top was nearly swallowed in shadow. The cave stretched wide enough and long enough that he imagined it could have fit Asgard's largest feasting hall several times over, easily. 

And every last inch of it glittered with treasure. 

Coins paved the floors like cobblestones, piled highest in the area where he had woken but scattered over the entire floor. Smaller bits of jewelry mixed easily with the coins: rings, bracelets, anklets, necklaces, circlets, but larger treasures lay piled against the walls as well, weapons and cutlery and goblets and armor. He nearly tripped over a breastplate and bent to run his fingers over the edges, but pulled away when he realized it was coated in a thin layer of soot. He didn't like to think about what might have burned, and what it meant for him to find himself here, in what was unmistakably a dragon's lair. 

“Steady,” he said to himself as a sudden rush of fear left him lightheaded. “The dragon isn't here now, and it shouldn't be too difficult to leave before she gets back.”

He sent his conjured lights to the edges of the room, left them spinning against the walls, but passages ringed the room in every direction, and many were big enough for the dragon to take in or out. He swore softly to himself and extinguished the lights. 

For a moment the dark was so intense that it made no difference whether he kept his eyes open or shut them, but as he sat and blinked and let his eyes adjust, he thought he could make something out at one edge of the cavern—not light, exactly, but perhaps a faint lessening of the darkness. He started towards it and promptly tripped and fell, skinning his palms on the sharp edges of the metal beneath him. 

He swore again and started to crawl, feeling out ahead with his hands and making his way towards the light. Because it was light, he was sure of it now, a faint grey that almost-not-quite let him see his hands, faint impressions of movement and shadow. Before long the gold beneath him gave way to stone, and then he was in a tunnel, trailing fingers on the edges of the walls to keep oriented. 

He followed that faint promise of daylight, and it grew stronger as he approached it. The air grew colder and fresher as well, fading from the humid overbearing warmth of the deep cave to something thin and icy. Before long there came a slight breeze, then a whistling sound as though a storm howled through the cliffs. 

He came to the edge so suddenly that he had to stumble back not to pitch over and off the cliff. The wind had built to a truly impressive howl that buffeted the rocks, and it took an effort to brace himself against it in order to edge forward and look out over the plains. 

The view over the edge sent his heart plummeting deep into his stomach where it skipped uneasily, riding a wave of adrenaline and vertigo. To say that the ground was far below would be a grave understatement. No wonder the wind buffeted him like blows from a warhammer. Not a storm, but the height was enough to leave the air thin and turbulent and violent. 

He backed away slowly, just until the edges of the cave sheltered him enough to give some peace and the howl of the wind died down to a more manageable murmur. A cave at a normal height would have given him no trouble. He would have escaped by transforming into a bird and flying away. But this—a small hawk or a magpie would be dashed against the rocks by the wind or sent plummeting to their death, and he did not yet have the ability to change into something larger and sturdier. 

After a moment of thought he lowered himself to his belly and crawled forward, leaning over the edge just far enough to get a good look at the stone of the cliff. Endless centuries of wind and weather had worn it nearly smooth, sanding off any handholds or edges that might have once existed. Climbing that with any hope of reaching the bottom intact would require equipment he didn't have. 

He swore and crept back, sitting far enough from the edge to avoid most of the chill wind but close enough to see the sunlight. 

After what must have been an hour or more he withdrew, shivering, back into the chamber. The ground settled so far below him that the trees had looked like scrub, and if something moved, he couldn't see it. That wouldn't do. 

He searched through the mounds of treasure until he found what he was searching for, an oval gemstone that caught and condensed the light. He held it up and saw his own reflection grin at him upside-down, then slid it into one pocket, searching through the piles to find another that matched. The metal left his hands feeling grimy and raw, and the shifting piles made it difficult to keep his footing. At one point, at the high point of one of the larger piles, his feet went flying out from under him and he landed hard, sliding ungracefully down until he shuffled to a half-buried stop. Only the absence of the others spared his dignity. 

After nearly half an hour, he stumbled across a golden spyglass tucked into a corner, and grumbled about it to himself as he tossed aside the first gemstone. 

A quick crawl back to the mouth of the cave and he found a vantage point, bracing himself against the stone and using the spyglass to scout out the surrounding areas. A small open grassy area surrounded the base of the cliff, but it faded to trees a little way out, matted with thick underbrush that said nothing comforting about how well-traveled the area was. He could find no buildings or other signs of life beyond the birds that flitted occasionally through the branches of the trees. 

No one here, no one likely to come here. No way to communicate and no way down.

“Well,” he said, lowering the spyglass. “Damn.” 

Thor had never minded quests that ran long. The extra time only stretched out their adventure and served to lengthen the time before he was required to return and resume his official duties, all of which were far less interesting than a hunt for treasure or a fight with a dangerous beast. 

Now, though, each minute that passed twisted something in his chest, tighter and tighter until he felt ready to snap. Not only was each second precious and irretrievable, they were being wasted, spent meandering back and forth and making no progress to speak of. They spoke to the people in the villages they passed, farmers and craftsmen and merchants alike pulled from taverns and then, as the night progressed, their beds, glancing up at the sky in apprehension as they spoke. Everywhere they received the same answers. None knew where the dragon went when it was not terrorizing the villages, and they all gave Thor the same pitying look when he explained the importance of haste, the way they needed to find it quickly because it had his brother. 

But for all their sympathy they could offer no solutions, so a little while after noon the following day found them back in the courts of Lord Njord. 

The man, if it was possible, looked less pleased to see them than before. He scanned their group as they approached, and his face hardened as he dismissed the advisors he had been conferring with. 

“I suppose it would be naive of me to hope your brother chose to wait outside,” he said when they had gone. 

Thor shook his head. “No,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “The dragon carried him off.” 

“I see.” Njord fixed him with a look, and Thor wasn't sure if the condemnation it carried was real or supplied by his own mind. “The throne of Asgard has our condolences.” 

“I don't want your condolences,” Thor spat, and knocked off the restraining hand Sif tried to drop on his shoulder. “I need a way to track down the dragon so I can find him and bring him back.”

There it was again, that same look of pity. Thor grew tired of it. 

“The Allfather may have already lost one son in my realm,” Njord said at last. “I do not know that he would forgive me if I facilitated the death of the other.” 

“My safety is in my own hands,” Thor said. “As was—is—that of my brother. I am a warrior past my majority, and my actions are my own. And I,” he said carefully, “the future king of Asgard, would not forgive any who stood in my way in this, or refused me aid.” The words were brittle, and he hoped Njord couldn't sense how close they came to breaking. 

They stared into one another's eyes for a moment more before Njord nodded. “I shall lend you the services of my chief sorcerer, Ingvar. If any could devise a way to do as you seek, it would be him.”

Thor swept into a hurried bow. “Thank you,” he said, “where may we find him?” 

A page brought them down a long hallway and into a study that made Thor think, achingly, of his brother. Shelves of books lined the walls, the spines ranging from soft new leather to cloth so old it looked as though it might crumble if he touched it. Jars and small bags lined cupboards, their doors hanging open as if to spill their contents out into the room. Others lay open on a large desk amongst half-copied parchment and hastily scrawled notes. The place had a lived-in feel, as though the occupant spent much of the time intended for eating or sleeping here instead. 

“Hello.” The man who greeted them was younger than Thor would have expected, was, in fact, not much older than Thor himself. “What can I do for you gentlemen? And lady,” he corrected hastily when he caught sight of Sif. 

“Can you track a dragon?” Thor asked the question quickly, then again slowly when the sorcerer did nothing but blink in confusion. 

“It should be possible,” he said at last, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the desk before pulling a book down and paging through it. “A dragon is not as inherently magical as, say, a basilisk or even some varieties of giant, but they do possess a sort of inherent magic. With some travel and triangulation, I might be able to come up with something to track its particular magical signature.” 

“And how long would that take?” Thor asked, a little afraid of the answer. Loki had said...something that sounded similar, and had spent enough time working it out that Thor and the others had grown impatient. Then, he had only been waiting for the excitement of the hunt, but now to delay for so long would be unacceptable. 

Loki had managed it, though, had even talked through the challenges he'd faced and his eventual solutions while doing so. If Thor had listened...he cast back in his memory, trying to grasp at the words, but they were insubstantial in his memory. He hadn't paid attention, then, hadn't thought he would need to. He wondered, if he had, if it would have helped now. 

“A week,” Ingvar said, “maybe two.” 

“No.” Thor shook his head, immediately, frantically. “No, there must be another way. There must.” 

Ingvar looked thoughtful. “There is a more traditional tracking spell that could probably be modified for your purposes,” he said. “But it requires something from the person--or being, I suppose-- you want to track. Usually blood, or hair. For a dragon, a scale might work,” he said, and looked at them hopefully. 

Thor shook his head. “We have nothing of the sort. Surely there must be something you can do without—” 

“What about relatives?” He turned to look at Sif, but she was entirely focused on the sorcerer. “We recently slew a young dragon, and we believe this one to be its parent. The horns should still be here. Would that work?” 

Ingvar frowned, but after a moment, he nodded. “It might. The spell would be far more complicated, but using a close relative would probably work well enough for your purposes, given some adjustments.” 

He let out the breath he'd been holding. “And how long would this take?” 

“Maybe eight, twelve hours?” Thor bit his lip. Eight hours was still far, far too long, but it seemed the best he could hope for, so he nodded. 

“Could you do another one?” They all turned to look at Hogan, who shrugged. “Loki is your brother. If it works for the dragon it should work to find him.”

That...Thor wondered why he hadn't thought of that. If Ingvar could cast a tracking spell that led to his brother, that would be preferable, even, to one that tracked the dragon. “If you can only do one,” he said, “make it that one.” 

“Doing two at the same time shouldn't be a problem,” the sorcerer assured them. “Most of the work will already have been done.” 

“Okay,” Thor said, and tried to convince himself it was. “How can we help?”

After a few hours, Loki thought he might die of boredom. 

It had taken less than twenty minutes to map the entire expanse of the cave. The room he woke in and the wide tunnel to the outside were the only places large enough to accommodate a dragon but a few narrower passages ran along the back of the cave. One took him to a tiny room, barely tall enough for him to stand upright, with a thin trickling stream that emerged from the rock for a stretch on its way deeper into the mountain. Snowmelt, he decided when he found it icy cold to the touch. Clean, then, and drinkable. That was fortunate, probably. 

None took him to anywhere but a dead end, though, and his repeated exploration did not keep him occupied for long. Soon he found himself sifting through the piles of treasure, mostly gold, looking for interesting trinkets. 

He was tossing a golden cup studded with emeralds from hand to hand when a sound from the mouth of the cave made him drop it and scramble backwards. Which was a mistake—his back hit the mound of treasure behind him, and when he tried to roll to the side he found himself blocked off by a stone outcropping of the cave. The only route open to him was forward, towards the dragon that emerged, huge and towering, from the cave's entrance. 

He pressed himself back and went very, very still. After all, while it didn't blend perfectly, the gold accents of his armor provided almost a sort of camouflage in this environment, and if he didn't move, the metal beneath his feet would not clang and bounce and noisily give his position away. He prayed that the dragon would not see him, that it would turn around and leave or at least turn its back for long enough that he could dart back into the small cave at the back where it could not follow. 

The Norns granted him no such mercy. The dragon moved straight toward him, no hesitation to leave him in doubt that it knew exactly where he was. He broke and ran, but before he had made it five steps an enormous clawed foot batted him down, holding him pinned beneath a massive, muscular leg. 

He closed his eyes tight, bracing himself for the killing blow and wondering, somewhere in the hazy, dissociated part of his mind, if Thor would regret instigating the foolish quest that became his end, if Heimdall could see him looking away like a coward, if being killed by a dragon was enough to earn him a place in Valhalla. 

Something brushed up against the edges of his mind and his magic latched on tight, looking for a way he could pull himself away. 

But the connection didn't lead to anywhere, only let an oddly-rasping voice echo inside his head, a thought given shape by a mind other than his own. 

Hatchling?

Loki squeezed open one eye. The dragon glared down at him, or stared, maybe, studying him with its terrifyingly large eyes. 

Then, evidently decided, it withdrew its foot. He took a deep breath as the weight left his chest, but the dragon whipped around, scooping up a tsunami of coins that collapsed on top of him, burying him to the neck. He could feel the bruises forming, but he also couldn't escape the vaguely ridiculous feeling that he had just been tucked in. 

The dragon circled the pile of treasure he had been buried in once, twice, three times, less like a cat stalking its prey and more of a routine. On the third round it flopped onto the edges of the pile, pinning his legs almost incidentally underneath its tail and leaving its long claws terrifyingly close. 

And, with that, it promptly sighed and fell asleep. 

Loki reviewed his options. He could try to fight his way free, and risk waking the dragon and the unknown quantity of how it would react. He could attract its attention and attempt to convince it to let him up, which carried the same risk without preserving his dignity. 

Hatchling. What did the dragon think was happening here? Loki and his party had recently killed its young, but it had treated him as though it thought he was its young. Was it an artifact of the mental bond he'd accidentally forged? The gold plate on his armor fooling a simple system of recognition? The denial of a recently bereaved mother choosing a new target for her maternal instincts? A combination of the above? Something else entirely? 

The only way he could think of to test the possibilities was to remove them one by one, and as that would probably get him eaten, it didn't seem like a wise course of action. 

In the end, he gave in and fell asleep as well. 

When Loki woke, the stiffness in his joints told him he had been sleeping for some time, and on a hard, unyielding surface. For a moment he wondered if Thor and the others were awake yet, and why they had let him sleep if they were, but then he shifted and found himself covered in trinkets rather than the camping bedrolls he had expected. The realization of where he was froze him in his tracks, but he could move freely, which meant the dragon had gone. Gone, but not hurt him. He sat up and shook himself, gold rings and strands of pearls flying like water off a wet dog. 

He froze again at the sound of breathing, deep and echoing, and turned his head slowly. The dragon had not gone; it lounged like a sunbathing snake in the far corner, watching him with bright eyes. 

It had seen him, so he finished pushing himself up, slowly but not quietly. That would have been impossible in all this mess. 

“Hello,” he said carefully, because he wasn't sure what else there was to say to a dragon that had drug you off to their lair. 

The dragon blinked at him, slowly and lazily, like a cat. It made no move to attack, or any indication that it meant him harm. 

“Why am I here?” he tried next, cautiously. He'd never heard of anyone forging a mental link with a dragon before, and so he couldn't say how well it would understand him, but the question was worth a try. 

It blinked again, and for a second he thought that would be his only answer, that, perhaps, the voice from before had been merely a product of his concussed imagination. 

So when the dragon did answer, it caught him by surprise. This is the nest, it told him calmly. It is where hatchlings grow. 

“Ah. And why am I in your nest?” 

Hatchlings belong in the nest, it replied simply. 

The ridiculousness of the situation might have made him laugh, were it any less dire. “I've been kidnapped and adopted by a dragon, this is just fantastic,” he muttered, then looked up at the beast, still hovering uncomfortably, and raised his voice. “Can you bring me down?”

It was a stupid idea, to trust himself to a monster and ask for its aid, but he had few other options. The question of whether or not it could be trusted became moot, however, when the dragon shook itself and answered. Not safe, it insisted in the same funny mental buzz, not safe. 

With that inspiring thought, she stood, shook herself, and made her way to the edge of the cave before the thunderous clap of wings announced her departure, leaving him alone once more. 

Well, it seemed he was stuck up here until the dragon decided it was safe on the ground, or until she realized her mistake and ate him, or until he starved to death. 

Or, he supposed, until Thor and the others found him, assuming they could manage that much, assuming they were looking. 

It was a depressing thought, that having his brother ride in to save the day was the best option he could hope for. 

But the other options were worse. So he leaned back against the wall, aware of the dragon's eyes on him still, and silently hoped they would be here soon. 

The sort of magic it took to modify a tracking spell proved well beyond Thor's comprehension. “I need to set it to seek you out, but also avoid you in particular,” Ingvar explained unhelpfully. “Otherwise it would simply point to you as the best match. If we could convince it not to do that, and also increase the sensitivity, it should be able to lead you to a close blood relative.” 

“Like my brother,” Thor said, and Ingvar nodded. 

“Precisely.” 

Thor and the others found themselves fetching books from the library and ingredients from the sculley, stirring together ingredients and holding open books of runes, but mostly sitting and waiting in agonizing silence. He could not allow himself to leave, not when Ingvar might need them for another task at any moment, but neither could he do much to help. 

At last, all the various mixtures and spells had been combined into a single golden pot, runes newly pressed around the rim, and Ingvar motioned them over. A thin slice of the dragon's horn had been whittled into the shape of a small bead by Fandral's knife, and it hung on a small silver chain. Ingvar lifted the chain so that the bead hung down at the bottom and slowly lowered it into the pot, whispering under his breath. Thor couldn't tell if he whispered the words to a spell or prayers to the Norns for their success. 

A bright blue light fizzled and danced at the end of the chain, and when it had faded it left behind a small opaque crystal, fused to the metal. Ingvar held it up and it moved like a compass needle in a magnetic field, tugging ever so slightly in a single direction and coming to rest at a small angle from the vertical. 

Ingvar grinned. “Well that looks promising. A sample of your hair, your highness,” he said, “if you would,” and Thor tugged out a few strands by the base and handed them over. 

He wound them carefully around another chain, this one gold, and when they had been secured he lowered it slowly into the pot. The bright light repeated, flaring almost too bright to look at before it faded, and then another crystal much like the first rested at bottom. 

Ingvar lifted it up, and Thor watched hopefully for any flicker of movement, a heading they could follow. The crystal swung a bit as he watched hopefully, fixing it with every scrap of his attention, and then dropped to the bottom of its chain, hanging lifeless. 

“Oh,” Sif said softly, and Thor thought the room might be spinning. He thought he might be sick. 

“The subject for this one might be farther away,” Ingvar offered. “Or perhaps just smaller. After all, it's easier to spot a mountain in the distance than a hill.” 

Thor...wasn't sure that made sense, but he latched onto it like a drowning man grasping for a lifeline. “Yes,” he said, “that must be it.” He gathered both crystals up in numb fingers and deposited them into a pouch at his belt. “Thank you for your assistance,” he said to Ingvar around the knot in his throat. “You were most helpful, and I appreciate your kindness.” 

“Let me know when you find him,” the sorcerer said, and Thor nodded automatically. 

He didn't wait to see if his friends followed as he turned and all but sprinted for the stables. 

The crystal tracker worked better in theory than in practice, but Thor was grateful for it nonetheless. The horses had to move at a slow, steady pace to keep it level enough for him to read, and that frustrated him, but at least now he knew where he was going, and each step forward felt like progress. The signal grew stronger, too, as they rode, the crystal tugging out further from the vertical with each stretch that they traveled. 

Every so often he would pull out the second crystal, the one meant to help him find Loki, and hold it up too. Every time, he slowed and then stopped, but it only hung limp and lifeless from the end of its chain, doing nothing to distinguish it from an inert chunk of rock. His friends traded nervous looks where they thought he wouldn't see, but he steeled himself and continued on. 

Their path took them through a forest and out the other side, then down into a low plain dotted with small villages. They passed several herds of sheep and then one or two of cattle, and the animals raised their heads to watch them pass. 

Thor had settled into a sort of automatic rhythm—ride, stop, check to see that he was moving in the right direction, check the other crystal, grit his teeth, keep moving--when the chain with the dragonbone crystal jerked in his hand, swiveling to point a new direction. He froze, pulled his horse to a stop, and scanned the horizon, frowning. 

The scream of a distressed animal broke the silence, and he wheeled and urged his horse into a sprint. A shadow passed over the ground in front of him, and he followed it up to where the dragon itself wheeled through the air, gliding lower towards the ground. Thor's horse spooked and he rolled off its back, sprinting as he hit the ground. He gripped his axe, already in hand, ready to swing or throw at a moment’s notice. A herd of cattle bellowed and scattered. 

As Thor watched, the dragon swooped low, scooping up one of the larger cattle that cowered on the edge of the pasture. The cow screamed and then sagged as the talons tightened their hold, and the dragon rose back into the air, flapping its billowing wings to gain height. The sight of the dark shape tangled in its claws sent something hot and sharp lancing through his chest. It was too easy to connect the sight back to the last time he'd seen his brother, and he reminded himself that Loki's fate was still unknown. He could be fine, would be fine, just as soon as they found him, which they would. 

His thoughts were interrupted as the dragon twisted in midair and brought its foot around. With a single, jagged motion, just over half the cow disappeared into its mouth, and its teeth sank into flesh with a grotesque sound. It wrenched around and tore the remaining bit free, leaving behind a mess of shredded skin and flesh such that the part it still held was nearly unrecognizable. The red of the blood staining its teeth and claws stood out like spilled paint, almost too vibrant to be real. 

It crunched its teeth once, twice, grinding flesh and bone alike until, with a serpentine motion of its neck, it swallowed. The second half met the same fate as the dragon circled overhead, and small ribbons of gore rained down on the field. 

Thor wanted to be sick. The horrifying picture that danced at the edge of his imagination froze the breath in his lungs until his chest felt so cold it burned. 

Then as quickly as it had come the ice was gone, and fire bloomed in his chest, a red-hot rage that blurred his vision. He screamed, or he thought he did, and as the dragon swooped on the herd again he charged forward, his rage lending him speed. He was on top of the dragon before it made it back into the sky, and he swung the axe with all of his strength, not bothering to aim. 

The blade sunk into the scaled skin on the dragon's forearm with a sound like a log splitting, and the dragon shrieked, throwing itself into the sky. Its grip on the cow slipped but then it regripped, tossing it up and snatching it with a back foot as it rose. It made it half a circle around the sky before he lifted the axe again, then folded its wings and dove away, faster than a hawk. 

He dropped the axe to the ground, still hissing and steaming with the dragon's blood, then dropped after it, falling to his knees as the world started to spin back into focus. 

A strong hand dropped down on his shoulder, and he knocked it away and lurched forward in time to be sick on the grass. 

“Are you okay?” Fandral asked quietly, and he shook his head as he sat up, shivering despite himself. 

“We don't know—” Volstagg started, but he trailed off, uncertain. 

“Nothing has changed.” Sif offered a hand and pulled him to his feet. “We will still hunt the dragon, and we will still assume our friend is okay until we know otherwise.”

He nodded without conviction. 

A deep breath set fire to the tangled mess of feelings knotted at his core. Anger burned in his gut like a banked fire, and the only thing that kept him from destroying every breakable thing in sight was that an outburst would slow him down on his path to a truly deserving target. 

After all, grief might wash him away like a flood, if he let it, and guilt, the lingering conviction that this entire mess came about as a result of Thor's own actions, could crumble him from within. 

But anger, anger could carry him forward long enough to do what he must, take him to the monster and give him the strength to destroy it. He would be Thor Dragonsbane, for long enough, at least, to postpone whatever other names his mind would hurl against him. 

Because, for all that they would cling to hope as a pretense, he knew what fate had befallen his brother. The second crystal hung dead in his hands when he drew it out, just as it had every time before. Thor had carried it for miles, checked it with waning hope, but he knew. 

He held up the first crystal, the one that would point him toward the dragon, and confirmed the direction. The same one they had been following, the signal growing stronger with each mile they traveled. 

Something terrible had befallen his brother, and for that, Thor would take his revenge. 

Loki tossed a cup in the air, watching it rise in its predictable arc before dropping back into his hand. The cup was golden and inset with rubies, and they flashed in his conjured light as it rose and fell. He wished for a book, any book, or someone to talk to, or at the very least a task to keep his mind occupied. He thought the boredom might kill him if it stretched on too much longer. 

He tossed the cup aside at the sound of the dragon's return, the booming of its wings like sails outside and then the scratch and slither of claws and scales on stone before the dragon itself appeared at the mouth of the cave. He pulled back to the corner, shedding coins and other small trinkets as he sat up. 

The dragon lifted one hind leg to about twice his height, then dropped the entire carcass of a cow in front of him, so close that he had to scramble back to keep it from landing on his toes. 

“What the Hel am I supposed to do with this,” he said aloud, staring in fascinated horror at the animal. Its neck twisted around at an awkward angle, allowing the dead marble eyes to stare up at him even with the animal's back to him. 

Eat, the dragon said, looking at him expectantly. 

“An entire cow? Who do I look like, Volstagg? Though I doubt even he could finish this whole thing,” he muttered, staring down at the carcass in distaste. 

The dragon flicked it with a claw, and it slid several feet towards him, flopping awfully. He shuddered. 

“Fine,” he said at last, and went to one of the nearby piles of treasure, rooting through it until he found a knife that suited his purposes. The handle was gold and set with pearls of different colors, so elaborate that a part of him balked at the idea of using it as a simple hunting knife. Still, it would work, and he did need the food. 

He tested the sharpness of the knife against his thumb, then returned to the cow. He knew how to skin and butcher game, of course, every hunter did, and he made quick work of it, working in neat, precise movements until he had a small pile of choice meat. A small ways away he found a metal tray, and he piled his meat atop it and moved away from the carcass. 

The dragon's eyes followed him, burning red-gold like the embers of a banked fire. Eat, it insisted, grabbing the cow in its claws and all but throwing it at him. 

“I will!” He hefted his plate of meat as though to demonstrate. “I can't eat the whole thing. In case you haven't noticed, I'm rather a lot smaller than you.” 

It eyed him suspiciously, but must have been satisfied, because it picked up what remained of the animal and bit it the way a parrot might attack a piece of fruit, splattering him with a fine spray of gore. 

“...lovely,” he said, and brought his cape around to wipe the blood off his face. “That isn't at all disturbing and something I'll have nightmares about.” 

Its grisly meal finished, the dragon went back to watching him intently. Eat, it said again, and he frowned. If he didn't want to eat the meat raw, and he didn't, he would have to figure something out. 

With a careful amount of pushing and prodding on his magic he managed to conjure up a flame, and with some rooting around he found a rapier that would do adequately as a spit. It felt rather silly, but he roasted the meat, and all the while the dragon watched in silent judgment. 

When he had eaten his fill he settled down and so did the dragon, crossing one enormous leg over the other rather like a cat. 

“What happened to your leg?” From this angle, it was nearly impossible not to notice the long gash in the creature's foreleg, though it seemed to be closing and healing. 

The dragon did something, the mental equivalent of a frown, and thought The brood-slayers. They disrupted the hunt and attacked. I could not fight and bring your food. She shook her head, agitation evident in the gesture. 

Ah. So Thor and his friends had attempted to slay the dragon while it hunted. He found himself grateful that they hadn't succeeded, if only because it left them no way to find him here, and he didn't care for the idea of starving to death alone in a cave on a mountaintop. He carefully pressed down the worry that rose in his chest at the thought of his foolish brother attempting to take on a dragon without him there, the small, nagging thought that Thor could have been injured in whatever battle had wounded the dragon. Thor, after all, could handle himself. Thor, likely as not, was perfectly fine. After all, Thor always was. 

His hands had taken to stacking up small piles of coins almost of their own accord. They needed something to keep them occupied, but so did his brain, and there was very little to engage him here in this cave empty of all but treasure. 

Treasure, and a dragon. 

He found himself plucking at the mental link between them. It itched at his brain when she was too close, but he didn't dare sever the connection when it could be the only thing keeping her from seeing him as food. 

Besides, the mental link had an almost calming quality to it. The dragon's mind was not sharp, but it had a largeness to it that gave it a presence much like sitting at the edge of a broad lake, listening to the calm waves as they lapped against the shore. A sort of mental white noise, as it were. 

And it interested him, too. None of the books he'd read on dragons had mentioned it, which left him to wonder if he was the first to discover this form of communication in the species. He wondered if the bond was strictly parent-offspring, or if other dragons formed social connections with one another. It could prove a worthwhile area of study. 

Out of curiosity, he tried to push his thoughts against the bond, forming them into sharp, clearly defined words. The dragon had heard him speak earlier and understood him, which only made sense either if dragons had a language within the purview of the Allspeak or if the true method of communication between them had been more subtle. Where did you find the cow? he tried. The answer might tell him where Thor was, whether he was close. 

In the hills, the dragon answered. So she could understand him, then, even if the answer was not particularly helpful. 

Which hills?

The hills that are carpeted violet with flowers in the early spring. The dragon shifted, stretching her injured leg and wincing. The hills that flow into the tall forests, too thick to land. The hills barely touched by snow in midwinter, after the birds have left.

That...didn't help him, particularly, but it had an odd sort of poetry to it. Unintentional? He couldn't say, but it was interesting, nonetheless. More interesting than contemplating his own thumbs, at least. 

“Mmm,” he said. Can you tell me more about these hills? 

She settled in, the motion like a snake curling to sleep, and began describing the way the grass shone like gold in autumn, the crystal streams, and the annoying villagers that shouted and threw things when she hunted a few of their cows. 

Thor pushed his horse until the exhausted animal refused to be urged into more than a trot, then dismounted and pulled it along behind him. His friends tried to speak, once or twice, but trailed off before they could communicate whatever they intended. Likely for the best, as he had no interest in empty reassurances or inquiries about his emotional state. 

Their heading remained steady, at least, which bolstered his conviction that they were headed towards the dragon's lair, wherever that may be. 

Thor cut through the underbrush like a shark, moving relentlessly forward, adrenaline burning in his veins. He moved with a confidence he didn't feel, automatic, propelled by rage and other anxious emotions he would not name. 

It worked, too, until the trail took him to the base of a tall cliff. It stretched as far as he could see in both directions, tall enough that it would be a challenge to climb and an impossibility to take their horses with them. 

Thor swore. He threw every vile insult his mind could conjure at the cliff, and was on the verge of slamming his fist against it (for all the good that would do) when Fandral caught his arm and sank back against the stone, staring up into the sky with wide eyes. 

Thor looked up in time to see the dragon launch itself from the cliff. It didn't seem to have seen them, and by the time he had processed what he was seeing it had disappeared beyond the trees. 

“No!” he shouted, and stomped at the ground in frustration. “Come back, you coward!” He ran a few steps and stopped, shouting insults and threats until he was out of breath. 

“Thor,” Sif said, and he shook his head. No. They had come so far, too far to start over. 

“We don't know where she's going,” Hogun said, “but we know where she will return.” He looked up and pointed. Thor followed the gesture, squinting against the sun. 

Up near the top of the mountain, he thought he could just make out a darker patch that could have been a cave, of the sort dragons were known to live in. The climb to reach it would be long and treacherous, and leave them exposed on the blank rock face should the dragon return. 

He told himself that was the only reason he hesitated to make the climb. He didn't fear what he might find up at the top, wasn't imagining stumbling over the gilded bits from too-familiar armor, stained with rust-colored blood. 

A flicker of movement from what he suspected to be the cave mouth caught his attention. It could be his mind playing tricks, but it was also possible the dragon had another offspring, one just old enough to bat them from the cliffside if they tried climbing now. He swore under his breath, squinting and straining to try and make out what was going on. 

He thought he caught another flicker, and in a second a tiny speck flew between them and the sun. It barely grew as it fell, then hit the earth with a small metallic sound. 

Sif frowned and picked her way to the spot where it had landed, and she knelt in the grass, pushing it aside and feeling for the projectile. When she straightened an ostentatious gold necklace hung from her fingers. She turned it over and wedged out a small piece of paper, unfolded it, and then her grim, pinched expression melted into a wide grin. 

“Thor, look!” She waved the paper, slowing down and holding it up to be read when Thor frowned. 

The script was familiar, with its wide, curling handwriting that always reminded him of the trail left by a sidewinder in the sand. The anxiety practically bled out of him, and a relief so profound it numbed his bones seeped in to take its place. 

If you're here to get me down, the note read, it's about time. 

“He's okay,” Sif said, and before he could think Thor had caught her up in a bone-crushing hug. She returned it, squeezing hard, and his hands only shook a little as they drew apart. 

“Well now that we've found our damsel safe in the dragon-guarded tower,” Fandral cut in, an equally silly grin plastered across his face, “how are we going to get him down?”

A sudden glint of sunlight from the cave above caught his attention, bright enough to make him squint. It flashed away and then back again, and again, and Thor thought he recognized the code. “I don't know,” he said, still grinning despite himself. “Why don't we ask him?”

The flat side of his axe angled up toward the mountain made an adequate mirror, and he tilted it back and forth, letting the light play off its surface in flicks and glimmers. You hurt? He spelled out, a fresh bit of nervousness rising up as he asked the question. 

No, came back almost immediately, and he felt himself relaxing further. Get me down.  

How?

The pause was longer this time, long enough that Thor hefted his axe and prepared to ask again, but then another projectile came hurtling down with a note attached, this one a ruby-studded bracelet. The dragon is gone and shouldn't return for some time, it read. if you bring the rope and climbing equipment we should all be able to make our way down before she returns.

That was good enough for Thor. They laid out their packs, setting aside the camping gear and provisions and securing their weapons to themselves to prevent them dropping. Thor hurried as they readied their gear, his trepidation turned to eagerness now that he would soon be able to reassure himself that the worst of what he'd imagined had been nothing more than his worry. Loki was alive, and Loki was unhurt. 

The stone bit at his fingers as they climbed, and the wind scouring his back went from warm to cool to bitingly cold. The drop below them grew until it was dizzying, the features of the landscape shrinking away into obscurity as they struggled upwards. 

Thor climbed as quickly as he could without being unnecessarily reckless, sending the occasional glance upwards to mark his progress. The others very nearly kept pace with him, nearly as eager as he was, it seemed, to reach the top. 

When he had nearly reached the mouth of the cave, a shout rose up from below him. “The dragon,” Hogan called. “She's coming!” 

Thor risked a glance over his shoulder, hugging himself to the rock; surely enough, a dark shape cut through the air towards them, speeding closer. 

With a new burst of strength he scrambled higher, ignoring the slower and steadier methods that had brought him this far and levering himself up as soon as he grabbed onto a handhold, and he muttered a curse under his breath. 

Finally, his fingers closed over the lip of the ledge with the cave, and he pulled himself up to the edge, muscles straining. When he reached out a hand closed around his wrist to haul him up, and he found himself looking straight into his little brother's face, pale but mercifully alive. 

Loki dragged him over the edge then reached down past him, grabbing Sif's hand to pull her up as well. “Go,” he said, “you can't let her see you.” 

Loki knew, the second he saw the dragon in the distance, that there would be no easy escape. Still, something at the back of his mind insisted that if he could only get their group stowed in the back of the cave, perhaps in that small trickling snowmelt stream that might disguise their scent, disaster might be avoided. 

Thor, fortunately, seemed to understand, because he reached down and pulled Volstagg onto the ledge as Hogun scrambled up beside them. “This way,” Loki hissed, and they followed him back down the tunnel. Without argument, even, which was a surprise mercy. 

A bellow of alarm chased at their heels; the dragon must have caught their scent, and Loki heard the telltale scrabble of claws on stone and folding wings as she landed. He broke into a sprint with the others on his heel.

They had made it nearly a third of the way into the main chamber, their progress impeded by the way their boots slipped and skidded over the uneven coin floor, when the dragon burst into the room behind them. She threw herself at their retreating backs with an unearthly shriek. 

Quicker than thought he stood between the charging dragon and his friends, arms outstretched, hoping against hope she wouldn't continue the lunge and grind him into paste against the stone floor. To his relief she pulled up short, eyeing him but making no move to strike. A cold rush of adrenaline hit a second too late to do any good, reminding him that what he had just done was stupid and terrifying and probably should have gotten him killed. 

Move, came the dragon's thoughts. They threaten the nest. I will protect you.

I don't need your protection, he insisted. Retreat. Let me go. I will convince them to leave.

You don't know what they will do. The dragon growled deep in her throat. These have killed a hatchling already.

They won't hurt me, he promised. I will be safe. You need to go.

The pupils in her bright red eyes narrowed to slits, and her claws dug into the stone of the floor with terrifying ease, as though it were nothing more than soft dust. I will protect you, she said again. I must protect you.

If you just—

Without warning, the dragon screamed and twisted, lashing out with lightning fast claws at something just behind her. Fandral was faster, though, and he saw his sword disappear at the base of her neck at the same time as something slammed into him from the side, throwing him back against the cave wall.

The dragon screamed again, lashing out, but this time it was the scream of a wounded animal, and the thrashing of wings and raking claws grew weaker, less coordinated. Loki struggled to disentangle himself from Thor's tackle, but his brother held him against the wall, arched over him protectively with his back to the dragon as her movements slowed and finally stopped. He caught one last glimpse of burning red eyes, hazy and frightened as the light drained out of them. Somewhere at the back of his mind, the connection he'd forged stuttered and snapped. 

At last everything ground to a silent halt, and the only sound that broke the stillness was his own ragged breathing and Thor's beside him.

“Hey!” Fandral said after a moment more, smiling cheerfully as he climbed over the dragon's head, sword still coated in hissing, steaming blood. Thor pushed back from the wall and visibly uncoiled, moving enough that he no longer pinned Loki but not enough that he was free. “Thanks for the terrifying distraction,” Fandral said, scrambling down the other side of the carcass and moving close enough to clap a hand over Loki's shoulder. His sword dripped coppery-red blood onto Loki's boot, and he stared at it, focusing on that obscene splash of color and on everything and on nothing. “I don't want to think about what would've happened if you hadn't stepped in there.”

Suddenly all the breath was gone from Loki's lungs, and he gasped, trying to breathe past the stale air that now tasted like blood. Thor's hands were on him in an instant, and when his eyes focused he was looking into two very blue, very worried ones. “Are you injured?” Thor asked, a slight edge of fear seeping into his tone.

He shook his head. “No,” he said distantly, and the word sounded as if it was coming from quite a ways off. “No, I'm fine.”

The air was driven from his lungs again, but this time it was Thor's crushing embrace, surprisingly desperate. “Don't ever do anything like that again,” he mumbled, the words packed with an undercurrent of emotion he couldn't find the will to unpack.

His eyes slid over Thor's shoulder, and he tried not to meet the huge, unblinking one that stared back at him in silent judgment. “I hope I never do,” he managed shakily, and was surprised any sound at all could escape the knot in his throat.

Volstagg whistled as they broke apart, Thor keeping a hand on his arm half, he suspected, in case he needed the help to stay upright. “We'll not be returning empty-handed.” He fished a goblet from one of the treasure-piles, and Fandral lifted another, clinking it against Volstagg's as though performing a toast.

“What a tale this will make!” He practically crowed, scooping up a handful of coins and letting them fall back to the ground in a small tinkling melody. 

“Some of these things are very old,” Sif said, picking up a shield and polishing the tarnished crest with the edge of her cape. “It must have been stealing them for a long while.”

“Good thing we took care of it then,” Fandral said cheerily. Surviving the fight had clearly put him in high spirits, and he practically bounced with each step.

“Aye,” Thor agreed beside him. He still hadn't broken contact, and his hand had come to rest at the base of Loki's neck, almost stiflingly warm. “Did you want another scale?” Thor asked him, the words slow and uncharacteristically careful. “These are larger than the last, I think.”

He swallowed, hard, and shook his head.

Thor studied him for a second longer, his expression troubled. “I think it is time we head back,” he said. “We can return for the treasure, now that there is none to guard it, and none will attempt to remove it from here. I would have my brother returned home.”

Fandral had deflated a bit when Thor mentioned leaving, but he smiled again at that and punched Loki in the arm. “Aye. It'll be good to have you back. Things will finally be back to normal.”

Loki couldn't quite manage a response to that, but he followed without resistance as his brother led him out of the tunnel and into the sunlight. The climbing gear the others had used was still where they had left it.

The climb down itself was almost a mercy. Even with the gear the climb was difficult and treacherous, and the process of making his way down the cliff took his full concentration, such that he could think of nothing else. Thor climbed down below him and glanced up every few seconds as though worried he might fall. Part of him almost wished he would; then, at least, the dropping feeling in his chest would have a reason. 

He swayed when his feet finally touched the ground, the world hazy enough that he didn't even shake off Thor's hands when he steadied him. No one said anything—they were all too busy breathing heavily from the climb, in any case—but he could feel the concerned stares, and they were unnerving. 

No one had brought a horse for him, either, so he spent the ride back into town sitting behind Thor. It was well enough; he didn't have to focus too hard on anything, this way, and could let his mind drift. 

At one point Thor pulled out a small white crystal dangling from a gold chain. He held it up, glancing from it back to Loki, then chuckled grimly to himself. 

“It just didn't work,” he said, “it never worked at all. I should have known,” and tossed the whole thing into the bushes. 

Loki didn't ask. 

They barely stopped at Lord Njord's hall. “The dragon has been slain,” Thor said, not the prideful boast it would have been a week ago but a proclamation filled with grim satisfaction. The people around them traded whispers in tones he couldn’t read. 

The stone-faced lord looked their group up and down without expression, but Loki thought he might be impressed. “You have my thanks,” he said stiffly, “and the thanks of my people.” After a second he added “I am relieved to find you well, Prince Loki.” He nodded, as best he could. 

“We mean you no disrespect,” Thor said, more carefully than he usually spoke, “but given the circumstances we thought it best if we continued back to Asgard. My brother has been through an ordeal and I'd like to see him home.” 

Loki almost winced, at that. Intended or no, to refuse hospitality was no small insult, and while Njord had not officially offered it yet, most lords would arrange a celebration of their exploits that they would certainly be expected to attend. 

The only saving grace of the situation was that Njord himself would likely be as eager to be rid of them as they were to return home. The man had little patience for fools, and was one of the few who grouped reckless adventurers into that category. 

He nodded, and Loki could read nothing in his expression. “Of course,” he said. 

“If you would,” Thor added, “give our thanks to Ingvar.” 

“I'll see that he gets them,” Njord said. Thor bowed and Loki followed suit, still a bit unsteady. 

Then they were riding again, and while this time he was afforded the dignity of his own horse, the trip back to the Bifrost site blurred out of focus in his mind. The others tried to start a conversation with him more than once, but they stopped trying when his mumbled replies were too quiet to make out. 

And then they had reached the Bifrost site, and Thor called to Heimdall to bring them home. 

Loki had been naive to think that the trip back home would spare him attending a banquet. The Aesir were, after all, best known throughout the Realms for military prowess, but second to that came a strong and enduring proclivity towards celebration. Word of their exploits had apparently returned before them, and they arrived to the news that a feast would be ready come nightfall. He barely had time to clean himself up and change before it began. 

Thor had apparently, in true Thor fashion, taken a situation about which he had very little information and filled the gaps with what he expected them to be, which bore little resemblance to the truth. In his version of the story, Loki had valiantly struggled free of the dragon's grasp when he awakened, then held her off for the long days until Thor and his friends had come to his rescue. The retelling made him sick to his stomach but he allowed it to stand; after all, he came off rather better in it than in the true version, at least from Asgard's perspective. Perhaps if he heard it often enough he could believe in its truth. 

The looks directed his way were not contemptuous, at least. Not admiring, either, but curiosity was better than he usually rated. A few of the younger warriors darted him inquisitive looks, and he did his best to ignore them. 

“What was it like,” one of them asked, “being kidnapped by a dragon?”

“Well,” he said quietly, and several people nearby hushed to listen. “I've shared a tent with Thor, so the great cavernous snoring, at least, was familiar.”

This seemed to satisfy, if the booming laughter that rang out was any indication, and he heard it repeated several times for the benefit of those who had been too far away to hear. He went back to fiddling with the food on his plate, and though he should by all rights be starving, he couldn't find the appetite to do more than pick listlessly at the lighter offerings. Thor and his mother took turns glancing at his plate with obvious concern, but no one else seemed to notice. 

He managed to summon the energy for polite interest when Thor told and his friends retold the story of their epic battle against the fearsome beast, and if he wasn't as enthused as most of the listeners, well, he had good reason to be tired. None could question it. 

At the first opportunity that presented itself, he all but fled the feasting hall for his own rooms. 

Thor caught him halfway there, and he grit his teeth so he wouldn't scream in frustration. All he wanted at the moment was to be alone, but it seemed he would be denied even that. 

“Brother,” Thor said, hurrying to cut him off, “there you are.” And then, rushed so that the words almost ran together, “Are you well?”

“Of course I am.” He didn't bother to hide the weariness in his voice. Maybe if Thor noticed he would leave him alone. “Why would I be otherwise?”

His brother only frowned. “Is it because they're giving Fandral most of the credit for slaying the dragon? Because he may have dealt the killing blow,” Thor said seriously, “but I am sincere when I say we could not have done it without you.”

Something sick twisted in the pit of his stomach. He refused to call it guilt. “I know,” he said quietly. He looked down, refusing to meet Thor's eyes. 

A firm, steady hand fell on his shoulder. “Are you angry with me?” Thor asked, so softly that Loki almost doubted he'd heard correctly. 

“What?” This time Thor looked away, and he drummed his fingers against his belt. A nervous habit, one that meant Thor was upset, or at least he would assume so, if Thor had any reason to be. “Why would I be angry with you?”

“I—you were in the grips of that monster for so long,” Thor said. “I came as quickly as I could, but it should have been sooner. I should have come sooner.”

Something else squeezed in his chest at Thor's tone, his choice of words. Monster. “I don't blame you,” he said, and the smile he got in return was almost worth it. “I swear to you I am merely tired. I need a night's rest in my own bed, then all shall be well in the morning.” 

“I'll hold you to that,” Thor said, and clapped his shoulder hard enough to make him wince. 

Loki nodded and turned, all but fleeing back to his own rooms. 

Mercifully, this time, no one followed. 

He barely paused to remove his shoes and heavier outer clothing before he rolled into bed, burrowing deep in the blankets and squeezing his eyes shut. The tears came suddenly, a burning heat at the back of his eyes that exploded into wild, uncontrolled sobs that he stifled in the bedsheets out of fear that someone would hear. He tried to convince himself that the tears were for him, stored up from the fear and uncertainty of being held against his will and at the mercy of a wild animal for so long. Those would be tears of cowardice, but at least they would have a sense to them. 

But he couldn't convince himself of it, not when the image that haunted him behind his eyes was the thrashing of uncoordinated wings toppling piles of coins, a sightless eye, a drop of too-bright blood on the leather of his boots. 

What is wrong with you, to have such sympathy for a monster? Warriors did not cry for their enemies, nor hunters for their prey. Thor certainly wouldn't. It was the natural order of things, for the heroes to prevail and the monsters to bleed and die. And he was one of the heroes. 

Why, then, did he feel so broken by the death of a beast? He should think of the credit, the glory of the kill, or perhaps the innocent townsfolk and shepherds that had been rescued from a reign of terror. They were the ones who mattered, the people he was sworn to protect. He should be glad, celebrate. He ought to be feel nothing but joy and pride at the death of a monster. 

Perhaps it's because that's what you are, a dark voice at the back of his mind whispered, perhaps you aren't meant to be a hero at all. Born in the wrong skin, Odinson, mistake. Like calls to like. 

He let the tears drain out of him, leaving him feeling weak and empty, not holding back, so that tomorrow he could laugh and smile and say he was glad, glad of his rescue and proud of his part in slaying the beast. 

Because if he couldn't lie to himself, then at least he could lie to everyone else, and they wouldn't know how wrong he was, actually, underneath.

He cried until the sobs became gasps became a slow lazy trail of tears leaving a wet patch on his pillow, and he continued to cry until finally he fell asleep.