Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PART ONE:

UNMADE

ᚲ ᛟ ᚹ

The RAVENS

Once we were ravens, and that only.

To be ravens is a good thing. Ravens can fly. The Sky belonged to us when we danced in it. At night we'd steal the stars away when our black bodies blotted them out. We did not belong to the Earth or the Sea, though we took the bounties of both. Some would call us thieves for that, but we were ravens only, and accountable to no-one.

And yet we were not content. We wished to have more.

We wished to be more.

When we heard it first, we could put no name to it. It was a sound, many of them, wound together in a tangle - and yet it could be followed.

So follow it we did.

We soared through rain and thunder, through blazing sun and piercing wind. Always, it moved forward, as living things must. We followed. We could not bear to live again in silence.

We beat our wings in time with its tempo and our hearts beat in time with its base. There was nothing but the song and the journey to possess it.

We followed it through forests, through villages, through cities and out into the sky again.

We saw a figure walking through clouds. He looked like one of the people who lived below - he was covered in scales like them, had four purple eyes like them, dressed as they did. But at once we saw that he was not one of them. None of them could walk the skies as easily as we flew in them. None of them sang as he did. He was a new thing, and we wanted to have him.

We danced about him, and he laughed in wonder at us.

He paused in his song to call out to us, as raucous as any lowly crow, “What are your names, then?”

We jeered. Play the sounds, creature.

He took up the thing of sticks and strings from around his neck and strummed it.

We ventured nearer, needing to feel the pulse of the tune. One of us landed on his right shoulder. One of us landed on his left. Through our toes, we could feel the rumble of his flesh, the rumble that became the sounds we would soon learn to call ‘music’.

"Hearing, I ask, from the ho-o-ly races

From Norn’s eyes, watching high and low

I will soon relate, to this tree of faces

Old tales remembered from long, long ago…”

We did not yet know what words were, but still we jittered to encounter them. The scales that disguised the singer as one of the people of below fell away, revealing pale, pinky flesh and worm-like toes where wing feathers should be. His eyes were now only two, and they were very, very blue.

"Have you no names, then? I’m between names myself at the moment. A fair number of them just…did not work out. Perhaps you can help me think of the next one.”

Before we could berate him for stopping, he continued to sing.

"I asked for companions, the Norns sent me birds

I asked them for names, but they gave me none

I suppose since I am the master of words

It falls to me to give them both some!"

He reached out to stroke our chests with a finger. It was warm. We didn’t dislike it.

“I may have made those lyrics for you, but the tune is not mine. I really should not be singing it. Yet lately, I cannot seem to get it out of my head…

“My father was a fine singer himself,

Though only when he sang with my mother.

They sang this for me when I was my first self

When I still had a sister and brother.”

The music ended. We looked at the creature. He stared hollowly out across the green skies as if he did not like the colour of them.

“It seems that no matter where I go or what I call myself, I am burdened with memories and thoughts. Not just of what was, but what could have been. Do you know what that is like, my feathered friends?”

He seemed unhappy. That was no good - his song had brought us joy, and it would not do for him to have none of his own. We called his music to our minds and cawed to it best we could, harsh and throaty.

His eyes brightened. “You are very clever, aren’t you? You’re different from the birds on Asheim. Though not so clever that you’ve yet to realize what sordid company you’re keeping now.” He strummed his instrument with a grin. “I’ve thought of names for you. You shall be Huginn and Muninn - Thought and Memory. But names are not free, my corvid companions. Upon your wings I will settle a burden, so that I might journey lighter…”

He touched a wing-toe to his head. It began to glow, bright and silver. When he withdrew the toe, it came away with a long strand of silver. It broke free from his head, and at once began to wiggle like a worm. We could not help but swallow eagerly in anticipation. He offered the worm to the first of us on his right shoulder. Without hesitation, it was devoured. He put his finger to his head once more, and this time drew out a golden worm. This he offered to the second of us, on his left shoulder. Once again, it was devoured.

He continued in this manner until we were full to bursting. The silver and gold writhed in our guts, hot and cold, filling us with emptiness and sorrow, with warmth and joy, all at once. It was only then that we realized we were no longer only ravens.

Our minds were pulled away from our bodies, away from the green skies of our home. We were taken into another body, under a different sky, in a distant time.

There, we were a boy. There, there was a garden…

It was a beautiful place.

A tall, red-bearded man held hands with a woman. Together they worked the land, pulling and pushing earth and water. Beside them were two children, a boy and girl. The girl coaxed plants from the soil, and the boy called animals to live in them.

The eyes we ravens watched from were distant, hovering far above the scene.

The man looked up at us. He opened his mouth, perhaps to call us down, to join them -

But all that came out was a terrible, wailing scream...

ᚼ

The ravens awoke, groggy with sleep. The baby’s wails echoed down the dark hallway, piercing even the great golden doors meant to shut away the rest of the world.

Thought looked at Memory. Memory looked back at Thought.

“You go,” croaked Thought.

“Muninn went last time,” complained Memory.

The wailing grew louder. It was a noise somewhere between a wolf having their teeth pulled and a crash collision between two speeding metal boats, complete with the two pilots arguing over whose fault it was afterwards. It was the very opposite of music.

“Huginn turn,” insisted Memory.

Huginn huffed, puffing up his feathers and shaking the sleep off of them. He flapped down off his golden perch and onto the bed. There was only one occupant, still slumbering on one side. On the other, the furs were flicked open. Huginn thought to look at the remaining shoes. The slippers were still there, but Frigga's boots were gone. Muninn remembered that she often went to the Garden at night - the only time she really could. She would not be back until sunrise.

Huginn hopped over to the remaining lump of furs. He pulled back the edges of them, revealing Odin’s face. He looked so very different from the creature who had walked the skies of the ravens’ homeworld. The red colour had long leached out of his hair, and his soft face had sprouted a grey beard and moustache to match it. At least his eyes had stayed the same - until a few nights ago when even one of them was taken from him.

Muninn recalled that he’d told them it was a trade of sorts. An eye for a baby. Huginn thought that was a rubbish trade. Odin's right eye had never screamed at them, which made it better by far.

Not wanting to waste any more potential sleep time, Huginn pecked near the newly-empty eye socket. At once the lump of furs erupted with a curse, sending Huginn flying into the air.

Odin attempted to insult his birds again but was drowned out by the baby screaming its boat-crash-wolf-yelp cry. So instead he sighed, beckoning to his birds to follow him as he lumbered out into the hallway.

Muninn tried to hide his beak under his wing and pretend he hadn’t seen the gesture. Huginn circled back and harassed him mercilessly.

“Need both,” Huginn tutted. “Always two ravens.”

Muninn relented, and soon both birds perched on Odin’s shoulders: Huginn on his right, Muninn on his left. As light as they were, Odin still moved slowly. He’d had very little sleep since returning from the final battle. The war itself hadn’t been particularly relaxing either.

Huginn felt the thought bloom in his mind as it occurred to Odin. How easy it seemed when I first took the child. Just seeing a friendly face after being abandoned had been enough to quell its cries.

They entered the nursery. Immediately the cries doubled in volume.

"Shhh-shhh-shh-sh.” Odin attempted, but the child only stopped its tears to hiccough loudly and suck in more breath, ammunition for further cacophony.

Hastily, Odin seized at a bottle waiting in a basket of ice and tried to stopper the babe with the bottle’s teat. Its mouth clamped shut and refused the milk, turning this way and that to escape.

“Still?” Odin asked it wearily.

I thought I saved you. But if you do not eat, all I have done is prolonged your death.

The thought tasted of hopelessness. It was not a favourite flavour of Huginn’s.

The babe reached out, seizing at Odin’s hand even as it ignored the bottle it held. Odin scooped the child into his arms, jostling the ravens as he patted its back. Nothing seemed wrong with it; its changing cloth was clean, its guts clear of gas. It was not even alone anymore - and yet it still would not stop crying.

“Go outside?” suggested Huginn.

“Remind baby of home,” agreed Muninn.

Odin nodded, eye still droopy with sleep.

They stepped onto the balcony. The night was clear and brimming with all the lights of Yggdrasil. As hoped, a chill was in the air.

And yet the baby still cried, digging into Odin’s beard as if trying to crawl away from the cold.

The old god sighed. “What am I to do?” he asked his ravens.

“Always, Odin ask only himself for counsel,” chided Muninn.

“I tried to turn to Frigga,” Odin protested half-heartedly.

Muginn cocked his head in judgement. The raven did not need to remind Odin of what he had done to Frigga. A flicker passed through both their minds: the memories of her face when he’d returned, bearing a strange infant to replace the one she so recently lost. She’d been waiting to share their grief - and Odin had instead asked her to disguise it, much like the false child he’d pressed to her breast.

“Odin did not think that one through,” observed Huginn.

“No. He did not,” agreed Odin, rubbing at the gauze over his socket again. He sighed.

Even Frigga’s reaction had been a friendlier welcome than he’d gotten from his own son.

I don’t know why I expected a warm welcome on my return - how could he even recognize me? He was but a babe when I left. But to see the boy instead glare at me with such suspicion, to insist on standing between his own mother and father...

But was the boy wrong to try and protect Frigga from me?

The first thing I did on my return was to break her heart.

“I am a wicked man,” Odin sighed.

"You are required to be a good king above being a good man. The two are often mutually exclusive concepts.”

Odin turned his head slightly to frown at Huginn. “That voice…”

The babe kicked him hard in the chest, trying again to squirm free of Odin’s grip.

Without thinking about it, he started to hum, bumping the child up and down as he did so.

Miraculously, the tiny creature quietened. Unscrunching its face, it peered up at him and his ravens. It seemed mesmerized by the tune.

Odin would have been glad of it, had he not recognized just what he was humming.

He stopped.

The babe immediately crumpled up again and began to fuss. Huginn, too, dipped his head in disappointment.

Despite his audience’s clear call for an encore, Odin did not pick up the tune again. Instead, he summoned the milk into his hand and tried again to feed the child. “Come on, boy,” he muttered, trying to turn its face back out from his chest. “I know it’s not as good as giant’s milk but we haven’t had any volunteers.”

His attempts jostled the ravens about on his shoulders, causing them to flap and squawk. Huginn wondered how comical they would appear to anyone walking in on the scene. Odin, King of Asgard, Conqueror, feared throughout the realms, encumbered by clingy ravens and an obstinate baby.

“Eat - the damn - milk,” Odin muttered, accompanying each word with the jab of the bottle.

“Baby liked that song,” Muninn recalled.

“Sing next time,” urged Huginn, a spark of independence clashing against Odin’s clear reticence.

“I don’t know that I can," the man muttered. “I haven’t sung in years,”

“Odin sang for many years before,” Muninn said slowly. “Muninn would know if Odin forgot how.”

“See? So sing now!” demanded Huginn.

The other raven looked away from his brother. “Muninn doesn’t like that song. It hurts.”

Huginn looked over at Muninn, scandalized. “We ravens like the song!"

But Muninn just fluffed his feathers again and wouldn’t meet Huginn’s beady eye.

The babe knocked the glass bottle from Odin’s hands. It hit the stone floor of the balcony and broke open.

Odin nearly cursed again, catching the ugly word with one syllable already hanging out of his mouth. Spending years around soldiers instead of the Court and his family had roughened his vocabulary. That was what he used his voice for, crass words and orders to make war. Not song. That belonged to a version of himself he’d long put behind him.

He would go and get a nursemaid and damn the consequences, he would go and fetch Eir and have her diagnose the child, he would go -

The baby detonated with a keening scream, piercing his eardrums and threatening to further shatter the glass bottle with its ferocity.

He would go mad if he didn’t do something right now.

Well, go madder. He must have been mad already to have taken this child in the first place.

It shouldn’t have come as easily as it did. For one thing, his voice had deepened significantly since he last said these words, and it strained at first, trying to hit the notes that used to be within easy reach. But even before he dropped to the next octave down, his seidr was stirred, flowing outwards with the euphony. In many ways, this had been how he’d first learned magic - how he first learned to speak with the air and sky, and all the intricate veins that threaded the universe together. A thousand strings to be plucked and molded into melody.

“Hearing, I ask, from the ho-o-ly races

From Norn’s eyes, watching high and low

I will soon relate, to this tree of faces

Old tales remembered from long, long ago.

Of old was the age when Ymir yet lived

No sea nor waves, nor sand was yet there

Earth was not yet, nor heavens forgive'd

All that was was the gap to nowhere.”

Muninn shifted uneasily. Memories of millennia were tangled inextricably in every bar. But to the babe, it was merely noise, clean and new and without connotation. Spellbound, it fell still in Odin’s arms.

“Lead me home, my mothers of yester

Lead me to my heart and its way

Free me from a body that festers

Free me from the urge to yet stay.

Take me from this o-ode to slaughter

Take me from Hel, though I may belong

Lead me to my sons and my daughters

Lead me home to the heart of my song.

Shield-time, sword-time, we enter the gold halls

Wind-time, Wolf-time, ere the world falls.”

Muninn thought of Bor, Father of Odin. He once said this was a sad song.

But did it have to be so for everyone who heard it? Odin wondered. Could it not be something else for this babe?

It could mean safety, comfort. It could mean that this child had a home…at least for a little while.

“Little while?” Muninn croaked. “How cruel.”

The All-Father ignored him and continued to sing.

“I remember yet the giants of yore

Who gave me bread in days gone by

Nine worlds I knew, Nine worlds at war

Nine voices became one battle cry…”

There were many ways this story could go. If it weren’t for me, this babe’s tale would have ended shortly after it had begun. What could be less cruel than the gift of possibilities?

“Muninn cannot remember the future, only past,” Muninn scolded. “Odin cannot know if saving baby means good or bad. It just is.”

“Even bad better than nothingness,” Huginn dissented. “This good deed.”

“Deeds have reasons why done,” Muninn muttered. “Were reasons good?”

Huginn turned his back on his brother, disgusted with his treachery. “Odin not parley with ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Odin just is. Muninn play silly games.”

“Only one rose from the sea of blood

Broken were oaths, words not what they seemed

Before the breath of liars, we scud

Shaped, like clouds, by forces unseen..."

“Odin make promise by taking baby,” insisted Muninn.

“Odin makes no promises,” Huginn hissed.

“I know the horn of Heimdall, well-hidden

As lost as the things it’s meant to return

What would I ask, if it were mine to be bidden?

Would I make new or ask to unburn?

Alone I waited when the Old One sought me

The Terror of Gods gazed in mine eyes:

‘What dost thou want? What comest thou to see?’

Dost thou look for something living or died?

‘Before thou ask, be aware there is cost -

An eye for an eye, a thought for a thought

If I am to return that which you lost

Be aware that the price is the same as the bought.

'Would you know yet more?

Knowing that wisdom is weight?

Would you know yet more?

Knowing no knowledge will sate?

Would you know yet more?

If you knew that knowing meant a forever war?’”

The babe was staring at Odin with rapt attention as if there was nothing in the universe more awe-inspiring than an old man mumbling his way through a doom-stricken ditty.

Odin tended to be the most powerful person in any room - or planet - or galaxy, really - that he happened to walk into, and so he was used to rapt attention. But there is nothing quite like being the end-all, be-all centre of existence in the eyes of an infant. For one thing, people tended to get nervous when the most powerful person in the galaxy walked into the room. This babe just wondered. It would have marvelled at him just the same if he were a moderately-successful goatherd.

This child knew so little of the world. So little about Odin. Hardly any different from most grown men, in that respect. How precious that ignorance was. How unfair that after all the world had done to this child in his short life that that innocence should be placed in Odin’s hands.

Moved to pity, Huginn bent down to preen at the babe’s few dark hairs. Muninn took off from the other shoulder, heading back inside.

“Lead me home, my brothers of yester

Lead me to my heart and its way

Free me from a body that festers

Free me from the urge to yet stay…

Take me from this o-ode to slaughter

Take me from Hel, though I may belong

Lead me to my sons and my daughters

Lead me home to the heart of my song.

Shield-time, sword-time, we enter the gold halls

Wind-time, Wolf-time, ere the world falls.”

The song was nearly complete now, and Odin was surprised to find himself slowing down, as if unwilling to let the moment go. Each time he returned to the chorus, there seemed to be some strange reciprocity from the babe. Though it could not sing, its fledgeling magic nonetheless reverberated with the melody, like the threads of a spider’s web plucked by the breeze.

"The serpent is bright, but now I must sink

My father of yester is leading me home

The sky becomes light, no more must I think

of old tales remembered from long, long ago.

It didn’t seem till now...

...so long, long ago."

It was done.

Muninn returned, bearing with him a fresh bottle of milk. He dropped it into Odin’s waiting hand. The babe seemed loose, almost liquid in Odin’s grasp, though its eyes were still bright and alert. It didn’t fight the bottle this time - but neither did it suck at the teat. Odin sighed.

“Did I ever know what was in giant’s milk, Muninn?”

The raven considered, then shook his head.

“Can you think of anything that would convince the child to drink, Huginn?”

The second raven considered, then shook his head.

“Fat lot of good you both turned out to be, eh?” Odin sighed, but there was a smile in it.

The king tried to return the babe to its crib, but its fists had knotted painfully in place in his beard. It was no use; he’d just have to take it to bed and hope it would behave until morning.

When he settled back into his half of the mattress, another pang of guilt crossed his chest.

I should be with her.

Instead, he pulled the blanket back up over himself and carefully tried to lie down without disturbing the infant.

“Give her time,” he said, though the babe was already deep in sleep. “She’s a warm heart and love to spare. She just needs time to say goodbye.”

The babe gurgled. Then, unmistakably, it hummed. Clear as the skies when Thor was in good spirits, it was the song Odin had imprinted on him, already echoing back. He listened to it make its way through the tune. At points it would stop, as if waiting for something; it took Odin a little while to realize that, even in the depths of sleep, it was waiting for a response. He’d hum back to it, sometimes along with it, creating a strange little harmony.

“We’ll make a proper Asgardian out of you yet,” he chuckled, and for a moment he could imagine that Frigga had merely gone to freshen up, that the babe was everything Odin was pretending it was, that his family had been spared their latest tragedy and all was, for that moment, well. He could forget all the inconvenient parts of reality.

The world could just be him and his borrowed boy.

He could stop the crying.

He could make things right.

“Could. What a damning word that is.”

Odin cracked open his eye and saw him in the corner of the room. Wrapped in shadows, and just as immaterial. His beard was a deeper red than it ever had been in life, and the curve of the downward-pointing horns of his helmet outlined his harsh face.

“Could is a word for regrets. Regrets are the stories we wished we lived. You were always too fond of stories. Stories are not real.”

Odin shut his eye. “Neither are you, Father.” He didn’t need to open it again to know that Bor would no longer be there. It was just a passing thought.

But the spell had been broken.

The bed was cold. His wife was still gone to the Garden to mourn over her true son while he coddled a painted imposter in what should have been her sanctuary. And even then, the babe was still sickly, still hungry, and he had nothing to fill him. He had made nothing right, only forgotten that everything was still wrong.

“Huginn - Muninn,” Odin called. “Go to Jötunheim and observe the children there. Learn what they require to suckle and grow, and return soon.”

The ravens bobbed their heads in acceptance of their task. They took flight.

The skies of Asgard roiled with starlight, but the clever birds knew which precise point of light was Jötunheim’s sole sun. Together they flew, side by side, into the ether. Light streaked, sound ceased, space bent around them, and they tore through -

We tore through…

We did, didn’t we? We ravens went to Jötunheim. We did - we saw and learned and we returned…The child lived, thanks to us…So why, why did the light and the sound continue, becoming darker, malevolent, angry? Why did it shout and accuse and become oh so terribly sad even as raging fire swept about us, between us, blackening the blackest of feathers and consuming, consuming, it was in Muninn’s mouth, it was in his stomach, it was devouring him from the inside out and he was in pain, such terrible pain and I, I the raven needed to go to my brother, needed to save him, but the moment we became I it was already too late.

Muninn was gone. A hole where a raven should be. I screamed for him, but a raven’s voice is not music, and it could not call him back.

I flew on.

My thoughts were dark.

Such angry, grieving thoughts.

My blood was dead. Taken from me. Stolen. By an enemy beyond my reach.

But not all my enemies were so.

Where was I going?

Somewhere cold, somewhere far away - and why?

To see the giants, the red eyes in the blizzard.

To Jötunheim, to the giants, to war -

As Asgard had done time and time again.

Yes, to war!

To war!

ᚼ

Huginn awoke with a start. Red light was streaming through the window behind him, courtesy of the sunset. He looked across from his golden perch to the empty one on the other side of the bed. As it had been for decades, it was empty.

So was the bed.

Huginn blinked at it. The sheets had been flung from the bed with force.

The door remained shut, likely still locked. But, as the breeze from the open window reminded the raven, that was not the only way out of this place.

With a flurry of greying feathers, Huginn took flight. He passed out the back of the golden room and felt the wispy touch of shattered spells try to catch at his feathers, to no avail.

The rook circled Asgard, wings straining, searching, searching.

He heard him before he saw him - the whistling of wind around the corners of the city and the low, dull roar of the stars as invisible strings drew from their raging hearts. Footfalls echoed mightily off the golden buildings, and at once Huginn knew they could not be dissuaded from their path.

There was nothing a raven, even one who was not only that, could do.

There was little anyone could do, really, but there were some who would try anyway. Inconveniently, today had to be the day they weren’t on Asgard.

Huginn braced his aching pinions, fixing his beady eyes on a star in the sky the way other ravens fixed on the glimmer of a mussel in the water.

He flew into the sky, following the faintest sounds of a half-remembered melody.

Chapter Text

LOKI

Perhaps peace is overrated.

Loki shifted minutely in his seat. He carefully obscured his boredom by narrowing his eyes and caressing the bottom of his lip with a finger - he was the picture of attention, even as his thoughts strayed. From the corner of his eye he observed Thor, curious how he was handling this overlong negotiation.

For once, the King was doing a half-decent job of acting like one. He inclined his head every so often, and on occasion even managed to throw in a beard stroke reminiscent of their father. It was enough to fool those who didn’t know him. But Loki noticed how these movements were just a bit too forceful, too often - excusable ways for Thor to move, betraying a brewing frustration.

Across the table from the Asgardian delegation sat an assortment of the Queega. Their heads almost appeared upside down, with the vertical slash of their mouths in the centre of their forehead and their pupilless eyes containing little soul. They were taller than the burliest of Asgardian warriors, green and scaly, skin hanging in loose rolls at the joints and overly long fingers.

All in all, their features seemed designed to disgust him. They were as un-Asgardian as it was possible to get while still standing on two feet. Their communication did come out of their mouths, but not in words - bolts of electricity were emitted, halo-like, and the resulting static was nothing that even the All-Speak could translate. Instead, the leader of the Queega spoke to a divergent member of its species. Smaller than most children, it had been…blessed…with several additional mouths, each seemingly engineered for a different kind of spoken language, although they still crackled with a little electricity. One had teeth and a rudimentary tongue, and it was through this that he spoke with language so florid it threatened to set off Loki’s hay fever.

“ZZZZzzzzxxx, My most majestic, meritorious and merciful lords, we do deeply appreciate you agreeing to meet with our emissaries and representatives of Queeg- ”

That's at least the twentieth time he's thanked us. For all his compliments, he must think us deaf or stupid. Outwardly, Loki nodded graciously.

“ - we understand that a potential impending conflict with the Shi’ar Empire is a threat in this area of space, zzz, but to become a temporary outpost for Asgard…well, what assurances do we have that it will be temporary, zzxz?”

Thor leaned forward. “Are the Asgardians not welcome on Queeg? Our presence will keep you safe - every day the Shi’ar Empire draws nearer to your sector, and thereby to our territory as well. If you do nothing, they will snuff you out and use your land to attack Asgard - ”

“It’s to our mutual benefit that we combine our forces and show a strong front against them,” Loki added, smoothing over Thor’s words. “You are in the line of fire, and we realize that if you were to be taken our space would be next. We think it’s best not to wait for the enemy to come to us, but to instead make common friends and help our neighbours, so they may, in turn, help us. This will be a relationship of equals.”

Thor frowned at Loki and hissed privately “That’s what I said, only longer.”

The younger brother didn’t blink, keeping eye contact with the translator, whose empty gaze moved back and forth from Thor to Loki before settling on the dark-haired one. “We will need assurances that your tents will not grow roots and sprout into Asgardian palaces.”

Loki’s appeasing smile came together so quickly his teeth clicked. “Assurances best made on paper, with signatures, I presume. I’ll draw up the words myself and send them to be reviewed by the Queega for amendments as you see fit.”

A child’s voice, albeit one beginning to fracture, entered the conversation. “Er…may I say something, Father?”

Loki had almost forgotten Magni was here. While he sat at the king’s left, the boy was on Thor’s right side, hidden behind his father's well-renowned bulk.

Before Thor could reply to his son, General Tyr declared “A First Prince needn’t mumble for permission, boy. Speak up and speak clearly - your words matter.” The last three words were said in a way that was both an encouragement and a warning.

Magni swallowed. “I..er…just wanted to add that possibly…we could…” his voice stuttered to a stop.

Thor smiled warmly and clapped his son’s shoulder. “Yes?”

“Perhaps you’d be more at ease if we could meet somewhere besides this moon,” Magni blurted out. “You could see we’re not at all like the stories you’ve heard - perhaps some representatives could go on a hunt with us, or else visit the Gardens - “

Loki interrupted as quickly as possible while still appearing supportive. “A hunt may be possible. I hear Grenthar IV has some very crafty beasts known to imitate voices to confuse their hunters.”

Magni nodded eagerly, causing his mop of brown hair to flop about. Loki twitched a smile at his nephew, even as he wished he could curse under his breath. Inviting them into the very heart of our home - my mother’s garden, no less - what in the name of the Norns was he thinking? Loki clasped his hands together, finger itching his palm at the thought of the alien hordes squelching past the rose bushes, or the crackle of the Queega’s incessant halos of energy interrupting the bird song as they lumbered into flower beds. Apparently he would need to remind Magni that Asgard was closed to outsiders.

The translator gurgled thoughtfully, eyes still narrowed slightly. “A hunt may be welcome. The Queega are always eager for new ingredients for their sausages. They are an important cultural practice and product, you know.”

“Really? How so?” Magni asked before Loki and Thor could signal him to avoid the question. As the translator’s face split into three separate smiles, the brothers did their best to hold in their groans.

“Zzzzz, You weren’t here when I last explained it, were you? It would be my honour to elucidate the subject! The recipes are considered a form of poetry, and often recited as a form of courting amongst our people. It is said a particularly creative recipe will yield a bushel of sausage and two more of children, providing the recipe was enunciated with the proper amount of electricity -“

Suddenly, a black missile came crashing in through the ceiling, raining glass down on them all.

Guards shouted - the Queega hissed, shooting purple sparks - Thor reached out a hand and summoned Mjölnir - the hammer smashed through the closed doors - Tyr reared backwards, eyes wide and bright - Loki summoned a knife to hand -

In the centre of the table, the missile fluttered his graying wings, flipped himself over, and cawed.

The room froze.

“Huginn?” Thor and Loki said as one.

“O~o~odin,” croaked the raven, confirming their fears.

‘What’s wrong with grandfather?” Magni said in alarm.

Thor turned to his brother and muttered, “I thought the protective spells on his rooms had been strengthened!”

“He’s still the most powerful sorcerer in Asgard. There’s only so much that can be done,” Loki hissed back.

Thor turned back to the astonished room of aliens and Asgardians. “Ah…this bird is a messenger from my father, the previous All-Father. Apologies for the interruption - please excuse my brother and I while we deal with this matter.”

Huginn took off, leading the king and Loki out of the Negotiations Room. Before they left, Loki made sure to brush past Magni and mutter “All will be well,” in his ear.

Once they’d exited the building stood in the wilderness of Queega’s moon, the brothers began to interrogate the raven.

“What’s gone wrong? Is he safe?” Loki asked quickly.

“Where is he now?” Thor followed. “What’s he doing?”

Huginn ignored them. He flitted to a strange sort of tree and started to play with the lichen growing there.

“Huginn!” both brothers called. It was no use; the bird’s mind was wandering again. They were lucky that he’d stayed focused long enough to reach this moon at all.

While Thor continued to berate the bird, Loki took a moment to smooth back his hair and slow his breathing. He needed to get this under control. And that meant getting himself under control first. He forced his body to relax. Everything is fine. Everything must be fine.

“One of us has to go back,” Thor declared. “There’s no telling what’s gone wrong. If it’s anything like last week, then the cooks are getting an earful for not preparing enough food for my Coronation feast - ”

“It’ll be another week of overly-salted stew and bland pudding if so,” Loki sighed.

“Or maybe it’s like the week before that, and he’s convinced that all the lamps in Asgard are spy devices for the Light-Elves -“

“It’ll be another week of eating overly-salted stew and bland pudding in the dark if so,” Loki sighed.

“Or, Norns forbid, it’s like the week before that, and he’s gone into the centre of the city and is shouting poetry at everyone again - he did it for hours last time -

“It’ll be another week of eating overly-salted stew and bland pudding in the dark with bad entertainment if so,” Loki sighed.

Thor glared at his brother. “I get the feeling you aren’t taking this entirely seriously, Loki.”

Loki shrugged. “Like you said. Every week it’s something - and every week, I take care of it.”

Thor looked away, chagrined. “I suppose it is always you who deals with it. I should go one of these times -“

“Not this time. You have stay here and listen to ancient ballads of sausage making,” Loki smirked. “Perhaps it will come in handy if Father has insulted the kitchens again. We may be forced to feed ourselves.”

Thor rubbed his nose and groaned, but a slight smile was on his face. “We’d likely starve in a week…” He looked up again at Loki, face falling. “You’re sure? It’s hardly fair, you always being the one to…well, it’s not easy.”

“Neither is negotiating with a race of lizard-people without me by your side,” Loki breezed. “I know how to handle him - and any problems he may have caused. If you go, you’ll just shout at each other - and it’s getting late in Asgard, people won’t appreciate the disruption.”

“I suppose you’re right…” Thor said.

“As always, but continue,” Loki smiled.

Thor clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Go, then - but be back soon. If I get too bored I’ll be forced to declare war.” Before Loki could quip further, Thor placed his hand on his neck. “I truly am sorry that it’s always you who goes. Thank you, Loki.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the air growing heavy with the unsaid.

Loki broke it first. “You’ve probably missed the list of ingredients.” His smile flicked back on. “Now the rest of the recipe will be hopelessly confusing. Best get back inside.”

Thor groaned again and released his brother. He seemed in better spirits as he re-entered the building.

The moment the door clicked closed, Loki dropped the smile and good humour. He cast his eyes up at Huginn. The bird was agitated, preening with great force. He plucked out a wing feather and tossed it to the ground, then reached for another.

“Stop that,” Loki hissed. “Come here - we’re going back to Asgard.”

The bird ignored him. Which was nothing new since Odin’s sickness had first emerged.

Loki made the trek back to the Bifröst site alone. He would have run it if he could, but the path wound through gaseous swamps. Whatever situation awaited him in Asgard, he doubted that being soaked with swamp juice would make dealing with it more enjoyable. He knew they only wanted this moon and Queeg as outposts, not holiday spots, but Loki fervently wished they didn’t have to come here ever again. Bad enough that he had to leave Asgard at all - spending so much time in a place that was its antithesis was salt in the wound.

At last he came to a constructed stone burned with the Bifröst stamp. When he stepped upon it, Loki fancied he could feel the ridges, even through his thick-soled boots.

He exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

“Heimdall!” he called.

The wail of the rainbow bridge surged towards him, bellowing like a whale with a thousand twittering birds in its stomach. In the next instant, he was striding out of the tunnel, pressing his hair back into place. To his surprise, Huginn flew out behind him. Evidently the bird still had enough sense to take a free ride back home.

“How was The Moon of Queeg?” Heimdall asked.

“If you sniff hard enough, Gatekeeper, you will be able to know for yourself. I'll have to shower three times before the palace dogs will be able to recognize me,” Loki complained.

“I would not advise delaying so long for that,” Heimdall intoned. “Your father is already halfway down the bridge towards us.”

“What?” Loki started. He looked down the long glass bridge connecting the Bifröst to the city.

He heard him before he saw him. The wind was beginning to moan, restless and hungry, and blowing from Asgard instead of in from the sea - entirely unnatural.

Not a good sign of Odin’s mood.

“God-rot,” Loki sighed, hand trailing down his face before rubbing his goateed chin. “I trust you would not have let him through, Heimdall, had he managed to get here before me?”

“I am sworn to obey the King, including past ones,” Heimdall said. “But I would delay him all I could, and would bring one of you here if need be. Even if it was…an emergency interruption.”

Loki imagined the Bifröst light suddenly breaking through the Negotiation Room, spiriting him away in an instant. At first, the break in the monotony would have been welcome, but then…

Then he would see his father striding down the Rainbow Bridge, his chest-armour bright and shining, eye full of battle fire, a breeze in his cape and his horned-and-winged helm sparkling with the night sky of Asgard.

It was a sight that had made Frost Giants quake, once upon a time. Now, however, Loki rather suspected that Frost Giant would be quaking from laughter.

The lack of pants did rather spoil the effect.

Loki felt no mirth of his own. Instead, he moved towards the striding figure cautiously, halting him just outside the Bifröst chamber.

“Hail, All-Father,” he called out. He waited to see how Odin would react. Some days he was recognized, but more and more often…

“Where are the rest of the men?” barked Odin. “They should be lined up from here to the Keep. We press into the heart of Jötunheim today!”

Loki staggered backwards, struck by a bellowing wind. Odin’s eye was a terrible, burning-bright blue, the literal eye of the storm.

Loki shouted above the gale, slipping into character with practised ease. “General Tyr has already taken the troops to Jötunheim, My King!” The wind lessened. Loki took advantage and spoke quickly. “The war was won this morning. I was sent to inform you of the Asgardian victory.”

Odin blinked. “How…how dare he? I was to lead the final charge, accept Laufey’s surrender…it has been…such a long war…I…” he blinked again, and there was some imperceptible shift to his posture. A weight pressed to his shoulders. “After so much loss, the people…they should have seen me there, I cannot stand apart…I should be there. Where…where is Ven? Where is Torben? They should be the ones sent to me…not…who are you?”

Loki wondered who Ven and Torben were, that they seemed to stick in Odin’s mind more clearly than his own son. “I am…I am who could be sent, My King,” he said evenly.

“Liar!” barked Odin, and the fury was back within him once more. He rose, and this close it was easy to miss the lack of pants and instead be appropriately threatened. “I am Odin All-Father, Witch-King of the Nine Realms! You think I cannot see that you are not as you appear? It is a fine craft that you have spun about your features, to be sure - but you will remove it and reveal yourself at once!”

Loki stared at his father. The first compliment he’s given me in decades - and all it is for is a simple appearance glamour. He nearly laughed at the thought but managed to keep it to a single wry twitch of his lips.

“Heimdall!” roared Odin. “Use your All-Seeing eyes and tell me what hides beyond this magicked exterior!”

Heimdall looked at Loki, face unreadable as a book written in Atlantean. An old joke - books tended not to remain legible underwater. “My King, this man has cast nought but a simple surface-level glamour upon himself. It is only vanity, not duplicity.”

Heimdall did not like to lie. In similar situations they’d had before this, his truthfulness had been the cause of further chaos. It was not just the Gatekeeper's predilection either. Most in Asgard found it difficult to lie to their old All-Father. The habit to truth-tell was simply there when your old king stared you in the eye. Asgard had great condescension towards liars in general, though a lie would often be the kindest thing to give.

Which was why Loki was sent: to guide the old King around with pretty baubles, as he was known to be inclined to such debasement. He was the only one willing to lie pleasantly and smile when others could not bear to look upon the shame with a straight face.

“Yes, it is as great Heimdall says. I have come from battle and did not wish to disturb Your Majesty with my haggard appearance. Shall we go to the palace, that we might feast in celebration of Asgardian victory?”

Loki looked askance at Heimdall. Just once, it’d be nice to have a supporting character in a production where Loki was always asked to be the starring player.

Heimdall continued to stare evenly. “You are needed back at the Palace, My King. This man means no harm.”

Close enough, I suppose.

“Thank you, Gatekeeper.” His next words were a careless slip of habit. "When Thor returns, you are welcome to turn your gaze upon us to inform him of wherever we are.”

Odin whirled around, eyes darting back and forth. “Thor? Thor is gone? My son is far too young to have left Asgard and in this time of war - who commanded such a thing? Where is he? TELL ME NOW!”

Loki had just enough time brace himself before the hurricane struck him, blowing his cape and hair into a tangle and engulfing the world in a barrage of fury. He just had to ride this out. It was only air, just moving a little faster than normal. The main problem was that it was drowning out his speech - the only tool he had.

Unexpectedly, it was Heimdall who came to the rescue. He’d walked down from his usual post atop the plinth in the chamber, bracing against the winds. Perhaps his heavy golden armour had given him an advantage. In a deep booming voice, he cried, “Thor is safe, Your Grace. He will be here shortly. Your other son, however, is awaiting you.”

The wind died so quickly Loki stumbled forward.

“The child is born?” Odin said half-excitedly, half-hesitant. “And is healthy? Strong? How is Frigga? I’ll never hear the end of missing the delivery.”

Heimdall’s orange eyes didn’t blink. “Asgard celebrated a safe birth and a healthy child.”

“It is a sign from the Norns that we put an end to bloodshed and death on the same day we are blessed with new life.” Odin was practically giddy, turning on the spot and beginning a brisk trot back towards Asgard. “Come, vain vassal - let us make haste for the nursery!”

Loki supposed he was the vain vassal, although with his exterior in such thorough disarray it seemed inept. Before he could attempt to fix his appearance, however, Huginn flew out of the Observatory, thwacking him in the back of the head with a clumsy wing as the bird chased after Odin. Just as Loki made to follow both, Heimdall called out to the old king.

“Congratulations, Odin. He is a good son, and will serve you well.”

That was an… unexpected message. “Careful, Heimdall - one compliment is all it takes to destroy a lifetime of reciprocated disregard. Think about what we don’t have,” Loki smirked.

“I know it will take more than a single assurance to endanger our…lack of a relationship,” Heimdall remarked dryly. “You see too much meaning in the unspoken to allow what is actually said to carry any weight.”

Loki chose to take that as a compliment and hurried to catch up with his father.

Odin was practically bouncing. Loki could not recall ever seeing him display such unfettered emotion, at least not before the mind-wandering had begun. He knew better than to think this was merely Odin returning to a younger frame of mind - there was a rawness, an unawareness to how he was perceived and where he was. Odin had never lacked that sense of self before now. Even when re-enacting his days of battle glory, he was more like a child brandishing a wooden stick than the legendary Odin Giants-Bane and Wolf-Master. As for his sudden enthusiasm for Loki’s birth - well, if he had felt that way, it had certainly cooled into (at best) respectful interest by the time Loki was old enough to make memories of it.

“Have you seen the child? Is he hale? Does he look more like his mother or like me?” Odin rattled off the questions.

“He looks…like a baby, your Grace.” Loki hazarded. “Much like other babies. Or so I would assume - I don’t see many of them.”

“Have you none of your own, then? You really ought to consider it. My Thor brings me such joy, such pride. He’s already so advanced for his age, you know. Frigga told me that he was chasing the cats about just the other day, and nearly caught one. Do you know how hard it is to catch a cat? The boy’s a natural, a natural.”

Loki nodded along. “He’s your son - it’s to be expected that the boy would be talented.”

“Take nothing for granted, vassal - many sons are nothing like their fathers.”

Loki thought of how he and Odin must look at that moment - a befuddled old man, broad of chest and wide of nostril even as he only came to Loki’s spindly shoulders. Sometimes, when around Thor and Odin, Loki felt as if he were made all of angles and broken glass next to their compact bulk. “I suppose that’s true, Your Grace.”

“You are old enough to have children - do they much resemble you, vassal?”

"I have other responsibilities. Other callings than children.”

Odin raised a sympathetic hand and patted Loki hard on the back. Odd, that his physical affection should come to Loki more easily now that he was a little-regarded stranger in his father’s eyes.

“What duty could take precedence over family and children, man? You are no King who must put country first. And no Einherji either, with your garb.”

“I serve both the country and my family,” Loki protested. “I am…a negotiator. For terms of peace. Although I wield no sword, I’ve been told my tongue is sharp enough to mortally injure any ego that crosses me.”

“Ah, a wordsmith. That is good. You are right, a tongue is mightier than even Gungnir when used correctly. Were you there to negotiate terms with Laufey? What did we decide?”

Loki cast his mind back. “Unconditional surrender, and payment of weregild to Midgard and Asgard for their damages for the next millennia. As well as the Casket of Ancient Winters, obviously. They couldn’t be trusted with it.” Loki recalled the history well. It had been a lesson their father himself had taught, complete with a walk into the Vault to see the war prize sitting pretty on its plinth. It had been moved to one side now, to make room for the various other objects of power Thor’s reign had procured.

“Those are harsh terms,” Odin said slowly.

“Harsh terms for a harsh people,” Loki said blithely. “What would be cruel suffering to others is merely another bleak day in bleak lives for them. Let them taste the starvation they would have asked others to bear.”

“T-that is hopelessness.” Odin shook his head. “No, no - that will not do. Despair only breeds hatred, and rash action.”

“Certainly, my King. We need to give them some example to strive for, some assurance that once they have improved they will be rewarded. You are right. What do you suggest?”

“I…I do not…know…the war has been…so long…there must be something…I-I-I thought…I did have…an i-i-i-idea…”

The stuttering was beginning. It was getting on into the evening - that was to be expected. “If you are tired, perhaps I should take you to your rooms,” Loki suggested.

“N-No. My son…I want to see…my son. He is…just born…he should know what his father…looks like...” Odin sounded confused again. “He was born healthy…that is g-g-g-good…we were not certain…Frigga…the feast on Alfheim…Eir said it was uncertain…Frigga was so...” he was meandering off course now. “Frigga…yes…yes, how could I forget? Vanaheim! I must go at once -“ he made to turn around on the Bifröst, and Loki stumbled in the wake of his sudden course change.

“We were going to the palace -“ Loki tried to say.

“Nonsense, I remember now. I was off to Vanaheim, for a feast. There’s a woman there - auburn hair, and her smile, like she’s set some dreadful joke upon you and is only waiting for it to spring - her family is in the act of some rebellion-or-other, but that’s hardly a downside. You must meet her -“

“Father - All-Father, please - you are needed at the palace…” Which is still a great many leagues away. We cannot hope to walk it all without further distraction. Loki whistled sharply.

“I am King, and I will go where I please, vassal,” Odin dismissed, already walking back towards the Observatory.

“Of course, My Liege - but shouldn’t a king have a noble steed if he is to call on another realm?”

Sleipnir arrived in a clatter of hooves and eager snorting. No sooner had Odin glimpsed him than he was stroking his cheek and murmuring to the beast. “Hello, boy,” he muttered, and at last seemed quieted and at peace.

Loki often wished they could simply bring Sleipnir into the palace itself and allow him to trail behind their father like a dog rather than an aged war-charger. He could curl up at Odin’s fireside, occasionally kicking in his sleep (and with eight legs, that was sure to be near-constant.) There simply seemed to be something to the repetitive motion of stroking the horse that calmed Odin as nothing else could.

Odin was feeling around his bare leg absently. Before he could realize his pants (and with them their pockets) were gone, Loki leaned over and summoned the bag of sugar lumps his father was looking for and handed them over. While Odin was distracted feeding them to Sleipnir, Loki took the chance to conjure a pair of leggings right onto the All-Father himself. He made sure to pick a pair that matched the rest of the haphazard outfit.

Perhaps it says too much that I have multiple selections of Father’s clothes tucked away in my personal pocket dimension.

Loki helped Odin mount a patient Sleipnir. The ride down the rest of the bridge was uneventful, mostly thanks to Sleipnir’s intelligence. Whenever Odin attempted to urge him into a gallop or turn him about, the horse ignored him and kept on track for the city, seemingly aware of the difference between where his master needed to be taken and what Odin would ask.

When they arrived back at the palace, it was to the relief of several scurrying palace guards and servants who quickly grouped around them offering aid. Loki allowed them to help his father dismount before dismissing the useless lot. Though he did take the ever-faithful Sven’s offer of a drink - a small one now, and a larger waiting in his own rooms. It would be well deserved. And, as usual, the regular sleeping draught would be delivered to Odin’s chambers.

Odin’s chambers were the ones they always had been. Thor had instead built new quarters for himself and his family at the other end of the palace. Loki had kept his old quarters, which had expanded to include Thor’s rooms. He was the only other residence in the Royal Wing.

They entered Odin’s apartments. Odin’s confusion didn’t ease with the familiarity of his surroundings. They strolled through the entrance chambers, receiving room, and down the hallway towards the main bedroom without comment. Loki held his breath as they passed the old nursery, since converted into a reading room. Thankfully, Odin’s capricious mind had moved on from thoughts of infant sons.

The moment they arrived in the main bedroom, Huginn flew from Odin’s shoulder to settle on his perch behind the massive bed. The bird creaked a final ‘good night’ before stuffing his head under his wing, clearly eager to go back to his interrupted rest. Odin rubbed at his own eye but stubbornly resisted. Instead, his gaze settled, with puzzlement, upon the armoire in the corner. The large mirror reflected the dishevelled father and son, like some sad family portrait. Below it, where there was once the combs, oils, trinkets and assorted knick-knackery Frigga had collected, there were now only stacks of books.

“Where is…where is Fri-Frigg-Frigga…?” Odin muttered.

Loki tapped Odin’s clothes once more, magically exchanging them for sleepwear.

“Mother is gone,” he said tiredly. “It’s time to go to sleep.”

“No!” Odin pouted at once. “No, no, I’m supposed to go…go somewhere - “ he patted at his clothes, changing them into formal palace wear, and then to armour, and then halfway between the two. “I…there is always, always somewhere I-I must be, I must.”

“There’s nowhere you need to go, Your Grace.”

“There is always somewhere to be when you’re important!” dismissed Odin, shrugging off Loki’s hands and making for the door just as someone knocked upon it.

Odin opened it to reveal Sven holding a serving tray with a single goblet upon it. “Nightcap, Your Grace?” he asked.

The sleeping draught. At last. “Oh, go on, All-Father,” Loki urged.

Odin took a step back, uncertain. “I c-can’t drink just now, I have to go…go to…t-to...” he frowned, moustache twitching as he fought to obscure his lack of knowledge. “T-to…you don’t need to know. Move aside."

“Please, sir. It’s your favourite mulled mead.” Sven leaned forward.

“It would help settle your nerves,” Loki encouraged.

“I said move aside,” Odin growled. “Are you deaf?”

Sven persisted. “Your Majesty, I think you will find you need this mead -“

There was almost no warning.

One moment, Odin had been dazed. The next, a blast of fire erupted from his hand, burning towards Sven.

Loki reacted. A flash of green light collided with the golden, elbowing it aside just enough to burn past Sven’s ear. The goblet fell from the tray and shattered.

Silence. 

“Thank you, Sven. I’ll…I’ll handle things. Please, bring another and leave it for me outside.”

Sven, to his credit, hadn’t even blinked. He bowed curtly. “At once, Your Grace,” he said, and only a man who knew the evenness of his voice throughout many decades could have detected the slight tremor in it. He shut the door a little too quickly, retreating on silent footsteps.

Odin stared at the goblet. “I didn’t mean to.” He looked up at Loki like a scorned dog. “It was just…I didn’t like it. It was too close.”

“It’s fine, Father,” Loki said forcefully. “It was just an accident.”

He cast a banishing spell at the shards of goblet and its spilt contents. It vanished like it had never been there at all.

“Now. I…how about I read something aloud, like we usually do?” Loki went to the vanity cabinet, focusing intently on shuffling through the tomes. “There’s Askeladd, naturally. Or I could continue The Saga of Björn Gullson - we’d just gotten to the part where he was wrestling the bear as part of their marriage ceremony. Or perhaps some history? You do find Alfheim in the seventh century to be very amusing.”

It was like flicking a switch. The guilt evaporated from Odin’s face, replaced with a smirk. “Yes. They were always building on swamps. They’d done it for so long that by the time they realized it wasn’t a good idea, it was tradition. So they kept building sinking castles, over and over again, one on top of the other.” He pressed a hand to his mouth and giggled.

“And they named them as if they were children of the castles whose bones they stood on,” chuckled Loki.

“Ridiculous,” Odin agreed. “It would often take half a day to say the name of a place. Gunnartoft-son of-Helkatown-son of-Jarispoint-son of-Iverson Point-son of-Jarysvárlfkirk. Just saying the name of a place was a history lesson in failure and stubbornness.”

It was easy to move past the uncomfortable incidents if you allowed yourself to be caught up in the quick-shifting winds that Odin now sailed. Loki was only too happy to do so.

He was feeling selfish, so he chose the book of Askeladd stories, as he often did. Even deep into adulthood as he now was, he retained a childlike glee for the lazy but clever protagonist.

In every story, Askeladd and his family were a little different - sometimes they were peasants, and sometimes princes - but he was always the youngest, he always played in the ashes of a fire he was meant to be tending, and he was always the least-regarded, the last resort to any problem. But nonetheless, he never failed.

He flicked through the book until he found a favourite amongst favourites.

“The Heartless Troll,” he announced, settling into the golden seat by the bed.

Odin milled about the room as he began the story. (This time Askeladd was the eighth son of a great king who wished to see his sons all married. His eldest seven were sent away to search for brides. Only Askeladd was kept back.) The All-Father was distracted for the first few pages, changing his clothing into various sets for various affairs, picking up and putting down objects near his wardrobe, his face still creased in puzzlement.

“The seven brothers came upon a king with seven daughters. They were so comely that the princes were compelled at once to propose to them. Upon their agreement, the party of fourteen set off for home. Eager to impress their father with their new brides, the princes decided to cut through the mountains…knowing not that a terrible troll lived there...”

Though he still stubbornly wandered the room, Odin’s feet were beginning to drag. Loki kept his tone steady and soothing, though he couldn’t resist having a separate voice for each of the characters, including a comically guttural one for the troll.

“‘Who goes there?’ the troll rumbled. ‘The bravest warrior princes in the land!’ declared Askeladd’s brothers. ‘Accompanied by their new loves! You’d best let us pass, for we’ve all the reason in the world to fight!’”

Odin had at last come to a stop, standing across the bed from Loki. He swayed on the spot, face now more blank than confused. Loki knew the next part by memory anyway, so he put the book down and went to Odin, again changing him into his sleeping clothes and easing him into bed, all the while continuing the story.

"The troll laughed at them. ‘No warrior has ever beaten a mountain, and so no warrior can beat me.’ The brothers, each skilled in a weapon of war, drew them and attacked. The eldest stuck the troll through with his spear, and the second brother ran him through with his sword and so forth and so on until even the seventh brother had pierced the troll’s chest with his dagger. But the troll just kept on laughing…”

There was the lightest of knocks on the door. Loki waited, giving time for Sven to retreat, and then retrieved the new goblet full of sleeping draught. This time Odin took it without a fuss, sipping at it quietly while Loki continued.

“‘I have no heart in me for you to pierce. Unlike you foolish creatures, I have put it somewhere safe. Here, I will help you protect your own.’ The troll then turned all the princes and princesses to stone.”

“What a bastard,” Odin said matter-of-factly.

Loki blinked in surprise. He’d never heard his father speak in such terms. It was oddly refreshing.

“The king waited long for his sons to return, but no matter his pining, they remained missing, year after year. He fell into a great grief, refusing to eat or sleep. Askeladd went to his father to ask permission to search for his brothers. He was refused. ‘If I were to lose you as well, then I would swear off air itself,’ the king declared. ‘I did not know that you loved me so,’ Askeladd told his father. ‘You said that I was lazy, good for nothing more than blowing on the ashes to relight the fire. I was not permitted to seek a wife with the others, and instead was hidden away.’”

Odin’s eye had closed. Loki reached out with his magic and began to dim the lights in the room.

“’You are all that I have left,’ the king said. 'I will not lose you too.' But Askeladd could see the shadow of death upon his father, so severe was his heartbreak. So in the night the eighth son left the kingdom in disguise, that he might rescue his brothers and restore his family - as well as seek his own fortune.”

Odin looked to be well asleep. Quietly, Loki marked his place and shut the book, placing it on the chair as he stood. He was halfway to the door when his father’s voice called out to him, muddled and distant.

“I have been thinking on the names you suggested, Frigga. Kari seems sweet, if it were a girl.”

Loki paused. He should not leave if Odin were not yet asleep. He could well go wandering again.

“Kari,” he repeated. How interesting it was, for a moment, to picture what his life would have been like if he’d been born a girl. A girl named Kari. He was fairly certain the kitchen maid Thor had pursued when they were teenagers had been named Kari. No doubt that would have caused some awkwardness. “And if it’s a boy?” he inquired.

“I assume you still feel rather strongly about Baldur.” Odin sighed. “It is…a fine name. Or…perhaps we should wait to see if it suits him...”

Evidently, Loki had come out looking very un-Baldur-ish. His goatee stretched in a small, quick grin. Baldur. Meaning pure of heart, fair of visage. A light to guide all Aesir. Well, I can’t say Father didn’t have me pegged. He took one look at me and knew I was a Loki at once. Loki: a knot. A puzzle. A closed way. Much more fitting.

“Good thinking, Husband,” he said aloud. “He is still a stranger to us, after all. We should at least shake his hand before we label the child for life.”

Odin fell quiet once more. Loki waited for the first snore this time. Several minutes passed.

“It’s not your fault, Frigga. It’s not your fault.”

It was barely more than a whisper. Odin reached an arm out across the massive expanse of the bed to stroke the pillow where his wife’s head had once lain.

“It’s not your fault, it’s not your fault. It was…my fault. I should have known. I should have seen the danger. I’m so sorry, Frigga. I…I should not have allowed it…he would have lived, if I’d just been vigilant...it’s not your fault, it’s not your fault, it’s not…it is mine. Blame me. Blame me, Frigga.”

Loki’s stomach dropped. He was intruding, seeing something he was never meant to know, but curiosity and horror fastened his feet to the floor. And yet why should it disturb him so?

“I’m so sorry, Frigga. So sorry.”

It occurred to Loki that, in all their shared millennia of life, he had never heard his father apologize for anything. At least not to Loki’s hearing.

There came a hitched breath. Then several more, quicker and faster.

It took a minute of unmistakable, quiet sobs for Loki to finally recognize them for what they were.

His father was crying.

He slowly approached the bed, taking each step as if it were over broken glass. When he stood above Odin, he held out a tentative hand, just above the lump of sheets. They were trembling.

“Father?” Loki asked quietly.

The lump continued to sob. Loki gently brushed his palm across what he presumed was a shoulder. Wrapped in white, his father almost seemed a fragile, porcelain figure. Loki squeezed the limb briefly, then made to pull back.

Odin’s hand moved in a blur from Frigga’s pillow, snatching at his son's wrist. Loki froze.

“Stay. Please.” Odin whispered. “I’m so lost. I…I do not know what I am meant to be doing. Please... don’t leave me. Please.”

Loki tried to gently pry the old god’s fingers from his arm, but they were old warrior god fingers and would not be budged. He relented, allowing his father to reel him into the bed, pausing only to awkwardly kick off his boots. Odin’s other hand grabbed the front of his leathers, pulling Loki as close as a drowning man held a broken mast in a storm.

The lanky god settled into the down pillows, his knees complaining slightly as he bent to accommodate Odin’s clinging. There would be no escaping this embrace until morning. He resigned himself to spending the night, and in his court clothes no less. There was no way to change them now unless he wanted to risk disturbing Odin further with the magic.

Slowly, Odin’s heaving breaths eased off. They deepened into a rattle, on the verge of a snore, and the sound seemed to press some button in Loki’s mind. A memory was conjured up, so far away as to surely be half-imagined now, of running into this room on soft feet in the night. The bed had been tall - he’d had to jump, scrabbling at the blankets. He’d slipped, pulling the sheet down to the floor. Then came the tears - not just because he’d hit the floor, but because he was so close to his parents but could not reach them, and they had not seen him, and he was suddenly afraid that what he’d been running from would arrive now and pull him away, and his father and mother would sleep on and on and not hear him as he screamed out to them and -

A sleepy arm had reached out and felt around until it touched his head. The bed had creaked, and he was suddenly lifted by his armpits, up and up and up. There had been mutters, a sleepy ‘What’s wrong?’, muffled assurances, the rustle of blankets being moved about. Yet still Loki had cried - the sobs had a rhythm now, his breaths too deep, and the panic still firmly wedged in his mind, even though he was aware that it was silly, that he was safe. The shame only made him sob all the louder. Perhaps they had asked what was the matter - he could not recall. He did not think he could have responded in that state. So they simply pressed him between the two of them, waiting for him to calm. Frigga had murmured something comforting, and Odin had grumbled.

“They were coming to take me away,” he’d whispered when he could speak again. “I was alone, and I called out to you. But they came instead. I ran and I ran and I ran and I know it was a dream, but when I woke up I was alone and I called out to you. And then I ran here.”

Loki quirked a smile as he recalled that logic. “Will you protect me from the Frost Giants, Father?” he whispered, the smile seeping into his voice. “Will you stop them from taking me away?”

The old man’s grip tightened again. “You are mine, Loki. No-one is taking you away. I would not allow it. Now go to sleep, boy.”

Loki closed his eyes. It would surprise him later, that he’d fallen asleep so easily after being commanded. Perhaps it had something to do with the pressure of being held, or the faint scent of his mother’s perfume that still haunted the room. Or maybe it was the relief of being addressed by his name, to be remembered for a moment, even if only as a child.

“Mine. My boy,” Odin muttered.

“Yours,” Loki breathed in agreement, then slipped into unconsciousness.

The RAVEN

Huginn shuffled on his perch, grumbling to himself. How much longer until Odin fell asleep and Huginn could join him? He had hoped that by putting his head under his wing he’d made his intentions clear. But no. Still talking, talking, talking. How much longer did Huginn have to fake sleep before he could get the real thing?

“Will you protect me from the Frost Giants, Father?” Loki said sleepily. “Will you stop them from taking me away?”

The bird watched Odin tighten his grip around his son’s wrist. “You are mine, Loki. No-one is taking you away.”

Huginn scoffed. Odin. Always want to keep. Mine, mine, mine.

“Mine. My boy,” Odin muttered.

The raven huffed in vindication. Odin still my Odin. Many things change, but not that.

“Yours,” Loki agreed, his voice barely audible. Already he was mostly asleep.

Huginn creaked in envy and tried in vain to will himself into slumber. But Odin still kept talking, talking, talking even though no-one was listening.

“Yes. You belong to me now, and I’m taking you home,” Odin mumbled. “You’ll like Asgard, you’ll see. No need to cry.”

Huginn’s mind blossomed with images of Asgard as Odin had remembered it during the last war. It made the bird’s head ache. Such things still didn’t feel like they belonged to him. They didn’t fit. Besides, Huginn knew that Asgard didn’t really look like that - the oceans were not so green, nor the skies so large. Asgard was really a rather small place, especially from above, but in Odin’s lonely memories it went on forever.

“Hold still. The way is long, and I will have to walk it myself. Don’t be afraid. I have you.” Odin moved a hand from Loki’s chest to instead grab his open palm. “Just hold on to me.”

At his touch, a small spark of golden magic moved between father and son. Odin smiled, his eyes shut tight and his speech slurring. “We’re... nearly... there…”

The hand was growing cool in his grasp. The chill radiated up Loki’s arm, creeping steadily onward until it washed over his still face, dimming it in the dark with a sudden hue.

Huginn opened a weary eye. The metal of his perch had turned cold and uncomfortable. His feet hurt. He was too sluggish to live up to his name and think about that - he just wanted to be warm, to cross over at last into slumber. With a woozy flutter, he dropped onto the bed, stumbling along until he found the king’s warm side. He burrowed into it with a huff, just below Odin’s head. Hot breath misted over dark feathers. Almost immediately the droplets froze, making the bird even greyer than before.

Blissfully pressed to his son’s cooling chest, Odin had one final thought before drifting away, carrying Huginn’s consciousness in his wake.

This one will be safe. I swear it.

Chapter Text

I dreamed.

I dreamed of cold.

I dreamed of silence.

I dreamed I was alone.

I was wrong.

Behind me was a great statue of a man. He was tall and bearded, a nobility to his features. I thought I recognized him, first as my father, then as my brother, then as my son. At last I thought it might be myself. His finger was extended, pointing in the direction of the horizon, where endless stygian sky met untouched white snow.

I obeyed his direction and walked. Yet the longer I walked, the more lost I felt.

A name - I should call a name.

I couldn’t think of any names.

So I listened. Perhaps someone would call me by name. Then I could go to them, and be what they called me.

And yet all I dreamed of was silence.

So I walked. After a time I became aware of something moving behind me. I turned and saw my shadow, flat on the ground. I stared at it. It stared back, with the bluest of eyes.

I walked on. My shadow followed - sometimes in step, sometimes falling behind.

I dreamed that something broke the silence.

It was a quiet sound. But quiet after such silence was deafening.

My shadow leapt ahead of me, chasing the noise. I followed.

We were not the only ones to hear it.

Red eyes began to appear out of the darkness, far above me.

The white horizon was broken. Something dark lay ahead.

The sound was growing.

It was coming from a hole. A hole in the world. It was a perfectly circular, perfectly endless abyss. I came to a halt by its edge. My shadow stayed behind me.

All around the hole, the giants gathered. They stared at it, transfixed by the sound.

A giant reached into his chest. He ripped out his heart, leaving a perfectly circular hole.

He dropped the heart into the void.

We listened to its beat fade away.

Another giant reached in her chest, tearing out her heart. This, too, she threw into the hole.

We listened to its beat fade away.

A third giant did the same.

We listened to its beat fade away.

Soon every giant had a hole instead of a heart. Despite that, the hole in the ground had grown no smaller.

The sound grew louder - calling, calling, in a language I did not speak.

The first giant called back, in the same, wordless language. He stepped forward and fell into the hole.

We listened to his voice fade away.

Another giant harmonized with the call. She fell to her knees and reached into the darkness, grasping, grasping - but it was too far. She fell in.

We listened to her voice fade away.

A third giant did the same.

We listened to his voice fade away.

Soon every giant had fallen into the hole but one.

He was not looking at the hole, as the others had done. He was looking at me, with pale pink eyes.

“Who are you?” he asked.

An answer of old habit came to me. “Call me by a name, and I shall answer to it.”

“Why haven’t you come before?” he asked.

“You didn’t call me before,” I answered.

“Why haven’t you fallen?” he asked.

“My heart wasn’t in it,” I answered.

“Your heart is not alone,” he said. “You were followed. Who is with you?”

I assumed he meant my shadow, still watching from behind me. “It is just my shadow. It follows me everywhere, as most do.”

The giant leaned in close and frowned. “I see no shadow; only two who walk as one, when only one was called.”

Fast as a striking snake, he seized my head at either side and pulled.

A peculiar sensation. One mind moved left, one right - we stumbled apart from each other.

I looked at myself. Myself looked back at me.

The shadow leapt at the giant, hissing and squawking. The giant blinked in surprise, stumbled backwards - and fell into the hole.

We watched him fall.

The shadow tried to return to me, but could not tell me apart from my other self. It moved first towards me, and then towards him, back and forth - and then it froze, perfectly in between us, shuddering like the last leaf on a winter tree.

It closed its eyes and faded away.

The music stopped the moment the shadow was entirely gone.

Silence again.

Then the hole was louder than ever before. And it was growing.

I ran from the edge. So did my other self.

But the hole was faster.

The white ground vanished under my other self’s feet.

He fell.

I reached out and seized his hand.

The hole stopped expanding.

I tried to pull my other self up. But something had seized his leg.

“It’s time,” said the hole. “You have to let go.”

“No,” we said in tandem.

“You don’t have a choice.”

The darkness was spreading. It tugged again, harder.

It was stronger than me.

“You can’t have him!” I snarled. “He’s mine!”

“You stole him,” said the hole. “He was never yours.”

I was losing my grip. The darkness was winning. “I don’t want to go!” My other self pleaded. The hole had reached his shoulders.

“You belong here,” said the hole. “It’s been too long already. Everything must return from whence it came. That is the way of all things.”

The darkness had covered my other self's face. He was disappearing.

“No...” I strained.

It wasn’t enough.

Our hands slipped apart.

He fell into the hole.

I reached out, uselessly - but he was gone.

I stood alone.

No, I thought. This will not stand. I will not let this happen, will not let him go.

The power came to me easily, as it always had. I pulled it from my chest in a long, shimmering rope of light. With all my might, I cast the end into the abyss.

…

…

…

I was falling.

At first it was frightening, but then…it was like falling asleep. A warmth was seeping into me, comforting and strangely, distantly familiar.

I could forget everything before the fall, in warmth like this…

Then, a light in the darkness - a thread of light, racing down to meet me.

My heart surged. I reached out and caught it.

I stopped falling.

The light burrowed into my chest.

I could feel my other self on the other end of it, still holding on.

The cord began to pull up, up.

The darkness roared.

Faster, faster I rose, the darkness close behind.

The light of above appeared, widened. Hands seized mine once more.

I was pulled free.

The hole vanished.

I held myself. We breathed together, exhausted, relieved. Between us, the cord hummed.

A silhouette fell over us. We looked up to see the last giant, the one who’d asked us who we were.

“What have you done?” he rasped.

I held my other self close.

The giant rumbled, like warning storm clouds. “You should have let nature take its course. No good can come from -“ He stopped, pale pink eyes widening. “I know you,” he whispered. “I know you! You - you did this! It was you!”

We huddled together, aghast as the giant seemed to grow. At his feet appeared one shadow, two shadows, three, ten, twenty, uncountable, all them growing like saplings until we were in a dark forest full of burning red eyes.

The pink-eyed giant pointed at us. “I know you! You are Giant’s-Bane!”

Something wet lapped against our feet. We looked down. The snow we stood upon was welling up blood. We stepped backwards. Each footstep filled with red and leaked over, staining the snow around us in an ever-growing red circle.

"You are War-Bringer!” cursed the giant, so tall now he blocked out the sky.

The snow was melting from the blood. We were sinking into it, up to our knees already.

"You are -“

We sank into the sea. We came apart as we drifted, slipping out of each other’s reach. Panicked, I reached out for the familiar hand, grasping, clawing -

Darkness covered my vision, but still the voice of the giant chased me, ringing in my ears.

“You are -“

What? I was what?

“You are -“

“Father?”

Was that what I was?

“Father?”

No, it was said like a question - was someone asking if I was that?

“Father?”

I couldn’t see who it was - couldn’t see who was calling me…Or was it me who was calling out…?

“Father, you’re hurting me…”

ODIN

Odin awoke.

Odin awoke to cold.

His breath puffed out in short, sharp vapours, visible even in the dim. A pinkish light was creeping through the windows, just enough to pluck out the edges of the room’s contents. There was something off about them. They were glimmering. Encased in…

Ice.

Veins of it, stretching along the ceiling like a great tree. It coated the walls and mirrors, stretched branches in-between the arms of the decorative statuary, hung in long, dangerous icicles from the ceiling and the chandelier. It seemed to emanate from the bed - rising up from the floor were long, triangular pieces, pointed outward, as if in defence, while longer columns had built themselves out from the four posters to create a canopy of long, translucent fingers, cupping Odin like how a child held an injured bird.

As for his bird - Huginn had tucked himself deep into Odin’s side. The raven was strangely stiff and unmoving, feathers coated in rime.

Odin himself felt numb, heavy - as if he’d slept a thousand years. His hand was clenched into a claw. He tried to move it.

Nothing. It was as if his arm was not his own, but a stranger’s sewn to his body.

He tried again. And again. Slowly, his fingers unbent, almost creaking like rusty metal in need of oil. But something prevented them from completely releasing his grip. Something wrapped around his hand, a cage with five bars.

He blinked, eyelashes sticking together briefly.

Another hand held his own.

It was blue.

His eye followed the blue up. It disappeared into a sleeve. The sleeve was connected to an arm, a shoulder, a neck where the blue appeared again, and finally, a face. A face viewed from below, as Odin’s head laid against its chest.

The face was not only blue. Lines, raised and carved alike, traced its skin in swirls and angles. It was not unlike frost in a windowpane…

No…it couldn’t be.

It was a Frost Giant. But yet the size of a man.

Odin willed himself to move, to find a weapon to defend himself. His leg twitched, crackling a frozen bedsheet, but no more. He was helpless.

Was this an assassination attempt? How could it be, it made no sense…it didn’t matter if it made sense, he needed to fight back. He should call upon his seidr and blast away every flake of snow before burying a knife in the gut of this creature. How dare it invade their world, their home, their bed -

Their.

Where was Frigga?

It was only him and the jötunn in this bed.

A deeper panic seized him. Was she kidnapped? Was this runt left behind to freeze Odin in place, so that he could not go to her rescue? Or was he here to negotiate with Odin? How brazen to put himself in Odin’s grasp after taking Frigga away.

Blades and chains and magic for cruel fire flashed through his mind. He would swiftly correct this trespasser’s assumptions. There was much that could be done while a giant was still alive, and he would be singing the location of Frigga before the sun set this day.

His anger caused his hand to clench once more, nails digging into the abhorrent, rough skin of the intruder.

“Father, you’re doing it again,” the creature spoke, raspy from sleep.

Odin stared. What sort of trick is this…?

The voice. The sound of it…familiar. How could that be?

Movement tickled his side. A muffled caw. Huginn had awoken. He stirred feebly, but seemed as unable to move as Odin. Unlike Odin, however, he'd found his speech. He crowed in alarm, loud and raucous.

The blue face twitched in irritation, though the eyes remained closed. “Has Huginn mistaken himself for a rooster? It’s barely dawn.”

He knew that voice. Had the giant stolen it? Was he trying to trick Odin?

Huginn hissed in confusion. He tried to peck at the little giant, to push him away from Odin.

The voice spoke again, rusty with sleep. “I will grab that bird and shove him into a pocket dimension if he doesn’t let me get five more minutes sleep.”

An image surfaced in Odin’s mind - A boy proudly making a toy disappear in one hand before plucking it out of thin air with the other, saying ‘Look, Pabbi - I can do it just like you and mum!’ - which was tied to yet another - a youth hugging a many-eyed eldritch creature while begging 'Can I keep it, I found it trying to eat Brother and I love it' - which melted into - a young man across a tafl board, stroking a finger under his lip as he thought of his next move, even though Odin knew that at this point it was hopeless for that side.

Huginn stilled. Tilted his head. Let out a long, questioning croak.

The blue hand withdrew from around Odin as the jötunn scrunched up his face and rolled away, burying himself in the blankets. Muffled beneath them, he mumbled “I’ve got another long day of councils and meetings and hand-shakings and if I’m grumpy it could well start a war. I’d hate to make Thor so happy.”

Thor. He knew that name.

Two boys, one dark, one fair, muttering conspiratorially when they thought Odin wasn’t looking. Broken toys, shouts of blame. Arguments over a stab wound in Thor’s stomach, a lightning scorch on the dark-haired boy’s favourite stuffed toy. Odin bringing Thor back from a weeks-long hunting trip to Vanaheim, and the dark-haired child running to embrace him, burying his face in his brother’s shoulder so as to disguise tears he already thought himself too old for. Telling old war stories, taking his children to see his museum of relics in the heart of Asgard, Thor in one hand, the dark-haired child in other.

Thor’s coronation day. His son was to be the last in the procession, but first came Frigga, arm in arm with a dark-haired man in ornamental armour and tall horns. He was smiling, proud, and yet - something was off in his stride. Suspicion grew in Odin’s stomach. How convenient for him that he sat upon the Hliðskjálf and could cast his eyes into the depths of Asgard and see what trouble may be brewing…the ceremony interrupted, Odin hastening to the Vault just in time to mend the rift in the space. He thought he saw red, red eyes coming towards the tear, suddenly turning fearful as he trapped them in the darkness between worlds.

The dark-haired man cowering before Odin, trying to explain. 'Thor wasn’t ready, it was just to show you... no harm is done, just a bit of excitement is all it was…it was nothing…’

The faster the images came, the more agitated Huginn grew. His body twitched all over as he fought the stiffness that paralyzed them both.

After Thor became King, Odin slept. When he awoke, it was time for another ceremony, this time a wedding. On one side of the room, two women entered, sisters, arm in arm. On the other side, the dark-haired man entered arm-in-arm with Thor. When they met in the middle, each relinquished their sibling and retreated again. Thor and his new bride continued down the hall, this time kneeling before Frigga, as this was her rite to command.

And oh, how proud she was. The next time he saw that expression was years later, in their own living quarters, when the dark-haired man, all nerves and excitement, introduced them to a woman with a shy expression. Odin had said ‘You have my blessings, a fine match’, and Frigga hugged the woman and Odin clapped his son, yes, of course this was his son, clapped his son on the shoulder and smiled for him.

Warmth trickled from Odin’s chest, swelling him with pride. His hand relaxed as life itself seemed to flow through every limb.

A jump, and the scene shifted. The woman was gone. His son had tried to explain, but his words, normally so precise, were instead thick with grief, cracking and gurgling until he was sobbing openly, and Frigga took him into her arms while Odin stood by, held back by the press of a secret guilt (he’d known it wasn’t possible, and yet he hoped the relationship might have survived it…but the shy-eyed woman had always seen herself as a mother, for longer than she’d seen herself as his son’s wife, and when she’d had to choose…)

And then there was no more Frigga to comfort his son, or hold Odin close. Frigga was in a boat, sailing towards the edge of Asgard. Thor raised Gungnir and pounded the ground, sending the boat flying into the cosmos, releasing a gasp of stars to join it. Oh, how Odin had swayed, how certain he was that he would have fallen if not for the arm about him, though it trembled same as he.

He saw his son, now with a precisely-kept goatee, a touch of gray at either temple, leading him through the Gardens, speaking quietly of whatever the day’s events had been, and someone had approached, asked how Odin was, and Odin had introduced himself, never having seen the stranger. And his son had looked over at him, startled, and suddenly worried. Father, he’d said, Father, are you alright? You know this man well. He is dear to you.

When he looked at the jötunn now, he could see the same gray on either side of his head, could see the sorrowful eyebrows, the long point of his nose sticking out over the blankets. He knew every plane, every notch, every expression that face was capable of, and each of them called to his mind one word, the only word that could possibly describe everything this man was to Odin.

“Loki,” he breathed.

Horror filled his breast. He had been about to strike his own son dead.

“Oh, if you insist…” muttered Loki. His eyelashes fluttered.

Odin slapped his hand over them. “No!” he nearly shouted, followed by a hiss of pain. The sudden movement had sent hot needles through every inch he’d moved. “No,” he said again before Loki could comment. "“Everything is fine. Just…just bad dreams. Go back to sleep, my boy. You have much to do in the morning.”

“I can help with the dreams,” Loki yawned, exposing black gums as he tried to brush away Odin’s hand. “There’s a spell -“

“I know it, of course I know it, foolish boy,” snapped Odin. “Go back to sleep at once.”

“Is…is something wrong?” Loki asked, pausing. “Why can’t I see?”

“Because my hand is in front of your eyes, daft child,” Odin said, managing to inflect a smile into the words even as he began to panic.

Loki was not fooled. "Father, if something’s amiss, I - ”

Loki Odinson was celebrated as one of the greatest sorcerers in all the Nine Realms. His speciality was illusions, but he was renowned also for his mind magic, fiendfyre, and quickness with a knife. Odin was old, his body still near paralyzed, his wits only recently returned. But once he’d been Odin Witchking, the greatest sorcerer in all the Nine Realms.

The sleeping spell struck hard and fast. Loki stuttered, then fell back into the pillows, snoring.

The frost in the air cut his lungs as Odin gasped. That had taken more out of him than it should have - and the spell he needed to perform next was many times greater.

Huginn flopped up onto Odin’s chest, gingerly flapping his wings. He eyed Loki with concern and croaked questioningly.

“I don’t know how it happened,” Odin replied. “The transfiguration should have lasted twenty thousand years at least. Only jötunn magic is capable of disrupting it.”

Huginn looked around the room, then hopped onto Loki’s shoulder protectively. He cawed again, challenging the room.

“There are no Jötnar in here, bird.” Odin grimaced and forced himself into a sitting position.

Huginn looked down at Loki’s blue head, then back at him. He croaked condescendingly.

“He doesn’t count,” Odin said gruffly.

“Could Loki undid it?” Huginn asked stubbornly.

It was possible; the boy was an advanced mage, experimenting in all sorts of crafts and fields that had advanced past what Odin had known of them in his time. Perhaps some new spell or alchemy had interfered in a previously unforeseen way. And yet…Loki may have dabbled in other pursuits, but he had long since dedicated himself to illusions and other manipulations of the mind. Nothing in those fields could disrupt a transfiguration; that sort of magic was beyond most on Asgard. To create this spell, Odin had mixed his knowledge of magic practiced on Alfheim, Ul’lula, and Xarta, even strands of the natural defences of the Skrulldrugger dragons of Na. It was unique in all the universe - only one knew how to cast and remove it permanently.

Odin lifted his own hands up to be examined. They were old hands - the veins extruded, soft and squishy, the knuckles knobbly and cracked, the nails thick and dented. But what worried him most was the shake they’d picked up centuries ago. It had progressed into an unignorable shudder. They were unsteady, unreliable - untrustworthy.

“Odin undid?” Huginn croaked.

Odin said nothing. Instead, he pulled Loki’s head into his lap, knocking the raven loose. Stubbornly, the bird landed right back on the boy’s head.

“If O~odin undid, Odin fix, Odin might undo again?”

Odin waved at the bird. He didn’t want whatever magical interference he might bring to contaminate this fresh casting. Huginn persisted.

“What if next time, outside?”

How had the spell gone? There had been no incantation, he could remember that much…Norns, what had been the form of the thing?

“What if next time, SEEN?”

It was on the tip of his tongue, he could fix this, it would be like it never happened, he just needed to concentrate -

“O~ODIN! What if next time, LOKI see?!”

Odin reached out and plucked at Huginn’s feet, the bird dancing to avoid him, scrabbling to and fro over Loki’s face. “Blasted bird - you’ll wake him!” he hissed.

“And then?” Huginn creaked.

Odin looked down at his son’s unfamiliar face. It was disconcerting to see him like this. For the first few centuries after he’d taken Loki into his house, he’d catch himself wondering what Loki really looked like as the world moved unknowing around him - how bizarre to picture a jötunn child playing with Asgardians without fear, or held to the breast of the All-Mother herself. Shame followed these thoughts, though Odin was unsure just where it came from. Soon the image of that jötunn form grew blurrier and blurrier as in his mind his son and that concept grew more and more separate.

And yet here he lay.

Odin wondered how badly this morning could have gone if he had not awoken first. If Loki had seen the room - seen himself - Odin shivered.

No. No, he had decided against his son ever experiencing that revelation some time ago. What Loki was…it was not this. Not really.

“Loki must not see,” he said. “He will not see.”

“Almost did,” the raven whispered. “So close. And Odin - Odin nearly hurt Loki. Did not see Loki, saw jötunn. What if next time?”

Odin paused. Next time. How many times before this had there been? How many times had he almost said something - did something - in the depths of his ever-growing madness? What if next time was worse than this time?

He brushed the thoughts - and Huginn - aside. First, he had to fix this time.

Odin placed a hand on the back of Loki’s head, as he had in the temple on Jötunheim years ago. He stroked his cheek with his thumb.

He hesitated. There was no time to waste on curiosity, and yet…

He continued to brush his thumb over his son’s unfamiliar skin, wishing it was not so strange to the man who called himself his father. The blue was a deeper shade than he remembered it being on the babe, though he was no less endearing for it. It was like the sky an hour after sunset, before the world was entirely dark. A mysterious, beguiling colour. He was sure he’d seen no other jötunn who possessed it. Unique, perhaps.

His thumb detoured to trace one of the raised lines on Loki’s brow. He hadn’t noticed, before, that there was the shape of a bird’s foot, minus the rear toe, in the centre of his forehead.

For all his thoughts about how this was not Loki, he found himself wondering what the scars that crisscrossed this form might mean. He’d been told once that some were hereditary, while others formed over the course of a jötunn’s life. Did they keep a record of the content of that life? Or did they reveal the character that was formed? Or it was all one story, written upon their very skin for all who could read the language? Perhaps that explained why they were so quiet and secretive a people - they’d said all they needed to just by standing there.

What would a jötunn be able to see in these markings that Odin could not? Would they say that Loki had lived a mostly happy life? Would they mark his mercurial nature, or would they make plain the thoughts he so often hid from the world? Would he know his son better, if only he had learned to read this script of flesh?

He itched to send his ravens to Jötunheim again, to learn such a skill. Ridiculous, of course, even if Muninn were still alive and Huginn as sharp as he used to be. Whatever secrets were writ upon this skin, they were not to be known by anyone. Not even Loki himself.

Odin closed his eyes. No more could he see the blue - there was only the weight of Loki in his arms, and that remained the same no matter his form. He inhaled deeply, feeling deep within himself for the thread of his power. He exhaled, opening his eyes.

It was as if Odin’s own skin flowed from his hand over Loki’s face. The cold bled away, like night before a dawn, leaving behind the familiar blankness of his son’s face. Now the only mark was the small dent over his right eye, the origins of which were ever mysterious.

The spell slowed as it reached Loki’s shoulders. There was a great deal more of him than when he was a babe, and Odin was a great deal less than he had been.

He gritted his teeth, fighting the strain as wave after wave of magic drained from him. There would be enough - there had to be enough.

The pink trickled to the edge of Loki's fingernails but would go no further. It was like trying to fight a child into old clothes after a growth spurt.

Odin dug deeper, searching for something, anything within him that would lend the last bit of power. To his surprise, there was something - a thread. He pulled at it. At once, he was filled with power, burning with it. It coursed eagerly into Loki, melting away the remaining blue in an instant.

Odin released him with a grunt of relief, falling back onto the frozen pillows with a crunch.

Loki slumbered on. Perfectly and undeniably Ás.

It would have been easy to forget anything had gone wrong - if it weren’t for the frosted state of the room. He couldn’t even get out of bed, what with the jagged, triangular pieces of ice surrounding the thing. It was like sitting in the maw of a giant wolf. Odin gathered his remaining strength and sent out a gust of heat, intending to vaporize the ice. Instead, he was so weakened he only managed to melt it.

A cascade of water soaked the room, a monsoon in the space of a second. Loki’s beloved books floated in the shallow sea that now surrounded their island.

Loki stirred, splashing in the soup of sheets. Odin grabbed his head, intending to strengthen the sleeping spell - and withdrew as quickly as if he’d touched a burning pan.

Loki huffed, but stilled. Undisturbed but for the mark of a thumbprint on his forehead, where the skin had once again turned blue and ridged. Slowly, the rest of the magic bled back into the gap, smoothing it over once more.

Odin pulled back Loki’s sleeve. The arm was perfectly Asgardian. He grasped his wrist. Green and golden sparks leeched into Odin’s wrinkled hands, leaving blue skin behind it. He dropped the wrist and pushed himself away from the boy, far against the backboard of the bed. Slowly, slowly, the blue stains faded as the spell stretched to fill the gap.

Meanwhile, Odin felt ever-so-slightly refreshed.

Huginn stared at him accusingly. “O~odin did it.”

All his life, Odin had been gifted with magical affinities - the elemental gifts that ran through his father’s bloodline, but also the control and artistry required to fashion more subtle spells. As he aged, his knowledge and experience had grown, and those gifts with him. They’d belonged to him, been a part of him - but now…

They did not obey him.

They sought out other power, even his own previous spells, and drew that energy back into himself. An endlessly hungry beast.

He drew up his knees to his chest, ensuring that no part of him was near to Loki. It was a childish pose, which was fitting. He felt like a child, one who had broken something and had no idea how to put it back together - and who couldn’t allow the pieces to be noticed.

“What if next time,” repeated Huginn ominously.

“There will be no next time,” Odin said suddenly. He forced his aching body to the edge of the bed and slipped into the water with a splash.

Odin shuffled over to the window at the back of the room. It had been covered with a hasty spell from Loki, meant to keep these rooms secure, likely until more powerful spells could be cast. Odin pressed a hand to the magic. At once it tore loose, the energies flowing into Odin. The wind burst into the chamber, shivering across the flooded floor. The old god looked out over Asgard as it brushed his hair back.

I could leave, he thought suddenly. While my wits are still about me, I could wander far away and ensure I was not followed. That would protect much.

His knees started to tremble, seemingly exhausted by the short wade over to the window.

“Odin weak,” Huginn derided. “Odin not get far.”

Odin shot a glare at the raven, but as ever, Huginn took no offence. He’d said only what Odin didn’t want to think, but thought anyway.

“What Odin real plan?” the raven insisted.

Odin looked back at the bed. Suddenly, he wished that he’d taken the time to embrace Loki before putting the transfiguration in place. He realized now that that had been his last opportunity.

Steps now had to be taken. Sacrifices had to be made, if secrets were to be kept.

“Same old, same old,” Huginn sighed. All at once, he convulsed, shuddering all over. Odin felt his own mind displace for a moment, leaving him wondering why he was standing in water and looking at a stranger lying on his bed.

Huginn settled, quickly preening his feathers back into place with a trembling beak. Odin’s mind refocused, leaving him shaken.

I am still ill.

How long would this period of sanity last? How many times before had his mind surfaced, only to descend into oblivion again and again? How many times had things careened towards disaster, while he was in such a state?

“Many times,” Huginn said, head dropping. “Many, many…sometimes Huginn see, sometimes Huginn try to stop…but sometimes Huginn too slow…Huginn too forgetful…Huginn fail…"

Loki slumbered peacefully on the bed, even as the ceiling continued to drip like rain upon him. An undignified position, one Odin no longer had the energies to correct. And yet it was good to see him so serene, beyond the effects of his situation. If only Odin could hold on to this image. It would have been a good final memory, if he were still permitted to make those.

He wished he could say something to him - offer some explanation for the actions he was about to take, even if that would defeat the purpose entirely.

Think of them as the deeds of a sad, sick old man, he urged. Remember me as I was and know that I would have never chosen to have hurt you, had I been in my right mind.

Huginn tightened his black claws into Odin’s shoulder. “Loki will not understand.”

No, he likely won’t, Odin agreed grimly. He will likely carry the hurt until he is as old as I am now, and likely beyond his death. Perhaps then it will be safe to explain it to him.

He turned back towards the window, placing a foot into the air. It held. He took a step forward, out of the room and into the sky. This, at least, he could still do. He looked over his shoulder one last time, thought Goodbye, my Son, and descended out of view.

Chapter Text

ODIN

He dropped a good twenty feet before he managed to catch himself. Huginn squawked, holding Odin’s cape aloft as he beat his wings furiously - straining, it seemed, to hold the All-Father aloft.

The All-Father, safely standing in the air, watched Huginn for a few long moments before Huginn noticed. The raven quickly settled in and fluffed his feathers, trying to feign nonchalance.

“Did you really think that would work?” Odin asked in faint amusement.

“Huginn’s toe got stuck,” the bird said blithely.

Odin chuckled. It faded as he looked out towards the horizon. “Was Heimdall’s Observatory always so far off?”

He took a step forward. The air - or rather, his affinity with it - held.

He’d barely gotten past the distant palace grounds when his legs began to shake like a newborn calf’s. After one foot plunged a few inches lower than the other, he was forced to stop.

“Careful. Odin go too slow and his age might catch up with him,” Huginn rasped.

The old king shook his foot as if he were any old man trying to return blood flow to a limb with pins and needles. “If you’re feeling particularly youthful, get off my shoulder and fly to Heimdall yourself. Tell him to meet me at the usual tavern.”

Huginn took off with much less whinging than the All-Father had expected. He soon saw why; though the bird’s flight was laborious, he did not have far to go. Instead of heading for the Bifröst, he plunged directly downwards. Directly outside the gates of the palace was a tiny golden dot, who had seemingly paused to wait for the bird.

So Heimdall was already on his way, Odin noted, the lines in his face darkening.

Below, the golden dot turned away from the palace and into the surrounding city, accompanied by a black smudge perched on his helm.

Odin finished his descent from the air, landing in the forested area next to the palace gates. He mulled over what disguise to use. It wouldn’t matter to Heimdall - he would recognize Odin at once, thanks to his golden gaze. It had been a while since Odin had been to this particular tavern, but he seemed to recall the clientele being of a rougher sort. The blacksmith would likely encounter the least amount of trouble.

He pulled the glamour over himself. Old man’s wrinkled hands became strong, calloused working ones, while his gaze moved up two feet to stare out of a heat-weathered face.

Though the glamour gave him the appearance of a strong, working man, it was little more than refracted light. Inside of it, his body continued to tire and ache. Not only that, but Asgard’s winding streets seemed to have shifted like snakes left unattended. He trudged down alley after alley, recognizing nothing. All at once, a warm hand touched his back. Odin would have leapt at the contact, but exhaustion kept him in place, trembling slightly.

“It is only I, Your Grace,” Heimdall said, Huginn sitting in between the horns of his golden helm. “Come this way.”

The Gatekeeper turned him around and lead him down another winding path. At its end was a white building that seemed vaguely familiar, but not quite right. Odin squinted at it. The sign had gone, but…yes, this was The Princess and the Unicorn, the tavern he had meant to come to.

But inside, the long tables were missing. There were no barmaids, no men in their cups far too early in the day and looking like they knew it. There was only a single table in the centre of the room, ladened with plates of unfinished food. Huginn creaked in excitement and abandoned Heimdall. Before he could be told off, the raven had knocked over a bowl and was happily pecking at the splattered meal inside.

“Corn!” he informed Odin enthusiastically.

“I am afraid this place hasn’t been a tavern for quite some time,” Heimdall explained, leading Odin to the fire and sitting him in an old armchair there. “It is a family residence, one with quite a few children. It took longer than expected to get them all ready to leave - I would have come to your aid sooner if the youngest hadn’t had quite such a hard time finding her binky.” Heimdall said the last word with such solemnity that, for a moment, Odin wanted to laugh. “My services were required to discover it hiding in her brother’s sock drawer, which was its own commotion. Do not worry, Your Grace - the family was well-compensated for their trouble and are currently enjoying a morning at the seaside. We may make ourselves at home.”

Odin continued to look around the dwelling. It was not a rich home, but nor was it a poor one. Evidence of children was everywhere, now that he looked. Toys littered the floor, as did scraps of costume and pots and pans turned towards imaginative ends. It was quite chaotic, but there was a warmth to it all. This was a house devoted to its children.

Odin flicked the blacksmith’s eyes back onto Heimdall. “Loyal Gatekeeper…did you happen to cast your eyes into my rooms at any point last night?”

Heimdall didn’t hesitate. “When Thor returned, I informed him of where you were, as Loki had requested. I advised the King to leave you be.”

“At what time was that?”

“Not long ago, All-Father. It was less than an hour until sunrise.”

“What did you see?”

Heimdall sat in a wooden chair across from Odin’s, straight-backed but no less fine. He took up a poker and prodded the flames, turning over a log to expose wood flesh yet unburnt.

“I saw nothing I perceived as new information, my King,” he said quietly.

Odin stared at Heimdall, willing him to continue. Heimdall met his gaze and didn’t break it.

Odin looked away and let out a long sigh. “I have long suspected you knew. Did your eyes reveal it?”

“My powers of observation are not without flaw, Your Grace. Flaws you know well. I see him as you intended.”

“How, then?”

“It is a poor watchman who would let his King wander a battlefield without eyes to guard his back.”

Odin wrinkled the blacksmith’s forehead. "I thought I turned your eyes away when I went to pray in the temple.”

“You did, Your Grace. And so I looked elsewhere. Though the Queen was guarded from Sight, I saw nurses coming and going, their faces grim and shadowed. When you left Jötunheim, you did not call for me, but world-walked into Asgard itself - a risk, as some enterprising enemy mage might have followed the wake you made. You would not have put such a tear directly into the heart of Asgard, to your wife’s very bedside, if you did not have good reason.”

Churnk. The log split in half in the heat, one side crumbling into white dust.

“I saw a boy that sickened from illnesses harmless to others in this land. I saw a youth who struggled to find his place. I saw how that alienation frightened him, so he cloistered himself in Asgardian customs, tighter than his rebellious nature should have allowed. I saw a man always eager to prove himself, though he was often ill at ease with what he perceived himself to be.”

Odin frowned, but before he could interject, Heimdall continued. “When I looked in upon you both last night, I saw nothing that I had not already seen by seeing everything else. What I saw was a son who often failed to stay on a good and righteous path, but who never once wavered in his loyalty to the man who raised him. I saw him revealed, but unchanged. In his sleep, a magic he’d never learned to control sought only to defend and protect, building a fortress about you from instinct alone.

“If you are worried about my loyalty, you know that I serve Asgard over her king. But I serve the king and their family second above all, and Loki has ever been your family. I have striven to protect him as such, though I may have had…moments of weakness. He can be very, very…himself, sometimes.”

“Considering the many times my son has worked against you, Heimdall, I can hardly blame you for the occasional jibe at his expense.” Odin smiled. In the next instant, however, it fell from his face. “I wish that we’d spoken before. It has been a burden, sometimes, for only myself and Frigga to know. Sometimes, I admit, I hoped you knew…and that if something were to go wrong, you could act if I was unable.”

Heimdall hesitated. “I am glad to see you well, Your Grace. For a moment, I feared you had…” he broke off, his gaze dropping down a few inches to stare at Odin’s chest. “How do you feel, All-Father?”

Odin glanced down at the spot Heimdall was staring at, but felt nothing amiss. “I have recently become aware that I am mad, Heimdall. I feel none too happy about it. While I have this brief window of sanity, I must take certain actions. Actions that require your help.”

Heimdall nodded in acceptance. “Speak them.”

“As if Odin need to be told to give orders,” Huginn chuckled as he flew in to perch above the fire. His beak was still encrusted with cornmeal. “Odin love to speak, orders most of all.”

Odin ignored the bird, looking instead at an abandoned doll sitting between him and Heimdall. “Loki is not to see me again. He must be kept separate, even after my passing. On no account is he to touch me. That is the most important thing.”

Heimdall turned over another log, still watching Odin with a queer expression. “I am not certain how much of last few millennia you recall, Your Grace. Loki, in addition to being a prince who need not listen to gatekeepers, has been the one in charge of your care. He will not be easily dissuaded to abandon his duties."

Odin did remember, though it was fragmented. Even before Odin's mind had turned against him, Loki had spent much of his time with his parents; as the youngest child, it was his filial duty to attend to them. His mother could not have asked for a more amiable and devoted companion in her final years - the two were always whispering together, laughing, attending functions, or simply going for long walks through the Gardens. As for Odin, Loki had ensured he could want for nothing. Interesting books on a broad range of subjects were left unobtrusively in his study so that the retired All-Father could while away his suddenly open days. His grandchildren by Thor were brought frequently to visit, even when the King himself was busy. And of course, every week he and Loki would sit down for a game of Hnefatafl. Why, just last week it had been Odin’s turn to play the surrounded pieces and Loki the encroaching army, and Odin had still won handily…or…no…that had been the game where Odin had first noted a streak of gray in Loki’s hair, and when he’d left his son behind on the bed Loki clearly had a matching one on the other side of his head.

Had that been before the madness, then? Odin strained, sorting through the flickers in his mind.

A few shameful recollections welled up from dark corners; forgetting a name of an obscure politician and having Loki easily mention it for him; not so long after that, forgetting the names of not-so obscure figures. The names hadn’t left unaccompanied - other words began to drop out of his speech, turning idle conversation into pitfalls of frustration. There again was Loki with just the right jest and turn of phrase, smoothing over the troubles Odin left in his wake, keeping up Odin’s appearance of sanity even before the eyes of a prying court. For as long as he could, anyway. Eventually, even Loki couldn’t disguise his fits.

“He has grown accustomed to knowing what is best out of the two of us,” Odin acknowledged. “And he will be made to question my judgement further when told to perform one last task before we are separated. Loki must cast a geas of silence upon me. He is the only sorcerer powerful enough to do so that we have at hand.”

Heimdall didn’t tell Odin that such a casting would inhibit his magic and likely drastically decrease his remaining lifetime. He didn’t remind Odin that the All-Father likely had little time already. He just looked right through Odin, and it was as if he knew everything Odin would have said in rebuttal to such concerns without even having to ask.

Odin held the Gatekeeper’s gaze with cold, steely resolve. “As for keeping Loki apart from me…for that, I have an idea. If it is concern for me and my care that motivates him to be near, it can also be used to tempt him away.”

Heimdall arched a brow. “Are you proposing a quest?”

Odin’s eye drifted to the fire. "The story of the Gjallarhorn has proven alluring to many.”

“It used to. But there are few stories told about it now. On account of it having been destroyed,” Heimdall said meaningfully.

“As you say, Heimdall. Few speak of it since its destruction - which means few know of its loss. The chase will be fruitless, but should prove sufficiently distracting.”

“How long do you intend for him to be ‘distracted’?”

“Until it is no longer necessary,” Odin said, folding his worn hands on his lap. “Although I would wait to tell him until after my body has been dispersed, just in case. Even in death I may prove dangerous.”

Heimdall exhaled slowly. “So sometime after your funeral, you would have Loki told that his efforts were in vain? I do not imagine that would go well."

“You will tell him that the Horn is no more. You will tell him to come home, because it was I who orchestrated everything. Tell him that I told you…'it was because I wished to spare him from the indignity of witnessing my decline.’ Let him blame me, let him pity me, let him feel betrayed. Time will take the sting from it, and he will accept it as the madness of an old man. More importantly, he will be safe. Whatever discomfort this scheme may cause is nothing compared to…I will not take that risk.”

“And how do you plan to send Loki on this quest? Will you ask it of him?” Heimdall asked bluntly.

“I will plant the notion in his mind. It would be better if he considered it his own idea, at least to begin with…I don’t suppose you could lend me your eyes, Heimdall, and tell me where I left that book on the subject? It would be the ideal vessel.”

The Gatekeeper fell quiet. Odin wondered if he were searching for the ancient, misplaced tome or instead was so put-off by Odin’s scheme that he could only sit and stare at him.

Finally, the Gatekeeper said “In your study. In a locked box inside the false bottom of the furthest shelf from the door.”

“Thank you.” Odin pressed his hands to the armrests and began to stand, his knees creaking in protest. “I must speak with Thor before my sanity wanes. He will be able to enforce Loki to stay apart from me.”

“Odin…” Heimdall hesitated. Unusual for him, who always spoke his mind. “Many things have changed over the years. It is difficult to know what you know. There have been times when you could recall every breakfast you’d had that week, but not that you were no longer crowned, or even that Svartalfheim had fallen in your father’s reign.”

Odin shook his head. “This is different. I may not be truly well again, but I feel… more whole than I have for some time.”

“You have felt that way before. Then sunset approaches,” Heimdall warned.

“All the more reason to see my son as soon as possible.” Odin stepped over a broken toy ball and sheets stained with glowing ink. Huginn, after one last sad croak goodbye to the fire, rejoined himself to Odin’s right shoulder.

After banking the fire, Heimdall picked up his helmet and donned it once more. He led the way out of the house, holding the door open for Odin.

The old All-Father couldn’t help but cast one last look around. To think that the tavern was capable of becoming a place like this. Warmth and childhood chaos painting over the smell of liquor, misery and violence. A place to spend a lifetime, instead of an evening.

Odin strode out. Heimdall closed the door behind him and locked the door firmly before hiding the key in the eave.

“Thor has just awoken,” Heimdall said. “You will find him in the receiving chamber of the New Royal Wing.”

Odin nodded once and marched away.

“The palace is the other way, Your Grace.”

Odin marched back again, then up the twisting street until the gleam of the palace guided him forward. Even then, he was certain he could feel the weight of Heimdall’s gaze upon him, waiting for him to wander in the wrong direction once more. Odin set his teeth against each other and walked all the faster, feigning a surety he knew did not fool the Watchman.

ᛟ

“I don’t know how you got this far into the palace, but if you think a rube off the street can just dance right in and see the King, you’ve been kicked in the head by too many horses, Blacksmith.”

Odin crossed his large, hairy arms. “Do you not recognize me?”

The guard guffawed. “What, did King Thor order his horse new shoes? That is not an invitation to his doorstep.” His eye flashed to something behind Odin’s shoulder. “Ah! Captain Sigfried! This is the interloper.”

Odin turned to see an older guard approaching, flanked by two younger men. He halted before them and looked at Odin thoughtfully. “All-Father?” he asked.

“I am,” Odin said, a little snappily.

Sigfried bowed his head. “Apologies, Your Grace. I’m afraid your guise was too convincing. If it were not for Huginn, I would have been utterly fooled.”

Huginn creaked from Odin’s shoulder. With a start, Odin realized that that very shoulder was not dressed in his usual cape and regalia, but was clad in a leather apron smeared with soot. He’d forgotten to remove the illusion.

He tore it off without further ado. “I am glad that some around here are paying attention.”

The first guard snapped to attention under Odin’s fierce glare. “A-All-Father. Forgive me, I did not realize this was a test -“

“Knowing it was a test would be contrary to the point of a test,” Odin said roughly.

The guard swallowed and nodded, stepping aside and dropping his gaze to Odin’s feet.

Captain Sigfried walked behind Odin, indicating to his other men that they should continue their rounds.

Captain Sigfried was not unknown to him - judging by the man’s age, deference, and easy professionalism, he had no doubt been in Odin’s service for quite some time. And yet Odin could conjure no concrete recollection of him, other than a feeling that he could trust this man.

Odin strode forward purposefully, Sigfried following silently behind him as they approached the New Royal Wing. The atrium to the New Wing was grand. Open windows and pillars framed the corridor, while works of art took up residence in alternating niches between them.

If there was a downside the grandiose hall, it was that it seemed designed to amplify and carry Thor's already booming voice. Odin had barely entered when he heard

“…seems the only way forward. I’m sure they’ll come around to our way of thinking once we…”

If Odin hadn’t been trained to disguise such expressions, he would have winced. It was not ideal for a king to be so easily overheard (unless it was convenient for him to be). But Thor had never been good at so much as an indoor voice, let alone the sort of speech that could only be heard by a close few and understood a different way by each.

A messenger came running around a corner, almost colliding with Odin. Sigfried stepped out just in time to divert the boy, who yelped an apology and rushed past.

Apparently Thor had heard him. “Who goes there?” he called out.

“Give an old man’s brittle bones time,” Odin called as he rounded the corner and set eyes on his son.

So much and so little had changed about him. He seemed taller, more muscular - or was it just that Odin had gotten smaller? His hair was more elaborate, longer and braided. He wore his ceremonial armour and yet didn’t seem weighed down at all. On the contrary, when he saw Odin, he seemed to lift, as if his very smile was pulling him upwards. Before it reached its zenith, however, it faltered.

“Father?” he asked cautiously.

“Of course I am, Thor,” Odin said.

Thor slowly approached. “Which Thor do you know me as?”

Odin’s eye twinkled. “Thor Odinson, All-Father of Asgard, Protector of the Realms and father to my grandchildren. Why, is there another one of you running around? I’m not sure I could take the strain at this age.”

Thor’s wavering smile erupted into a grin. “It is you, Father!” He clapped Odin on the shoulder. “I feel as if I haven’t seen you in years. I am sorry I haven’t visited you lately - it’s been one thing after another for the throne.”

“I will wait outside,” Sigfried excused himself, neither Odin nor Thor noticing.

Father and son began to stroll together through the large atrium, the light of morning highlighting everything with a warm glow.

Odin returned Thor’s gesture, gripping his boy’s shoulder (resisting the urge to lean on it as he did so). “I understand better than anyone why another King feels the strain upon his time.”

Thor pulled his winged helmet from his head and shook the rest of his hair loose. “For once, I have a morsel of it to spare. Is there anything in particular you wanted to speak with me about?”

Distant, fragmented memories of the dream Odin had had the night before welled up in his mind. But they could wait. “First and foremost I wanted time with my son. I am glad to see him in good spirits.”

“As I am glad to see you well, Father. There is so much I wish to share with you. I have…missed you.”

It was as if Odin had returned from a long journey, even as he knew he’d scarcely left in the palace in centuries.

Huginn spoke up. “Huginn here too!”

Thor chuckled. “Of course you are, Huginn. You are never far away from Father.”

“Say hello to Huginn too!” scolded the bird. “Always forget!”

“Hello, Huginn. I am glad to see you, too.”

Huginn bobbed his head in acknowledgement, then returned to preening his feathers contentedly.

There was a period of slightly awkward silence. Odin cleared his throat and inquired after his grandchildren and Thor’s wife.

A wistful, fond look settled on Thor’s face. “Ah…Reidrunn is still in Alfheim with the children. She quite enjoys our residence there. Her health is improving greatly in the mountain air, apparently. She plans on staying at least until the baby is born - but she’ll be back in time for the Harvest Festival.”

Odin tried to remember if Reidrunn had been prone to illness; it would not do to have a sickly wife who only rarely made appearances. The woman had been chosen in part because of her robust, strong nature - most women from Vanaheim tended to be so. But she had already born Thor many children already, and had never caused scandal or outrage. She’d well-earned a respite from the Court, especially if she was again with child. Though he wished she’d chosen somewhere other than Alfheim…it had been a great deal of time since…but still.

Thor continued. "Magni is here, though, as he must be, for his royal duties and training.”

Odin refocused. “How is my first grandchild faring? Do you think he will make a good king?”

Thor hummed. “I think the boy might be a great improvement on myself if I’m honest. He excels in all his subjects and is beloved by his tutors for his ability to recall the most obscure dates and events. The only areas of concern come from his charm teacher -“ here Thor rolled his eyes ever so slightly “- who claims he is often too shy to make enough of an impression. Which is nonsense - the boy is young! He’ll grow into his confidence soon enough, especially once he sets out for his Coming-of-Age - for which he is now preparing.”

Was it already time for the boy’s Coming-of-Age quest? Magni had always been small for his age, but surely he had not yet reached adolescence…Odin strained to recall his last memory of the boy, but all he could conjure was a feeling of fondness and occasional companionship.

So he had missed most of the boy’s childhood. Soon Magni would depart Asgard entirely, and come back nearly a man. A pang of loss hollowed Odin's chest.

Huginn squawked. He’d pulled out a feather again, the end dripping with blood. He tossed it aside irritably and returned to grooming, harshly seizing onto another pinion.

Odin seized the bird by the neck and stayed him, at first in anger. A moment later, the bird’s disorientation flowed back along their connection into Odin.

Too much. Too much. Lost. Where? Afraid. Who is? Me. Huginn? I am?…too much…not enough…not good enough…Huginn too small…Huginn alone…not alone...who is?

Odin’s own mind grew fuzzy around the edges. For a moment he felt as if he had been spun around and dropped into an unfamiliar room. He clung to Huginn until the feeling subsided, and both their minds clicked into place again.

“Are you alright, Father?” Thor asked, reaching out to steady him.

Odin held out a hand to stop him. I am balanced over an abyss, and a strong wind is blowing. I must not forget that. He sighed, releasing his joy at being reunited with his son and turning to the task at hand. The motion fell into well-oiled tracks. “I have had…a troubling premonition.”

The dream and its images were already fractured in his mind, like trying to grab at raindrops in a storm. Yet the first had remained clear all morning - the statue of the man at the beginning of the dream. Looking upon his son now, he thought the resemblance was clear.

“I believe you are a part of it. Tell me, Thor - what has become of Jötunheim? Much time has passed since the war - has it recovered?”

“It is as well as a realm of cold and darkness can be expected to be,” Thor said slowly, a little confused. "The people have their struggles, and no doubt many wish for better, but we try to make up the difference where we can. There are many shipments of food, lumber, fuel, and building supplies from Vanaheim. It has actually been quite beneficial to Asgard’s economy. There is little room on Asgard to create new things, but there our craftspeople have found good trade. They come home with stories about the resilience of those brave enough to live in such a harsh place, but I do hope that through our efforts we can make it less so. One shouldn’t need to be brave just to live in one’s home.”

As Thor went on to describe the rebuilding and efforts to better connect the infrastructure of the two realms, relief washed down Odin’s body. Huginn cocked his head quizzically and whispered into Odin’s ear. “Odin happy because plan not needed?”

Which plan? Odin thought back to the bird. There were always many plans, in the days when he could keep track of the multiple branches. It would appear one such plan was indeed superfluous. Not long after Thor’s coronation, he had intended that the new king should begin with rebuilding from the wars of the old - particularly in Jötunheim. After a period of darkness, light and hope would have been rekindled. Thor had been gifted with a hammer, after all - a tool to build, as well as destroy. ‘Thor the Builder’ had a ring to it - certainly, it was a better name than many Odin had earned. There was too much bad blood between him and the giants. But with Thor…perhaps the Nine could be better united.

But if the giants had not been receptive…if they had regained their powers, built a new Casket, intended to expand their territory into peaceful realms with death and bloodshed once more…well, there were other plans.

Loki plans? Huginn thought to Odin.

Odin didn’t respond. The raven would know anyway.

Easy, it could have been, Huginn thought. Odin, Father of two kings. If Jötunheim threaten new King Thor…easy to fix. Loki never hurt Thor. Thor not hurt Loki. Both realms safe.

But Odin decide to keep Loki close, with Thor - better together. Neither good enough alone to be king. Thor sit in throne, Loki stand behind. Keep each other in check. Keep Asgard safe. Jötunheim too weak to threaten anyway.

Odin never close door on possibility, though…

Odin had to turn his head to glare at the bird with his one eye. Those possibilities no longer matter, he thought sternly.

Huginn tossed his head, puffing up his feathers. Odin say one thing…

Be quiet, bird, Odin commanded.

The raven looked away, unperturbed. Huginn only thinking to himself.

It really was impossible to have an argument with a creature who shared your mind.

“-all in all, we have high hopes that a hundred lodge-houses will finish construction before winter. Well, it’s nearly always winter there - Deeper Winter? More Winter? Winter tenfold?” Thor shrugged. “In any case, it is a better place to live than it would have been.”

“Thor…you have achieved what I never could,” Odin said, his chest warming with pride. “What you have done…it is no easy thing, but it will keep the peace better than endless war ever could.”

Thor stood a little taller. “Thank you, Father. That means more to me than you could know.”

Odin’s thoughts drifted to the Vault. “Was the Casket ever returned?” he inquired. “If it is now safe…it belongs there.”

“On occasion. It is a great tool for rebuilding - it can form mountains in moments!” Thor’s eyes sparkled with the memory of it. Although he claimed to have little admiration for illusions and smaller kinds of magic, he’d always found command of the elements enthralling - which was to be expected, given his own thunderous talent. "Yet I dare not leave it there. There are enemies who would steal it and use it as a weapon again. Defences are stronger here, and so we guard it when not in use. Jötunheim has gotten along without it for centuries, after all.”

“Not unwise, my son. And yet arrangements for its permanent return should be made at some point - the realm would suffer if it were to forever be sealed away from it.”

Huginn’s croaking thoughts interrupted into Odin’s mind again. Plan was to send with Loki, make hero, make welcome. Plans no longer matter, but Odin kept Casket, oh yes.

“Then I shall see to it that Jötunheim’s rebuilding continues until such a time as it can be safe housing for her heart once more!” Thor agreed enthusiastically. “Is that all?”

Odin thought again of his dream - of the endless pit, and the giants that fell into it, one after another. All except for the last.

“Perhaps it would be best if I speak to an elder of Jötunheim,” Odin decided. “Someone who knows the realm deeply.”

Thor seemed glad that the solution was so simple. “I’ll send a message along to Lord Frey - he can be here in less than a day.”

“Lord Frey?” Odin asked quizzically. Huginn fluttered his feathers, and an old memory of a boy with a fascination for giants came to mind. His twin sister had preferred the elves, but for Frey, everything was giants. How tall could they grow? What did they eat? What stories did they tell? Between wars, he was a most enthusiastic envoy to Jötunheim. Such odd proclivities did not come without cost - the crueller tongues of the court had begun rumours that he was overly fond of a giantess called Gerda. Those words were forgotten when his expertise in Jötunheim’s terrain made all the difference in the final war with Laufey. He was celebrated as a hero, but a sadness lived in his eyes thereafter.

“It gladdens my heart to hear that Frey was able to return to Jötunheim - he always had an affinity for the realm.”

“Too much so, at times,” Thor said exasperatedly. “The man causes all sorts of problems. He defends ruins, claiming they are ‘culturally significant’ and refuses to tear them down to build new structures. Sometimes I think he’d rather see ghosts housed more comfortably than people of flesh and blood!”

Odin chuckled. Frey had indeed been utterly devoted to the ancient history of Jötunheim and could hold year-long conversations about a crumbled foundation or nub of unassuming stone. “He is right to defend evidence of history, though not at the expense of the future.”

Odin noticed that their walk was taking them into a cavernous hallway, decorated with various artworks illuminating Asgard’s past. Thor had always had a fondness for depictions of adventure and victory. Odin himself had commissioned many of these pieces to be displayed around the capital. He wondered why they had been gathered here - perhaps Thor was fond of them, or else had replaced them with newer pieces of his own adventures and wished to keep them here for nostalgic reasons.

“I suppose,” sighed Thor. “If you could wait, he really would be best to speak with. There is no greater expert on Jötunheim and her affairs.”

“I would think a jötunn might know a thing or two more,” Odin observed dryly. “I would be happy to speak with Frey when he is able. But for now, I believe it best if I speak with an elder of the Jötnar themselves. He may not be glad to see me after our history, but I'd parlay with Laufey.”

Thor stopped walking, that now-familiar look of worry creasing his brow again. "That will be impossible, Father. Laufey-king died in battle over a thousand years ago. Lord Frey reigns in Jötunheim now, though only the hardiest of Asgardians have chosen to settle there with him. Even without any giants, it is hardly hospitable.”

Odin felt as if they hadn’t merely stopped, but walked right into a wall. “Without…giants?” he repeated.

Thor looked crestfallen. “You don’t remember? It was one of my - Asgard’s greatest triumphs.” He sighed. “Well, after they tried to take Alfheim, breaking your treaty, it was agreed something more had to be done. How many wars had to be waged, how many lives lost, until it became clear that peace would never be a permanent state, but merely an interval before the next conflict? And the next, and the next. It was decided that the Jötnar could no longer be trusted with a realm of their own.”

Odin stared at Thor. As he did so, he became aware of the background his son stood against: A tapestry of bold reds and blues.

“It was a most glorious battle,” Thor said enthusiastically. “I myself led the vanguard. The might of Asgard was so great that even the very city of Utgard crumbled to the ground!”

The blue was the Jötnar. The red was the Asgardians. Thousands of figures made up the piece, all engaged in brutal combat. As Odin's eye followed them up to the top, however, it became clear which side was winning.

Thor’s eyes were bright, though he stood in shadows. “It was everything you’d ever told in your stories, Father. I didn’t let you down. I was ready.”

At the top of the tapestry was a depiction of Thor, his hammer raised, his form silhouetted by lightning. Around him were the ruins of a city and cheering soldiers holding their spears aloft in victory.

Steps echoed down the corridors. Another messenger careened to a stop in front of them, panting. “Your Grace! The Queega have surrendered the moon already! They are withdrawing to their capital, as predicted. General Tyr needs you at the front as soon as possible - the first charge will be within the hour!”

Thor’s grin was brighter even than his eyes. “I will be there at once! We will be Thirteen Realms by day’s end with me on the battlefield.”

The messenger scurried away again. Thor’s grin dimmed as he observed Odin’s stricken face.

“Oh, worry not, Father. I will be fine. I always am. Although I am sorry to be leaving you, when we’d only just begun to speak…” He clapped Odin on the back again. “I know. I’ll send a quartermaster to Knowhere for you. That Collector man likely has a jötunn or two squirrelled away - you can speak with one of them. In the meantime, find Loki to keep you company! His silver tongue will be of little use today!”

Thor departed, his echoing chuckle joining the distant clinking armour marching in step. Odin knew it well - a contingent of soldiers had arrived to escort their king to battle.

It faded away again, leaving Odin alone with only his thoughts and the tapestry for company.

Chapter Text

LOKI

The Garden was a beautiful place.

Od might have been able to appreciate it more if he wasn’t always in trouble when he was brought there.

As usual, King Bor was on his knees in the dirt, tending a row of shrubs he’d gotten from some far-distant star. He didn’t pause in his inspection of their leaves, even as his other children began to speak.

Gefjun, as usual, was the first to chime in. “He’s fine, Dad - he’d only gone to Library, he probably just got lost in there, he was just being silly, he knows better now -“

Cul cut in smoothly, his words slower and more thoughtful, but no less defensive.”He just fell asleep while reading, he didn’t mean to cause so much fuss.”

Od's hand was starting to go numb in his mother’s grip. When he tried to pry himself free, it only tightened. He winced, but made no sound.

“Gefjun, Cul,” Bor interrupted gently. “Odin is the one I am waiting to hear speak; he can hardly even try if you’re always doing it for him.”

Gefjun crossed her arms, affronted. “He likes it that way, don’t you, Od?”

“Od does talk sometimes, Father, just not around strangers,” Cul added.

Bor plucked a yellow leaf off its stem and stowed it in a rubbish bag. “As his father, I should hope I am not a stranger.”

Od’s throat tightened; his heart beat a little louder. He hoped none of them could hear it.

Gefjun, for once, seemed to want to be helpful. “He wouldn’t have run away in the first place if Professor Gunnarson didn’t push him so hard! Od doesn’t need to talk, we know what he means -“

“Enough from the both of you,” Bor said curtly. “You are good siblings to cover for him, but this is between Odin and I. He will either choose to speak or keep silent for himself. The two of you - return to your lessons.”

Gefjun was unused to being told to do anything by her father. She huffed and turned to go, flicking Od in the face with her mane of curly red hair - a small revenge in exchange for speaking kindly about her annoying little brother.

Cul lingered, hesitating. Eventually he bowed and, in the privacy of the curtain his long dark hair provided, whispered to Od. “It’ll be alright. I understand.” He squeezed his brother’s shoulder quickly, and then he, too, swept out of the Garden.

“Bestla,” Bor said quietly. “It’s alright now. He’s safe with me. Go rest.”

At first, Od thought his mother would refuse. Her hand tightened on Od's again before she let it drop. Od shook it in relief as pins and needles prickled through his veins again.

“Aren’t you going to apologize to your mother, boy?” Bor said.

Od stared at his shoes. He tried to swallow, but his throat had gone rigid.

His mother stroked his hair. Then she was gone, too.

Bor sighed and straightened up. “Come with me.”

The king stood and walked away from the shrubs. Od stumbled behind him, but not too closely. He wasn’t looking forward to whatever punishment his father had in mind.

They came to an unsculpted, wild place that had not yet been tamed for the Garden. Bor inhaled deeply, centring himself. He planted his hands in the ground with a grunt. A shockwave emanated outwards, turning the earth over and revealing deep seams of dark soil and sending birds bursting from the trees and into the sky. Bor straightened up, rubbing an arm over his mouth as he did so and groaning a little too theatrically. Quickly, he reached into his apron pocket, beckoning Od to come over.

The boy cupped his hands and received a shower of the seeds.

“There are several kinds of seeds in here,” Bor said as he moved them about in Od's palm with a finger. “Some will become roses, the centrepiece of this bed. But beneath them will grow garlic, Twisted-Noses, and Ghost-in-a-Mist.”

Garlic? Od made a face.

Bor noted it. “Garlic will keep away pests that would otherwise love to eat the roses. The Twisted-Noses are the favourite habitat of spiders, which will catch whatever pests can withstand the garlic. They also return nutrients to the soil. While the roses may seem the most important, there are many other roles that must be done so they can prosper. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

Od persisted in his silence.

“Your mother didn’t sleep the entire time you were missing,” Bor continued. “She turned Asgard upside down looking for you. It is her role to look after you."

But you didn’t. You just gardened, Od thought to himself. Was it not your role to care?

Bor threw a handful of seeds into the furrow. “You have a role in this family too, boy. A place. And duties with it. No matter how far you run, that doesn’t change.” He fixed Od with a piercing blue stare. “Where did you really go?”

Od threw his seeds. He missed the furrow.

"Gefjun said you were found in the Library. But that’s just where you went when you decided you wanted to be found, isn’t it?” Bor tapped the side of his nose, leaving an earthy smudge. “I knew you would decide to come back soon. Better to wait you out than to chase you down. You always come back. When you’re ready.”

Od held out his hands. Bor refilled them with seeds.

“Just as I’m sure you’ll start talking. When you’re ready.” Bor demonstrated his throw again. “Like this, Son.”

Od tried again. This time it only mostly missed the furrow.

“Take your time. You’ll get it right soon.”

They walked across the freshly tilled earth, sowing the seeds. As they went, Bor started to hum. Before long, he’d started to clap his hands and stomp and beat. Before long, he was singing.

"Hearing, I ask, from the ho-o-ly races

From Norn’s eyes, watching high and low

I will soon relate, to this tree of faces

Old tales remembered from long, long ago…”

Od stared at him. Bor’s beard stretched into a little grin.

“Catchy, isn’t it?” he remarked before continuing.

"The serpent is bright, but now I must sink

My father of yester is leading me home

The sky becomes light, no more must I think

of old tales remembered from long, long ago.

It didn’t seem till now, so long, long ago.”

When he finished the song, Bor merely began again. And again. And again. The tune became lodged in Od’s head, turning round and round again. It took him awhile to notice he was humming. The moment he did, he slapped his hands to his mouth.

“It’s alright, Od. It’s just humming; it doesn’t count as talking at all,” Bor said. “If you like, you can just mouth the words - you don’t have to sing along. But if you do, I’m so loud I’d never hear you.” To demonstrate, he sang the next bar with his mouth as wide as possible, his eyes comically bugging out as he practically shouted the words.

Od kept his hands over his mouth to hide his smile, but Bor seemed to see it anyway. His eyes crinkled warmly.

"Lead me home, my mothers of yester

Lead me to my heart and its way

Free me from a body that festers

Free me from the urge to yet stay…”

Od whispered the words behind his hand, compelled by the repetition, carried along by the tune.

Take me from this o-ode to slaughter

Take me from Hel, though I may belong

Lead me to my sons and my daughters

Lead me home to the heart of my s-s-sskk…”

Suddenly Bor broke off, coughing so violently he fell into the dirt. It startled Od, who stepped backwards, crushing the seeds under his foot.

The coughing didn’t stop. It only worsened. His father fumbled about in his pocket for his flask, but the trickle remaining in it was not enough.

Od ran. He knew the plant. The plant that made his father better, if only for a time. The fruit glowed, and had to be unscrewed from its stem. Od didn’t take the time, instead pulling stalks loose as he grabbed as many as he could before running back to his father.

Bor took them with shaking hands, along with Od’s flask of water. He crushed the fruit into it and drank the whole thing in a single swallow. Slowly, the coughing faded.

“Well done, Son,” Bor gasped, his breath still short.

Od offered his hand to help Bor up.

Bor, however, was frowning down into his own hand, at the tangled vines that had previously held the fruit. “This isn’t from a Bright Bulb,” he muttered, pulling loose a small, blue flower from the mess.

Without so much as glancing at Od’s hand, he stood up again and walked hurriedly to the medicinal patch. Od ran after him, suddenly having to run to even stay within sight of his father. When he caught up again, Bor was examining more little blue flowers growing around the bulbs.

“A Turglian Rotbreath,” he said dispassionately. “There must have been spores on the Bright Bulbs.” He gripped a blossom at the base of its stem and tore, revealing long, black roots five times as long as the plant had been tall.

"If I hadn’t found this, it would have reached its secondary bloom and poisoned the air as well.” He shoved it into a pocket on his apron with a growl. “That’s the rest of the week gone, searching for the rest of its spawn,” he muttered. “This garden, like Yggdrasil herself, exists in a delicate balance. Many things would disrupt that order - and it is we, the gardeners, who must keep it. That is all our role. We must be careful of what we plant, and weed out invaders before they choke the fruit of our labour.” He looked at Od. "Do you understand, boy?”

A crash from the trees. An out-of-breath messenger burst into the clearing. “Your Majesty!” he cried. “A hundred soldiers are dead! An attack on the Western Border- it’s Svartalfheim!”

Od watched his father’s expression shift from paternal affection into something hard and cold. It made his insides squirm, though he knew the look wasn’t meant for him.

“So it begins,” Bor breathed. Before Od could react, he pulled his son into a tight embrace. “I will take care of this,” he promised as his gardening clothes disappeared beneath the glow of forming armour. “Look after my garden, Son.”

He strode away. Od watched him, suddenly stricken. He tried to call out, to ask Bor to wait - but his voice stayed locked in his chest. He took a step to follow - and fell. He glanced down at his legs. They were tangled in vines. Vines full of blooming blue flowers, larger than before. He tried to pull them loose, but they only grew faster. Screams for help curdled in his chest as he yanked and tore at the Rotbreaths. As he struggled, the roots tore from the ground - but still yet more flowers were reaching for him.

He ran. His legs were still tangled in vines, but he ran.

Father! he wanted to call. Father, help me -

But how could Bor come when he could not hear him?

Father -

A branch caught him across the chest. He stumbled, falling to one side -

Splash.

He was sinking. Water was all around him. He had to swim but -

The vines. The vines were stitching his limbs together, binding him.

His mouth opened in a silent scream, water rushing in to fill his empty lungs -

ᚲ

Loki coughed, spitting up water, splashing as he got up on his hands and knees. He stared at his rippling reflection in confusion. What had…he looked around the room. It was empty.

“Father?” he croaked.

Silence.

Still groggy, he reached behind him for the bed he must have fallen out of. It was sopping wet, too, as was the sheet tangled about his legs. The whole room looked like it had recently weathered an indoor monsoon.

Loki really should have been more distressed about that, but his mind felt too foggy and heavy. Something wasn’t right…it was as if he’d been enchanted into sleep...

He brushed his fingertips against his skull, trying to feel for any residue of a casting. There was…something…a buzzing of sorts. It did not feel like foreign magic…but neither was it quite his own.

“Father?” he called again, alarm starting to cut through the haze. He sloshed to the bathroom next door, but it too was empty. He checked the hallway, the receiving room, the study - all empty.

Which left nothing but the open window Loki had hastily secured yesterday. It took only a glance to realize the spell had been dissipated. He wondered how he’d not noticed the breeze.

Odin was loose. Again.

Loki quickly removed his sopping clothes, using a damp towel from Odin’s wardrobe to dry himself before calling a new outfit onto himself. Even that minuscule amount of lost time was too much - who knew what Odin could have gotten up to during it?

He threw open the door to the royal suites with a bang, startling the man who’d been about to knock.

Loki blinked. “Captain Sigfried?”

The man recovered quickly. “Your Highness - I bring news.”

“As do I. My father has run off again. I will require the services of a few discreet men - ”

“Apologies, Highness, but I don’t think that will be necessary. Odin is with King Thor in the New Royal Wing.”

Loki stared. “How…I see. So…all is well?”

“He seemed glad to see his son, Your Grace. When I left, they were conversing.”

Loki nodded, but his eyebrows furrowed. How normal can he be if he just soaked an entire room with a year’s worth of rain and then left me there? Did he need to speak to Thor that urgently?

Sigfried continued. “As far as ‘all’ being well is concerned, however…you know I am merely Captain of the Palace Guard, and therefore not a part of Asgard’s military, and so I am in no position to speak of its movements. However, I thought you should be made aware of…certain developments.”

Loki sighed. He did so hate being caught up in the rivalry between the palace guard and the Einherjar. “What now?”

“King Thor has requested several of my men to go with him to the front. I know he is fond of them, but we are stretched quite thin as it is with the new patrols. They have also not been trained to perform on the terrain of Queeg, and I fear they would be of little use to the King in this war anyway. I wondered if you might speak on our behalf and convince him -“

“Thor declared war on Queeg?” Loki interrupted. “No…no, I told him that was not the best strategy…does he not realize that we court the ire of the Andromedian Confederation? Where is he - I must speak to him at once!”

Captain Sigfried seemed surprised that Loki was surprised. “He will be taking a contingent of men to the Bifröst soon, I expect.”

Loki strode down the hallway, leaving Sigfried to stare at the wet bootprints he left behind.

ᚲ

“I thought you were joking when you said you’d start a war if you got bored! Slow down - we need to discuss this!”

Thor marched on, eyes fixed on the rapidly approaching main doors to the palace. “War is never a laughing matter, Brother. And it is past the point of discussion - I thought you looked to be as sick of it as I was yesterday.”

“So you thought to spice things up with a bit of smashing? Negotiations are meant to keep us from actual conflict -“

“You would have preferred to continue to treat those lizards as equals?” laughed Thor.

“I would have continued my work to ensure they would not have been our enemies! We are already stretched thin with the inevitable war with the Shi’ar - can’t you see how important it is that we use diplomacy to -“

Thor shook his head like a brunmigi bothered by a fly. “Why bother pretending anymore? The plan was always war. It is simpler to just take what we need.”

Loki was walking out of step with the Einherjar, forced to scurry around pillars to keep up with their pace. “What do you mean, that was always the plan? This is the first I’m hearing of it!”

“That’s because it was my plan. Not everything has to go according to your plan, Loki.”

“My plan is to keep us all safe! Already there are mutters around the galaxy of the Asgardian Empire stretching too far, too quickly - we will find a thousand planets arranged against us if we continue in this way! You must reign in this idiotic barbarity -“

Thor suddenly stopped, standing in the doorway that exited the palace. The Einherjar clanked to a standstill behind him.

Loki stumbled to a stop alongside them, flushing a little red. It wasn’t like him to have insulted his brother aloud - that wasn’t helpful, he knew that, it was better to go along with Thor, to agree, to slowly imply Loki’s ideas as his own - that was the way. But he’d been too angry, too flustered…he was off his game.

“I…I apologize, Brother - I should not have spoken so -“

Thor interrupted, a cold smile frozen on his face. “Did you know that they confirmed the gender of my unborn child today? It is another boy.”

“Oh…congratulations, Brother, that is excellent news. Should we not delay this conflict to celebrate -“

“Do you know what that makes you, Loki? It makes you Fourth Prince. Fourth in line. And if I sign that document adding women to the succession Mother and Sif were so adamant about a few centuries ago, you will be eighth in line.”

Loki stared at Thor, mouth agape. “I hardly see how that’s relevant - “

“Mother and Father insisted on you as my advisor, and you have served well. But counsel is asked for and followed at the whim of the one counselled. It is certainly not shouted at the King as he makes his way to command his armies.” Thor extended an arm and grabbed Loki’s shoulder, in a way that had before seemed brotherly but now felt like a vice.

"Do you know what you are, Little Brother?” Thor said softly, dangerously.

Loki tried to speak, to say Yes, of course I know what I am, I am the only one who seems to think sense in this family anymore - but the words didn’t come.

Thor continued. “Because of late, I think you think yourself a shadow king. But you’re not. You’re Loki. Just Loki. I am your King before I am your brother. Know your place.”

Just like that, he warmly patted Loki’s back and walked down the steps of the palace, the Einherjar immediately matching his pace.

Loki watched them march to the Bifröst Station, a shining river of metal blotting out the Rainbow Bridge.

Father can still stop this madness, he thought. In this, he will side with me.

A breeze tossed his hair and caressed his skin. A queer tingle followed. Irritated, Loki scratched at his hand.

The itch only seemed to spread.

ODIN

A piece of bread hit his head, followed by a hat and a warm pair of gloves.

“Eat, Odin,” Huginn commanded. “Long journeys need fuel.”

Odin picked the piece of bread out of his hair and stared at it without much appetite. “When did you get so caring? Muninn was usually the one to remind me of such things.”

“Huginn must be two ravens now." Huginn landed on his shoulder and helped pull the furry hat down around his ears. “Since Huginn do work of two ravens, Odin maybe feed Huginn like two ravens?”

“You’re already so old you can barely fly, bird. Do you want to weigh as much as two ravens on top of that?”

Huginn huffed and clacked his beak. Odin broke the bread in half anyway and gave a share to Huginn. They ate together, bite for bite. When they finished, Odin still lingered, staring at the tapestry he’d been unable to leave.

“What taking so long?” Huginn asked impatiently. “Open door.”

“It’s not as easy as it used to be,” Odin grumbled. “Let me prepare.”

“Silly. Opening door is not problem. Problem is Odin afraid to see other side.”

Suddenly, a familiar voice, faintly heard down the hall. “Is my father still here?”

“Loki,” warned Huginn. “If see, will try to stop us."

Odin delayed no longer.

Reaching out for Yggdrasil was easier than raising his own withered hand. Always, he could feel it - like a strumming, a constant vibration joining everything into one, united vibration. Ever since his hanging, he’d learned to sing along. He grasped one single thread, following it instantly to one lightyears away. It was tied to the last place he’d been on Jötunheim - the Temple of Utgard. He joined the threads.

The energy of a thousand suns blazed in his hands. The air rippled, caving in on itself as it tore the universe open, revealing the seam Odin would travel down.

The massive doors were creaking open. Odin had less than a minute before Loki and the guards rounded the corner.

The hole in reality was sucking in air, pulling at Huginn’s feathers and his hair, at the tapestry and frames on the wall. He continued to anchor it, assuring that the thread became a branch thick enough to walk down.

Clear footsteps. “Father? Where are you? I need to speak with you…what is that racket?”

Odin stepped through the portal, not so much as glancing behind him as it shut.

LOKI

He rounded the corner as fast as he could while still maintaining decorum. All there was to be seen was a painting swinging on the wall and a tapestry depicting the conclusion of the Final Jötunheim War fluttering back into place.

Loki glanced at the nearest window. Had some random breeze disturbed them? Or had the origins been his father’s particular talent?

“Father?” he called again.

Silence.

He found himself studying the tapestry again. As ever, Thor had forgotten to include a clear representation of those who had helped achieve victory besides his handsome self. By rights, Loki should be there at the top with him, even if his role in their triumph had been less flashy. Not that it mattered; that war was already an old one.

He turned his back on it with a huff, walking deeper into the apartments, still calling for Odin.

No-one answered.

Chapter Text

ODIN

Walking the World-Tree was nothing like the roar and force of the Bifröst. Where that was full of sound and fury, Yggdrasil by foot (if it could be called ‘by foot’, for each step took Odin untold distances across space) was as silent as space itself. Which is to say, it was not truly silent to Odin - he could feel the vibrations of every celestial body that made up the trunk and branches of the universe. Each had a signature note, building into the song that was Yggdrasil itself. A song even Odin could not fully know, for most of it was beyond perception. Yet he at least recognized the frequency of Jötunheim. He pulled himself along towards it, planets and stars streaming past him like ribbons in water.

To the incautious, it would seem peaceful. Odin knew better. This was a balancing act - one wrong step and he’d fall out of the Tree and into the in-between, the void between worlds. Some called it the Ginnungagap - an endless, seeping well of chaos from which all existence had been birthed. New and terrible monsters still crept out of its depths, as did other twisted new creations. It was both nothing and nowhere while being everything and everywhere.

And yet most mages learned to tame some small part of it early when they created their personal pocket dimensions. The Ginnungagap was a terrifying sump of madness - using its awesome power should not be done lightly. But that was mages for you; give them a well of infinite and dangerous creation, and they’d see a convenient place to keep their spare knickers.

He felt the perception of a larger consciousness brush against his and Huginn’s. Before the thing could realize what and where he was, not to mention his potential edibility, Odin moved forward another hundred thousand lightyears. It slipped away again, still trapped somewhere between Yggdrasil, The Ginnungagap and the physical world.

Something else was plucking at him now - the welcome pull of gravity. He let it pull him forward and down, down, down - Sound. The crunch of boots on snow, so harsh a noise as to make his ears ring.

He blinked. Snowflakes gathered on his eyelashes, and he was forced to blink again.

He was surrounded by creatures, glassy of wing and shocked of expression. With a synchronized cry, they burst into the air, their wings catching the red of the sunset and reflecting it a thousandfold. Odin watched them disappear into the night-darkening sky. Huginn sneezed in dismissal.

Advarsels. Native only to Jötunheim.

He’d arrived at the correct planet, at least…but he must have overshot Utgard. This was a desolate wasteland, when he’d meant to land in the heart of the city. Utgard was legendarily built from the bones of Ymir himself. The buildings were as tall as mountains, and the temple perhaps tallest of all.

Yet when Odin looked out, he could see nothing but flat, white snow, broken by divots and holes and the occasional pile of stones. Then his eye caught a familiar symbol, etched into one broken wall. Angrboda’s Mark. The only place that should have that design was the Ancient Library of Angrboda. There was only one such building, and it had been across from the Temple, in the very heart of Utgard…

Huginn whistled in astonishment. He had already turned around.

Odin looked behind him.

The Temple had been cut in half and tilted to an alarming angle. The topmost part, where he had found the babe all those years ago, was gone without a trace. But even with only the foundations and middle section remaining, it was still the only building left. Numbly, Odin approached, entering through the barren archway as he had millennia ago. He could almost believe he was back in that memory - if it weren’t for the cracked and broken stairs, the empty plinths where there had once been magnificent ice sculptures, and the heavy, empty silence.

Even if the stairs hadn’t been partially destroyed, they were giant steps and unsuitable for Odin. He was forced to skywalk on the air above them. Despite a pang of fatigue from the magical exertion, it was easier than this morning. The stiffness seemed to be fading from his limbs.

The new top floor had the remains of sheared pillars, a view of the wasteland that surrounded him, and, in its centre, the unmistakable stamp of the Bifröst, partially filled in with snow.

“O~odin…look…”

The All-Father looked at Huginn, whose gaze was fixed towards the far edge. Odin walked carefully over the icy stone, then leaned over the lip of the temple and stared down into its shadow.

It was darker than a shadow on snow should be. It was a tear in reality, a hole carved clean through reality. Even from up here, Odin could feel the pull of its sucking breath, see the endless churning of its depths, the hunger that pulled all matter towards its crushing oblivion. He took an involuntary step backwards.

“Wrong,” whispered Huginn. “Very wrong.”

Was this where the city had gone? Gobbled up by this aberration?

Huginn hopped to Odin’s other shoulder, beady eyes studying the ruins. “Look! Tracks. City not eaten - city taken.”

Odin soon saw what he meant. Scattered at the edges of the city were long parallel markings, crisscrossed with the dotted lines of Asgardian tracks. They trailed away into the gathering gloom of Jötunheim’s oncoming night. As he and Huginn watched the most distant edge of the horizon, a scattering of lights winked on.

“A city isn’t just buildings, bird,” Odin remarked. He cast his eyes back into the monstrous gash. It was gnawing at the edges of itself, but there was still evidence of industry left intact. Numerous Asgardian tracks, scuffs and scores from large objects being pushed and pulled, an enormous stone hand broken at the wrist, buried under snow.

“No point in staring now, Odin. All past, long ago.” Huginn pointed his beak back towards the lights igniting in the face of the coming night. “Always move forward.”

Odin lingered a little longer, still wondering just where the darkness went.

Huginn tugged at his earlobe. “Odin always say let go of past. Cannot move forward into future if carrying such weight.”

Odin relented. Turning his back on the abyss, he walked towards the opposite edge of the segmented temple, and then off it into plain air.

He marched across the deepening blue of the sky, soon leaving the remnants of Utgard far behind. The way was quiet and still. Huginn grew distracted, flying away for longer and longer times, searching for something to interest him. Finally, he failed to come back at all.

When had winter fallen on Asgard? Odin wondered idly. These old bones shouldn’t be out for long in the cold. How long had he been walking, anyway? It was good to get away from it all, as was his habit, but he couldn’t seem to recall just when he had left. Frigga did so hate it when he just vanished without warning her…

Lights. Many of them, just below. He could stop at this little hamlet and send word back to her. As he descended, he admired the structures that appeared to be under construction. It reminded him of how Asgard used to look, in the days it had been made of stone instead of gold - which wasn’t to say it lacked colour. Indeed, there were artists hard at work painting the dwellings in bright reds and greens and yellows, making them burn against their snowy surroundings. A mason hard at work on a decorative carving of a lightning bolt was the first to look up at notice the old man descending from the clouds. He pointed and shouted “All-Father!”

Doors opened, voices rose, and soon a stream of others were gathering below Odin, awaiting his arrival. Only one man still had his back to him, and as Odin approached he could hear his bellowing.

“I told you not to take it from that section of the library! It’s historical! Has your hammering caused you to go deaf, man? Where are you going, I am speaking to you -“ he whirled around. His eyes went wide as he took Odin in. “A-All-Father! What a surprise. Why are you here, old friend?”

Odin frowned at the man. Friend? Yes, his face…he knew that face. There was still something clouding his thoughts, blurring it from his mind’s eye. He must be careful not to reveal he had forgotten this man; that would be very rude. “Indeed,” Odin said confidently. “It has been too long. How goes, old friend?”

"I admit I would be better without the scare of you coming out of the sky unannounced!” laughed the man, striding forward as Odin touched down on the snow. By his dress and demeanour, he appeared to be a lord.

“I have not come for long,” Odin hesitated. Why had he come at all? It had slipped his grasp. “I…merely wanted to check-in.”

The other men and women who had gathered gave a great cheer and spoke all at once.

“There’s so much space, we can scarce believe it! My dog Yanna ran away, and it took her three days!”

“S’bit cold, but Bandabjørn dung burns bright enough!”

“All is well enough, All-Father -“ the lord began.

“Well? I think you mean 'well, it could be better!'” grumbled one man in the back, wearing so much fur as to appear like an obese bear. “My house still has no roof, and the king has just cancelled our shipments of wood to build his siege weapons!”

The crowd started to mutter in discontent.

“Could you not speak to Thor, Your Grace?” said an older woman. “I know the wars are important, but we are in a war of our own against the cold!”

Odin was suddenly trapped. They were yelling at him, yelling and demanding and he did not know what they were talking about, what he was meant to do, but he couldn't let them know that he did not know, he must try and pretend, to pick up on some hint of what the proper thing to say was -

“How dare you speak to the All-Father like that?” barked the lord suddenly, turning to glare at the crowd.

The people hushed, suddenly chagrined.

Odin recovered. “Indeed,” he growled. “I have heard your supplications, and will see what might be done. But I have faith in my Asgardian fellows - you will conquer this land yet, for have we not defeated enemies far more heinous than mere temperature? Continue your preparations, and soon it will be as forgotten as all the rest who dared challenged us!”

The crowd cheered once more before dispersing back to their previous occupations, leaving Odin alone with the unknown lord. Odin decided it was best to move on before the lord or the crowd confronted him again. He stepped forward -

“Wait, Your Majesty -“ the lord reached for him, but too late. Odin stepped onto a patch of ice disguised by newly fallen snow. The world tilted suddenly, becoming only a view of the sky -

It would have certainly been a painful fall, if not for the lord throwing himself beneath Odin. A gasp of air was driven out of the man as the king’s skull bounced against his stomach.

Odin looked up. From this angle, he could see…but the face was far older. Was it only the frost in his beard? “Frödor?” he asked.

“Frödor was my grandfather, though you have often said I look just like him,” the lord groaned.

“You can’t be…you can’t be little Frey?” Odin said, perplexed.

“It’s been very, very long since I was little. But I am he.”

A squawk from above. Huginn swept in, landing on Odin’s stomach and eyeing Frey warily. He fluttered away again as Odin and Frey struggled to their feet, nearly slipping again in the process.

“I don’t know how the Jötnar got around without constantly giving themselves concussions,” confessed Frey, leaning against a nearby cart to steady himself before offering Odin a hand up.

Odin ignored it, moving carefully to make up for the lack of support. Once he was reliably upright once more, Huginn reattached himself to his shoulder.

Frey dropped the hand, and with it, some of his facade. “Why have you come?” he asked curtly.

The raven shifted uneasily, but Odin’s reputation for mysteriousness proved useful once again. “An old man can still go walking, can he not?”

“Jötunheim isn’t a place for a pleasant stroll,” Frey observed. “Especially at nightfall.”

“Then invite me into your home, where I can warm myself,” Odin said.

Frey waited a moment too long before responding with the customary “It would be my honour to host you, All-Father.”

Odin followed him up a tall hill overlooking the hamlet below. The going was tough, but Frey didn’t extend a hand to help again. Neither did Odin ask for it.

The home at the peak of the bluff was modest for a lord’s, but still grand. Odin waited for Frey to lead the way to the house, but the Lord instead stopped and began to describe the difficulties of creating the foundations for such a home in frozen ground. 

Fortunately, one of the benefits of being old and the king was that you didn’t have to stand on ceremony. Odin brushed past Frey, making a beeline for the house. At once, Frey leapt ahead, almost running to the door. He pounded it loudly.

“GUNNHILDE!” he shouted. “The All-Father is here - a surprise visit! I hope you’ve cooked enough dinner for one more than usual!”

A loud thump came from inside the house. There was a long pause before a woman called back. “The children are playing by the river. Should I send them a message?”

Frey called back. “Let them play a little longer. I’m sure our guest wouldn’t want to be disturbed.”

Another minute passed, and then the door opened. A flummoxed Asgardian woman peered out, blonde hair tangled about her face. “Sorry,” she grinned. “Just wanted to neaten up a bit before the All-Father himself entered.”

He was ushered into a den towards the back of the house, a large fire in its centre. Surprisingly, the room was little warmer than outside. Was it possible for a flame to be defective? He glared at the thing, but it seemed well-stocked with fresh logs…although there seemed to be few coals, and the pit itself spotlessly clean.

Frey settled into a fur-covered chair in one corner, thoughtlessly pulling one over his legs. Odin sat across from him in a barren chair. Indeed, it seemed Frey’s chair was the only one the room to be so blessed in warm coverings.

Gunnhild returned, carrying a tray burdened with hot mead. Odin gratefully wrapped his frigid fingers around a horn, preferring simply to hold it.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said kindly. “Won’t you have some?”

“Oh, I think I’d best be getting back to my duties…supper needs tending, and children cause a never-ending list of troubles that always seem to involve cleaning…”

“I insist,” Odin said, still genial, but irrefutable. “It is not every day that the All-Father visits. I should like to get to know the woman who married Frödor’s grandson.”

Gunnhilde and Frey stared at him, expectant and wary. Odin simply sipped at the mead, occasionally holding up the horn for Huginn to wet his beak He nearly offered it to his empty shoulder as well, but caught himself in time.

A long minute of silence was punctuated by the crackling fire as it finally got its teeth into the wood. Finally, Frey could seem to bear it no longer.

“So,” Frey leaned forward, loosely clasping his hands. “How do you find Jötunheim? It’s not the optimal time of year, of course, but you know I’ve always fancied the terrain. There is scarcely grander in all the Nine. I mean, in all the Twelve. Are you thinking of building a summer palace here, to escape those hot Asgardian months?”

Odin’s gaze cut through Frey's babble. “No.”

Gunnhilde’s sharp glare parried Odin’s gaze. “This is the nearest settlement to Utgard. Is that where you came from?”

Odin shifted his attention to her. “Aye, it is.”

So I've come from Utgard. What was my business there? Perhaps negotiating the treaty with Laufey…no wonder I needed a walk. Even after a full surrender the man was as stubborn as an elven architect. He’d keep building arrogance on sunken foundations for decades while his people starved if he could but spite me for a moment.

Gunnhilde didn’t break her stare. “What did you think of its state?”

Its state? Utgard had suffered damage from siege weapons, but it was a hardy construction. It cannot expect to be in better shape, considering how long it took before they declared defeat. “A city cannot expect to come out unscathed when a battle is waged within its very walls,” Odin said evasively. “If it would rather avoid it, it should surrender before it is breached.”

Gunnhilde finally looked away, one hand knotting in her skirt. “I see,” she said with a note of bitterness. “So you are proud of the work your sons achieved?”

Odin’s eye retreated into the heavy shadows of his skull-like countenance. He said nothing. He again felt the weight of Frey’s appraisal, shrewder then before. He spoke again in a false-cheery voice Odin was coming to despise.

“How old are Thor and Loki now? It’s been ages since I attended their last Namedays…”

“Be sure to attend the next,” Odin said cooly.

Frey leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Yes, I wonder if the Queen will ever forgive me…is Frigga well, Your Grace?”

Odin’s eyebrow stitched together in warning disapproval. “If she weren’t, Yggdrasil would be in utter disarray."

“It certainly feels that way,” Gunnhilde muttered.

Dawning credulity spread across Frey’s face.

Odin did not like the look of it. He never liked it when someone thought they knew more about the situation than he. He liked it even less when it seemed like they might be right.

“So the stories are true,” Frey wondered. “You are…not whole, Odin All-Father.”

“What are you accusing me of, Lord Frey?” Odin said dangerously.

“Where is Muninn?” Frey asked plainly.

The lightness of his left shoulder suddenly became apparent to Odin, making him feel lopsided and out of balance. Where had Muninn gone? Had he sent him somewhere? Surely not for so long…

Disoriented, Odin glanced around the room, looking for something to tell him what was happening to him. He did not know this place. He was not sure he even knew Frey - the man was acting so strangely. Was he an imposter? How could he be sure without Muninn?

Lord Frey stroked his greying beard. “Did you come here because you are following the motions of your younger self? Or are you simply…lost?”

The chill was settling into Odin’s bones, even as the youthful fire finally got its teeth into the wood. Where was Muninn? He needed him…could the blasted bird not see he needed him, he needed to come back, he needed to be here with Odin, a part of Odin...

Huginn hopped from right shoulder to left, and then back again. It was as if he was running from shoulder to shoulder in search of his brother - or was attempting to be two ravens at once. The bird cawed loudly in one of Odin's ears, startling a roar out of him.

“HUGINN! ENOUGH!”

The bird paused, panting, claws affixed to Odin’s white hair as he stood atop his head. He appeared to have gotten ahold of himself once more.

Pain. Sudden, visceral, in the centre of his forehead. Wetness streaming down past his eye. A fierce cawing, black feathers torn loose from fierce wingbeats, a shout -

Huginn tore free from Odin’s head. More wetness, trails of it from every talon.

The raven cawed and flew about the room in a panic, everyone powerless to calm him. He circled up the chimney, his voice roughened further by the smoke, until he found the highest, darkest rafter and settled there, still panting. He turned his head into his wings and began to preen, perhaps in an attempt to calm himself. He plucked loose two feathers and spat them out, leaving them to float gently down into the fire. The smell as they burned was acrid.

Frey stood up, as if released from a spell. “All-Father…you’re bleeding…Gunnhilde, fetch…no, I’ll get them…” he hastened from the room, returning moments later with wet cloth and bandages.

Odin touched his head and felt a deep puncture. The bleeding was profuse, dripping down his face and collecting into his horn, mixing with the mead. He stared at the drops as they bloomed in the alcohol, like tiny roses.

Lord Frey knelt before him, and before Odin could protest, he pressed the wad of bandages tight against the wound, stemming the blood flow. With his other hand he mopped Odin’s face best he could, succeeding mostly in smearing the blood into every wrinkle and crevice, through which the blood ran like tiny rivers across a desert.

“Forgive me, All-Father - I never did learn to specialize in any magical craft, but I did learn a little healing. I can at least close the wound.”

A flash of heat. The blood stopped. The pain did not vanish, only faded. Frey got to work attaching the bandage more securely to Odin’s head. Even as he did so, something in the cut resisted, seething at the magic and cloth trying to close the wound. 

“You should still see a proper healer,” Frey advised, stepping back again.

Odin touched the bandage again, wanting no more than to tear it off. He did not like the feel of it. His fingers began to tremble, and soon the shake had spread to the rest of him.

“Do you know where you are, Odin?” Frey questioned.

“I…I am on Jötunheim, near Utgard.”

“Very good. Do you know why you are here?”

Odin did not like the slow way Frey was speaking. Did he think Odin an imbecile? A child? “Do not propose to speak to a king with such condescension, boy, nor presume to know his business - ”

The woman snorted. “You are not a king.”

Odin snorted right back at her. “Many people do not like that I am king, but that does not change that it is so.”

“No-one is king forever. You were succeeded by your eldest son many centuries ago. But even when you did reign in Asgard, you were never my king. And now…” her lip curled. “I cannot believe it. But it is so…you are just an old man. A sad, sick old man who knows nothing.”

Odin stilled. “Only fools presume to know things. It is a wise man who knows he knows nothing. I do, however, know one thing. Your name is not Gunnhilde.” His voice was steady, calm. He looked into her soft, brown, and terribly false eyes. “Hello, Gerda.”

For the second time that day, Odin felt something unexpectedly sharp against his skin. He had not even seen Frey draw the blade. Despite the rashness of the action, Frey was steady, his expression flat.

They stayed like that for several long moments.

“He may be a rude houseguest, Husband, but if he dies here we are guaranteed many more,” Gerda remarked.

“Odin is a secretive man. It is possible he told no-one he was coming to this planet,” Frey said lowly.

“And you think he is so unimportant that no-one will look for him, or might have noticed him come here?”

Frey looked to his wife. She’d gone pale, but she was no less determined for it. He withdrew his short sword from Odin’s neck and sheathed it.

“How did you know?” Gerda demanded.

“How did you think you’re doing a good job of disguising it?” Odin settled back into the cold chair. “You need not fear I will reveal it. It is as your husband said - I am a secretive man.”

Frey remained standing, placing himself between Odin and Gerda. “Perhaps not intentionally, but if the rumours about your condition are true - you are not the man you used to be.”

“I know enough secrets to bring Asgard falling out of the sky. Whatever you may have heard about my condition, you haven’t heard my secrets.”

Gerda chuckled scornfully. “Is that all I am to you, then? Just one more secret for you to keep, a part of your collection? No…no, I will not allow that to be so.” In a fluid motion, she tore at the edge of her face, a flash of purple magic disintegrating in her grip.

Frey sucked in a breath. “Gerda, no! Someone might see -“

“I want him to see!” Gerda snarled with sharp teeth. “If he would claim to know my secret, then let him know me!”

Frey was forced back against the wall as she grew, revealing why the rafters of the house were built so high. Cloth tore and fell to the floor, but Gerda cared nothing for modesty. She grew taller and taller, disturbing even Huginn from his roost. He cawed a warning and swooped back down to Odin’s shoulder to cower.

Red eyes glared down at Odin. Familiar red eyes.

A forest of Jötnar surrounding me. Blood seeping from my feet.

Running. Losing grip…falling…

Skin turning from Às to Jötunn and back again…

Walking out of a drowning room, Loki asleep on the bed…I wanted to remember that…

The tapestry, another war, Thor’s footsteps fading into the crescendo of marching soldiers…

Alone with the stitched imagery of Jötnar falling in battle, looking upwards towards their conqueror...

The red eyes were waiting above him.

“I see you, Gerda,” Odin said quietly.

“Do you?” her booming voice shook dust loose from the ceiling. “There is so much of me.”

Odin said nothing. He waited.

“Do you see what I do not have?” Gerda challenged him. “I have no freedom. I have no history. My family, my friends are gone. Even my face is no longer my own. You and yours have taken everything from me.”

Frey approached her leg, attempting to soothe her. She ignored him.

“So what have you come, for now, Odin? Will you take away this husband, like you took my first? Will you take my children? Will you feed us all into the Mouth, as Asgard did to the rest of my kind?”

The Mouth.

The abyss behind the ruined temple…

“You are much like that Mouth…no matter how much you take, it is never enough. I do not even have the corpses of things that once were. I have no songs, no histories, not even ruins...Nothing to prove to my children that the Jötnar were once a great people….nothing to prove to them that it is a proud thing to be jötunn. How can I, when I myself hide in Asgardian skin?”

She looked down at Frey, tightening her lip in some sort of signal. His hand on her leg glowed a soft purple once more, spreading over her form like an aurora. She began to shrink, still speaking all the while.

“Sometimes it feels as if Gerda went into the Mouth, and all that I am is a performance called Gunnhilde. Every day I must smile and watch the people who took my world from me - every day I must try to be more and more like them. Sometimes I wonder if that is cowardly…surely a truly strong person would surrender their life before compromising their self?”

When she was the size of an Asgardian woman once more, Frey hurried to drape her nude form in a fur. She held out a hand and stopped him, preferring to stand defiant. Her gaze with Odin remained unbroken, though her eyes were now brown again.

“I would have chosen death first. My own. But my children's…perhaps one day they will curse me for putting their lives over pride. I hope they will. I hope they carry on anyway, as I must.”

A long silence. She waited for Odin to speak.

“What was the name of your first husband?” Odin requested softly.

“Suttung. He was a famous mead-maker. You likely dined with his work many times.”

“What are the names of your children?”

“Merja and Baugi are their birth names. But they have gone by Beyla and Yngvi for most of their lives.”

Odin looked meaningfully at Frey. “They are…your children, too?”

“They are mine now,” Frey said stiffly. “But they were not always, no. Beyla was Suttung’s daughter. Yngvi was an orphan.”

“Are they also so disguised?”

Gerda laughed bitterly. “Oh, their disguises are better than mine. Baugi has never even seen himself as he truly is…all he knows is Yngvi’s face and name. He is convinced, and so is quite convincing.”

Odin considered Frey. “How did you learn this magic?”

Frey’s lips twisted. “Of course that would be what you are most interested in, Witchking. I was never considered particularly talented at magic, was I? I should be honoured the God of Magic himself likes my work.”

Odin ignored the bitterness in Frey’s voice. “I have only seen its like once before; I admit curiosity as to how you came across it…” Would he recognize a similar working? Should he be kept from meeting Loki again? Is it already too late?

“It is…my own invention. I may not be talented, but I am willing to learn from many sources; the elves and the giants of realms ice and fire have shown me much.”

Closer to home, then. My magic will still be beyond his ken. Loki is safe from his eyes.

Odin nodded and stood. “Thank you for your hospitality.” He walked towards the door. No-one stopped him. He paused. “You are right; I am an old man. Age is often a fatal condition. Rest assured I am taking steps to ensure that I take my secrets with me. But for your sake, I hope that you do not have to keep this one forever.”

Gerda shrugged. “Why not? It is all I have left.”

Odin frowned. “What about your children? Do you not have them?”

She looked towards the window, though her expression was distant and unfocused. “I have Beyla and Yngvi.”

“And me,” Frey said quietly.

Gerda turned her blonde head under his and embraced him. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Gunnhilde and I have you.”

Odin left them.

Stepping back out into the frigid Jötunheim night was like a slap to the face, yet Odin made no sign that he felt anything. Wind and snow drove him down the hill, though he did not return to the little village. Instead, he listened for the trickle of the river and followed it until he heard the voices of children at play, seemingly unaffected by the frigid temperatures.

“Bey-la! Give it back!”

“Catch me first!”

“No fair! You’re bigger than me!”

The tall girl dangled something bright and shiny in front of him and danced away again as he swiped for it. She glanced up and saw Odin and froze. Her brother quickly took advantage and ripped the object back from her slack grip.

“Haha! You’re slow, Sister…”

“Hush! Can’t you see who’s watching us?” she hissed.

The little boy turned and joined her in staring. “It’s just an old man.”

“With one eye and a raven! It’s got to be Odin!”

“Right…who is that again?”

They didn’t seem to realize that the wind was carrying their voices right to him.

Beyla looked at her brother in disgust, but before she could say anything, the boy was marching towards the old king. “Are you important?” he demanded.

“I am,” Odin replied matter-of-factly.

“Are you gonna tell on us for taking this?” He held up what appeared to be some sort of carved gem. It gleamed as clear as water, and in its heart was a spark, trapped in place. Likely spoils from Utgard that they’d taken from one of the hauling crews. The boy shoved it into his pocket and put his finger to his lips. “Promise not to tell?”

Odin nodded.

The boy grinned and ran back to his sister. “It’s fine, he swore he wouldn’t tell! Now you try and get it back -“

The girl ignored her brother’s tugs, instead narrowing her eyes. “Maybe it isn’t Odin. He’s too short. Plus a king wouldn’t have a janky old bandage across his face like that. And he only has one raven.” She shrugged, then returned to the game with her brother.

Absent-mindedly, Odin pulled the bandage from his head. It was easy enough to stitch together a quick glamour to hide the wound. Huginn seemed to relax as the scar disappeared, as if able to put his transgression behind him now that the evidence was missing. Odin turned and continued walking, disappearing into the gloom of Jötunheim’s wastes.

He should go back to Asgard before he forgot where he was again. Go back to the golden city of warmth, where his family was waiting for him.

He kept walking, listening to the crunch of his footsteps across the empty tundra, savouring the numbness that followed in the wake of the cold wind.

Chapter Text

LOKI

While the denizens of Asgard - and those very few outsiders who had graced its realm - marvelled at the enormous scope of the palace, Loki knew its familiar confines as finite. As a child, he had catalogued every nook and cranny into a memorized map of the best places to hide after a bout of troublemaking. As an adult, he had paced it end to end when he’d needed to think them all out of whatever trouble the Asgardian Empire had gotten into.

So he knew that he’d not missed anything. He’d checked every floor, every wing, every hall, every room, from the tallest central tower to the lowest dungeons.

Odin was not here.

Or he’s avoiding me.

Loki shook himself. He was being ridiculous. What reasons would his father have to avoid him?

Perhaps I remind him of his infirmity, since he must rely on me so. Perhaps he is embarrassed of how he acted last night, with me as chief witness. In his mind, Loki and his shame are now intrinsically linked.

Loki stopped walking. I will not think such things, he reprimanded himself. There is no shame in getting old and suffering the consequences of that. Despite what Thor said, I do know my place. I always knew that caring for our parents would fall to me, and I was glad of it. Father expects it too. And I will not fail him.

If Odin was not in the palace, he’d likely escaped into Asgard’s streets…or had world-walked.

Both possibilities meant that Loki could no longer look alone. It meant calling together a search party, mages to send locating spells. More people meant more tongues wagging.

If Heimdall wasn’t busy with transporting damned soldiers, I could go and ask him…No. I’ve no need for that peeping tom. Father would prefer I take care of this myself, if possible.

There had to be somewhere he’d missed. Someplace he hadn’t checked thoroughly…

The Garden was a beautiful place.

The thought made him pause. It had sounded not quite like his own internal voice…and yet not unfamiliar.

The Garden. He had asked a gardener if he’d seen Odin, but had not himself entered. He’d been avoiding the place since Mother passed.

Going there without her…no, it was more like…if he didn’t go there, then perhaps that’s where she still was. She might be tending a young, alien tree suffering in Asgard’s warm climate, or else encouraging a flock of wing-willows to flap so that they might fly in time for the Spring Festival. She might finish soon and come out of the Garden again. Might walk into whatever room Loki was in and ask how his day had been. Maybe she’d complain of an over-enthusiastic gardener’s apprentice who’d accidentally removed her prize bloatweeds. Perhaps he’d already received his comeuppance when they’d released their noxious gases into his face as he was carting them away. Loki would laugh and inquire why she grew bloatweeds at all, which were not the prettiest of plants. She could launch into a long explanation of why they were necessary for some other plant to grow well, or how she found their occasionally belching charming and an essential part of the Garden’s ambience, or she might simply say nothing at all and instead simply smile enigmatically.

It was nonsense, of course.

His father could have out-manoeuvred a gardener. He was known to visit the place regularly still. Before Loki embarrassed them all by sounding the alarm unnecessarily, he should make a more thorough search of the place.

He usually entered the Garden through the main entrance, right at the back of the main palace. Loki was very far from that particular gate, but the palace encircled the Garden in its entirety - a service entrance should be nearby.

At the thought, his feet seemed to swerve, redirecting him on to a familiar path he couldn’t recall taking before. He passed under archways and bridges, descending a staircase that took him out of the golden and alabaster surroundings and into a more simple, functional one that the servants used to more quickly navigate. This was directly beneath the kitchens - the smell of roasting mutton and lindworm confirmed it. Somehow that made him even more certain of his direction.

As he descended a second staircase, the simple decor became positively ancient, merely stained and crumbled stone - the very foundations of Asgard. If he was not careful, he’d descend to the level of the prisons and the catacombs themselves. Yet the old, mouldy door at the bottom of the stairs did not smell of the mildew and damp of such places - instead, he could feel a cool breeze coming from its keyhole.

He had no key. Not that that was usually a problem. He cast a simple ‘Royalty Recognition’ spell. To his surprise, the door remained closed. There shouldn’t have been any door in the palace that could refuse that. He gripped the corroded handle and tried again.

It didn’t come easily. It budged an inch, then held its ground, then gave up another inch with a terrible scraping. His hand tingled as if he was shaking hands with an angry Thor. A golden spark leapt from it into the lock, and at once the door groaned open a solid two feet. Loki quickly moved through it, the door slamming behind him the moment he released the knob. At once he scratched at his hand, which had begun to itch again.

He was deep beneath Asgard. It should have been dark.

Long purple lights hovered just above the ground, seeming to sway at his approach. From the ceiling hung cable-like vines, shimmering with some unknown energy. Between the two was a marked path, winding through the darkness before becoming an ascending staircase. There was no door at the top, merely a crumbling archway curtained by witches hair. He parted it with both hands and stepped through.

This morning, if asked, Loki would have been able to draw a map of the garden from memory, so certain was he of its layout. Yet he had never seen this place before.

It was a forgotten garden within a garden, sunken into the ground as if stepped on by a giant. The top of the pit was shrouded by briars, and above that must have been thick tree cover, for only a few bands of the autumn light penetrated the gloom.

It must have been beautiful, once. There was a broken fountain near the entrance, carved with the dancing figures of animals, though their details had worn away. Its insides were full of slime, but also with lily pads and tiny white blooms Loki had never seen in the lakes above. Beyond was a jungle knotted thorns and weeds, but even there was evidence of past care. One side was more roses, a mix of crimson and grey, while the other flickered with strange dancing lights.

Loki summoned his dagger, but before he could harm so much as a single twig, the plants began to part for him. A thin dirt path appeared between the two sides.

Loki stepped forward, like a fish on a line being reeled in. This place seemed to know him…to welcome him? The leaves rustled as he passed, as if the bushes were whispering to themselves.

“Ah!” he cried out, grabbing his shoulder.

A thorny vine retreated, dripping blood.

The whispering grew louder. Almost…argumentative. Loki walked a little faster.

Another thorn sprang out, catching his ear. He pulled it free and pushed forward, closer to the end now than the beginning. A root raised to trip him up, but he saw it in time and leapt clear. A full branch shoved its way in front, and now his dagger came in handy.

He hadn’t expected it to scream.

The path behind him was closing, the leaves rustling as loud as an accusing shout. Vines tried to wind around his shoulders, his neck -

He summoned his second dagger.

The exit was closing. He leapt.

A briar caught his leg, threatening to pull him back inside -

He kicked out, his heart starting to race and his skin prickling. “Let…go…!” he commanded.

It hesitated. Loosened.

Loki pulled himself free and scrabbled backwards as the wilderness snapped closed like a trap. It moved no more. Nonetheless, Loki looked around quickly, to see if any other plants were nearby.

He was lying on a carpet of moss. It was motionless enough - although Loki would have said most plants were until fairly recently. Beyond this point the grass was shorter, mixed with wildflowers, before giving way to a small grove of three trees. Hopefully, they had nothing against him, because it seemed the way out was behind them - a staircase out of this pit.

Cautiously, he approached the first tree - a dead, blackened thing with bare branches. Something crunched under his foot. Loki lifted it and saw a veritable graveyard of smaller plants, all withered and dry - aside from dozens of blue flowers, which seemed quite content.

“How could you let this happen?”

Loki turned to see where the voice had come from.

For a moment, the garden seemed to shift before his eyes. Blue flowers had seemingly sprouted everywhere, filling the garden to the brim.

“I’m sorry,” Loki said automatically, a terrible feeling of guilt in his chest. “I tried to -“

Tried to what?

He blinked. The flowers vanished, returning the garden to its misty, decrepit state.

Loki felt his forehead. I must be coming down with something. Little wonder, after sleeping in water.

He gave the dead tree a wide berth, walking closer to the second tree - a far healthier specimen. Robust, even. Perhaps it was its fortune of growing in one of the only beams of sunlight that penetrated the dim. Or perhaps it was its long branches and golden leaves, which stretched high above the other two trees to capture most of the light for itself.

Loki’s neck prickled. Something pulsed through the ground, sending a tingle over his skin.

He looked over at the third tree. It seemed normal enough - smaller than the other two, but still full of green leaves that reached for whatever light the golden tree hadn’t seized. And yet he could still feel…something emanating from it. No…from below it.

He glanced from the distant staircase to the tree. He could return to investigate later. Odin was the priority. Yet before he could move towards the exit, a pulse of energy from the ground caught him off-guard.

Something was calling to him. No…he was calling to it. A mutual calling. A matched magical frequency. Had he cast a spell here long ago and forgotten it?

Cautiously, Loki sent out a tendril of probing energy into the ground at the tree’s base. There was something here - something meant to protect, to hide. Nearly too late, he realized what it was and hastily withdrew.

This was no single spell. It was a snarl of them, each more dangerous than the last. He recognized the construction of a few - spells to send any pursuer into a mindless, fear-consumed run until they exhausted themselves to death, spells to wipe clean the minds of any who brushed against them, spells to bind and force the truth out of the trespasser. Most of these seemed rather counter-productive all together. There was something unreasoning to their knitting. As if the caster had merely thrown together every spell they could think of, although the meticulousness and power of the spells seemed to suggest a far more advanced mage than should make such a mistake.

He’d sensed something else too - magic nearly as familiar as his own. His mother’s work lay under here, though he could not sense the exact nature of it without closer inspection.

There was only one powerful mage he could see working with Frigga to hide something in secret. It was with that energy that he felt a strange kinship with, a kinship he could not recall experiencing before.

Why was his father’s magic calling out to him now?

Perhaps in his sleep, Odin had leaked magical residue, like powerful children who hadn’t learned to control their abilities sometimes did. If Loki were covered in the miasma, he might be able to sense Odin’s spells almost as clearly as his own.

Perhaps a sleeping spell wasn’t all he cast on me...

Loki ignored the thought, stepping forward to touch the trunk of the little tree.

The magic was in here, too - flowing like a river. To his surprise, however, the energy of the tree itself was not so strong. He looked up again at the green leaves.

He’d been mistaken to think the tree was healthy. The leaves didn’t belong to the tree, but to bunches of mistletoe, wrapped along its branches, choking out the few leaves the tree did manage to produce.

What did Mother and Father hide here? Why was it abandoned? Do I have any right to know? And if the answer is no…will I look anyway?

He backed away from the tree. If Odin is sane enough to avoid me, he’s sane enough to answer questions. And if he refuses to answer…well, I can always wait until he’s a little less so and ask again.

His stomach knotted at the idea of taking advantage of his father’s illness to discover something meant to be forgotten. These thoughts…where were they coming from? They were unwelcome.

As was he in this place. It was not meant for him.

He made his way towards the stairs, concentrating with all his might on not looking behind him.

At the top of the sunken garden, he again needed his dagger to cut his way out of the briars. Once free, he was standing deep in a woodsy section of the garden, far from any path.

There should have been no-one around.

"You were supposed to look after the Garden. Look at it now.”

There was a sudden, striking pain in his head, as if he’d been stabbed.

Without bothering to mark his path, he ran.

Chapter Text

ODIN

The Casket hummed faintly, almost imperceptibly. When he’d taken it, years ago, it had positively rumbled with its barely constrained energies. Odin wondered if its current quietness was because of his increasing deafness or its decreasing power.

The distant, ghostly voice of Laufey seemed to echo through the Vault. “You may hold the heart of our world, All-Father, but it will never beat for you. It will sing, but you will not hear it. You can take it, but you can never own it!”

Huginn ruffled his wings, spilling the last of Jötunheim’s snow off his feathers. A beady black eye roved their surroundings. He clucked judgmentally. “What a mess.”

The last time Odin recalled being in this place, the Casket had sat at the very end of the Vault on a plinth, with only a few other objects of power (of various authenticities) in cavities along the wall. Now the Casket was in a dusty corner of the room, stuffed into a heap of relics Odin did not recognize.

Thor was apparently more excited in procuring items than in their careful display.

Odin bent over awkwardly, brushing aside an ornate, whispering mirror and a golden box filled with blinking eyeballs with expressions of varying annoyance. Once freed, the Casket was heavier than he remembered - his knees protested as he attempted to straighten with it in his arms.

I dreamt about hearts and Jötunheim…surely that must be about the Casket, the Heart of Jötunheim? Hearts being removed, and giants falling into a hole in the ground…the second part turned out to be literal, but it had been Odin who removed this heart years ago…

Yes, he’d torn the heart out of Jötunheim, but it had hardly been his choice. He was not the one who had turned it into a weapon. He had not planned to keep it forever…it was just safer in Asgard, safer for everyone in the Nine and certainly safer for the Jötnar to be guarded against temptation.

Huginn laughed in that eerie way of his - as if he were echoing up from a crumbling well. “Oh, yes, Jötnar very safe. Thor and Loki make sure of that, while Heart lies forgotten here."

Odin had every intention of someday returning the Casket -

“No. Odin thought to maybe give Casket to Loki. Return both. Odin hope that shine of Heart blind Jötnar, make so think Loki hero, rightful King, hope-bearer… in case Laufey-blood not enough. But then Odin keep Loki, keep Casket. And now…no-one left to return Casket to. Possibility no longer matters.”

Gerda and her children - perhaps back in her hands, they could rebuild Utgard -

“A city isn’t just buildings, Odin,” mocked Huginn, perfectly imitating Odin’s voice from earlier that day. “Big city for just three little jötunns. Might be nice spot for executions, though. Asgard will search for Casket, and what will they find? The last of the jotunns, pretty as peas.”

“I know that,” Odin said irritably, shrugging his shoulders and sending Huginn into the air.

“Odin does not know what he does not know,” Huginn mocked, flying to perch atop the stuffed head of the Midgard Serpent, the highest point of this particular mound.

“I know you’re an irritant too eager to tell me what I already know, including what I know I don’t know,” Odin grumbled. “I had grander ideas for your purpose than that.”

Huginn huffed. “Purpose?” The raven scrutinized him. "Odin wishing that if he could only have one raven, that Muninn had been one to survive?”

“I wish I had both of you still,” Odin said. “I need both of you. Whether it was you or Muninn who…you are both necessary.”

“Always two ravens,” Huginn agreed. “But now there is only Huginn. But when Huginn try to be Huginn, Odin say ‘Be quiet, Huginn!’ Odin wants Huginn to be Muninn, want memories.”

“Huginn -“ Odin began

“Huginn hates it,” the raven spat. “Huginn is Huginn! Cannot be more! Too much purpose, too little bird!”

“You are more than just a bird. I saw to that,” Odin snapped. “And your purpose matches that gift. And right now, your purpose is to go to the place Heimdall described and procure the book. Deliver it to Loki in a way that will not invoke suspicion.”

Before the rook could respond, the Vault doors swung open with a cacophonous creak. Odin put the Casket down as if he were a child caught in the act of filching a pie from the kitchen. As the sound of marching drew nearer, Huginn took wing, soaring out through the doors with one last, disgruntled caw. In his place, a river of soldiers marched through, carrying trays loaded with silvery weapons.

“Father!” Thor cried out. He rushed forward carrying one of the largest of the things.

For a moment Odin saw double, both the new king and the young boy, eager to show his father his new toy sword and the wondrous things he could do with it. His knees even sent a warning sharp pain through him as the instinct to scoop up the phantom child struck him.

"Father, I wish you could have seen the field of battle today! Here, have a look at what they were trying to shoot us with -“ he pushed the silvery thing into Odin’s hands. Odin looked at it dazedly.

“Oh? It’s very…nice…”

“Nothing compared to a good Asgardian soldier’s might, but these are certainly more troublesome than they’d first appear.” Thor pulled another weapon from a stack in an Einherji’s hands. He aimed it at the back wall and pulled the trigger. A web of light erupted and sizzled through the air. It collided with the metal grate and hung there like an angry, electric cobweb.

Thor waited for the grating to slide open as the Destroyer responded to the threat. He fired again, and this time the cobweb wrapped itself around the metal man, pinning its arms to its sides with a clang and it began to pump paralyzing energy through it.

“It’s semi-organic. Probably a weaponized animal of some sort,” Thor squinted at the Destroyer, which was attempting to pull the net-like material off. It shocked the robot repeatedly, but the defender of the Vault had seen worse. It tore the creature off and held it up to its face, where it was quickly incinerated.

“Thank you, that will be all. Leave us to our business for today,” Thor dismissed it. He tossed the weapon back on the pile. “You’d think they were being merciful, choosing to use a net like this. But it incapacitates faster than a deadly blow and it allows for easy capture. And, if the net isn’t removed, it constricts until the prisoner is strangled!” Thor grinned with pure delight.

“Oh.” Odin blinked at his reflection in the shiny depths of the thing. “I…I see.”

“What were you doing down here anyway, Father?” Thor asked, suddenly aware of the oddness of Odin’s presence. “Were you looking for something?”

“Yes, yes I…I was...” Odin trailed off. His hands tightened on the silver gun. He glanced around the suddenly chaotic Vault, watching as soldiers and servants made room for the gun on a new plinth and opened a storage area below it to tip the rest of the spares into. “Does that…really belong in here? Things are more cluttered than they were in my day…”

“Ah, yes. We’ve just been so busy, we haven’t had time to organize! Perhaps after we take our newest realm we can find the time to alphabetize it again.” Thor plucked the weapon from Odin’s hands and tossed it to a soldier. “What do you think, ᛊ for silver? Or maybe ᛒ for ‘pew-pew!’”

The loss of his reflection sent Odin temporarily reeling. He tried to recall what he had just been thinking. It was important. He was meant to be doing something. Meant to be feeling something. But all he felt was the lightness of his shoulders...

Thor noticed the Casket sitting pretty atop the pile of unsorted spoils. “That’s not where that was,” he said, looking at Odin. “Is that what you were playing around with down here? You were talking about it this morning, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Odin automatically, though he was certain of no such thing. It wouldn’t do to ask, though. Best play along until he could pick up the threads again.

“You were going on about Jötunheim, too. And some sort of intuition you had about the place. Are you still looking into that? Is that why you’re wearing a hat and gloves?”

Odin stared at the Casket. Yes, yes…Jötunheim. Something about the Casket and Jötunheim. This morning. This morning he’d spoken with Thor.

Why couldn’t he remember? He’d just been thinking about it, he knew he’d been. Why was he here?

Thor narrowed his eyes. “Father,” he said slowly, “Are you truly certain you know why you’re here?”

“Don’t take that tone with me, boy,” Odin snapped. “I do nothing without reason.”

“Of course, Father, of course,” agreed Thor, nodding. “But perhaps it would be best if you finished up and allowed the Einherjar to finish their business -“

“Do you truly respect me so little that you think the business of soldiers is of higher priority than my own?” Wizened face crinkling in rage, masking the confusion best it could, Odin drew himself up. “Especially since it seems their ‘business’ is to make a mockery and mess of this Vault! What have you been up to, that you have so many gaudy trophies?”

Thor took an involuntary step back. “Nothing you wouldn’t be proud of, Father,” he insisted. “Nothing a king wouldn’t do to defend his home.”

“BUT YOU’RE NOT KING!” The words were like a gale force, knocking every other sound out of the air as the Einherjar fell still and stared.

Thor gaped, momentarily stunned.

“Not yet,” Odin said, suddenly quiet. Yet the words reverberated around the room.

While Thor remained shocked into silence, Odin furrowed his brow in concentration, frustration mounting. Jötunheim. The Casket. Something to do with both. Anger. Yes, anger. The need to put things right, to prevent catastrophe - these were feelings well known to him. If only he could remember the exact actions they were meant to inspire…

Thor swallowed and turned to nod at one of the tallest Einherjar. “Perhaps you are tired, Father. Captain Sigfried would be happy to escort you to your chambers -“

The Captain stepped forward, gesturing for the All-Father to follow him.

Odin refused to move an inch. “Is this truly what you have spent your time doing? Gathering trinkets and toys and leaving them strewn about as if it were your adolescent bedroom? What is the point of it? Vanity or some ill-expressed desire to strike fear into others? It is a poor warrior who must carry his sword unsheathed to be respected. What does that make you, with a thousand tangled blades on display?”

“Such sharp words, Father! How am I to defend myself with only a blunt hammer of a tongue to spar with?” Thor managed a forced chuckle. “Perhaps Loki would prove a better duellist.” He glared at a soldier near the door, who seemed to take the hint and quickly darted out of the room.

“Loki…” Odin growled, but broke off. There was something about Loki. Something important. He had to do something about Loki. He shook his head like a bull worried by flies. “You can’t rely on your brother’s silvertongue to fence off trouble this time, Thor. You will answer for your actions.”

A note of exasperation coloured Thor’s voice. “What actions, Father? What are you talking about? I’ve done nothing wrong!“

“You have!”

Thor forced a grin that didn’t meet his eyes, which were rolling in exasperation. “Pray don’t spare any detail, Father.”

“You have…you know what you’ve done!” snapped Odin. He turned to glare at the soldiers. “You are all dismissed. I would speak to my son in private.”

Sigfried and his men looked to Thor, who held out a hand to keep them in place. “Continue with your work,” he commanded.

The Einherjar turned their backs on Odin and began their tasks once more.

Odin stood by, deceptively still.

The temperature slowly began to drop in his immediate vicinity. The air in the room stirred at this sudden depression, causing a faint breeze that fluttered Odin’s beard.

He looked at the guards. “You would defy your king to serve his insolent whelp?” His voice was conversational, almost friendly - and yet bled with eerie promise of terrible retribution.

Thor was not the least bit intimidated. “No, Father. They do not defy their king. They obey him. You would know that if you were in your right mind.”

“My right mind? You dare - It appears I have made a grave error in my choice of future successor if he believes he can insult me without consequence.”

A loose piece of Thor’s hair was pulled from a braid, the breeze holding it up nearly horizontally. “No insult, Father. I merely state the truth. It would be best if you retired for the evening.” His hand moved to rest on the pommel of his hammer.

Odin’s fury increased tenfold at the sight. “My own son would take arms against me? How can you bear such dishonour?”

The wind flicked beads of sweat off the Einherjar's brows and rattled their helms and spears. Thor’s hair was coming looser and looser from his tied ponytail, yet he cocked his head as if all were still and calm. With some small relish, he regurgitated a line familiar to Odin - a saying he had spoken often to his children. “It is a poor and lazy farmer who blames the harvest for its disappointing yield.”

The anger was like a living fire in his veins. It burned through to his stomach, wiping his mind clean of everything that was not fury and frustration. “You mock my teachings? Perhaps you need a lesson that is more than words!”

A hurricane roared into being around Odin, knocking over the towers of trophies and sweeping the spoils of wars into a vortex, spinning around the Vault and colliding with men being dragged off their feet. There were shouts, sparks as metal struck metal and armour glanced off stone walls. Unperturbed in the storm's eye, Odin witnessed the calamity with satisfaction. It felt almost a relief to let his powers escape like this.

Thor remained rooted to the spot, stubbornly smiling. He pulled Mjolnir free and slammed it against the ground, sending a shockwave out against the gale. It dispersed, raining its contents into the waterways that outlined the room.

“You men can go,” he shouted to the Einherjar. “It seems my father needs the state of reality explained to him a little more forcefully.”

Already Odin was raising his hands, calling forth an ethereal fire into his palm. He lobbed it towards his son, who ducked to one side just fast enough to escape. Guards ran past, but Thor didn’t spare them a glance. “I always wanted to test my mettle against yours, Father. Let this be the moment I prove that I’ve surpassed you.”

“Contumelious cur!” Odin spat. "You will learn that it will take more than misplaced arrogance to surpass the War-King of Asgard!” Several more shots of ethereal fire peppered the walls as Thor leapt about the confined space. “I have earned that title on a thousand bloody battlefields against a thousand enemies who used to have that blood inside them!”

“The best place for an enemy’s blood is anywhere but in him, I quite agree!” Thor whooped, sending a bolt of lighting to catch a fire lob midair. It exploded in a burst of blinding light. “I have done much to achieve such beneficial separation, for the good of Asgard’s safety! Is that not proof enough that I am a worthy successor, Father?”

Odin was already breathing hard. How could so little have winded him? He fought against the unexpected weakness with a snarl. The next ball of fire he summoned he kept in his grasp. His tightened his grip about it, condensing the energy into a single point of light. What objects remained in the vault suddenly pulled towards the pinprick as gravity shifted. The would-be-king’s eyes widened.

“Father, is that…Father, are you making a STAR underneath the palace?” Thor gaped. “That’s…that’s not a good place for a star!”

Odin held up the pinprick, arm unwavering. “I am God of Skies! I am Odin, Maker of Worlds and Destroyer of Suns. I am the All-Father, and if I want a star somewhere, that star is damn well going to be there, and it will be a very fine one!”

The relics suddenly rocked backwards, released from the gravitational pull. Odin frowned, looking up. His star was encased in a glowing green orb. It tugged backwards, snapping the All-Father’s connection to fly to Thor’s side.

“Brother, I can’t hold this for very long,” someone said from atop the stairs. “Use Mjölnir to absorb it.”

Thor didn’t hesitate. With a mighty swing, he connected with the bauble and the light within. The hammer glowed, crackled, and the air warmed alarmingly in an instant. The star vanished with a flash and the stench of ozone.

“Now…what in Yggdrasil is going on?”

Odin whirled around to face the impertinent interruptor. He swayed, uncertain again for a brief instant. He looked at the figure. Then he glanced at his surroundings, at the chaos and destruction. At the Casket, tipped on its side, lying between them.

“You,” he growled. “How could you do this, Loki?”

Loki froze. “Beg pardon?”

“Do you think being God of Wisdom is a moniker I bought at some Tsarkardian Galactic Bazaar? Only a few know the branches of Yggdrasil and how to open the way to them, Loki. And only one would stand to benefit from one such opening appearing in the Vault the day before his brother’s coronation.”

Thor looked from Odin to Loki. “Father, why -“

Odin snapped his attention back to Thor. “HRRRGH!” he snarled, silencing him. He returned his gaze to his second son. “You risked the safety of your people, the safety of your world, the safety of the Nine Realms you are sworn to protect - all to disrupt your brother’s achievement? Out of petty jealousy and spite?”

Loki's eyes darted from his father to Thor and back again. Considering. Calculating. Maybe, slightly - panicking. His features moved from blank to composed. Preparing for the performance.

“Yes, that’s right. The Coronation is today. And we are very late for it. We should be getting dressed at this very moment.”

“What are you talking about -“ Thor hissed.

Loki shot a glare at him and spoke with gritted teeth. “And you are the latest of all of us, Brother. You should be with Mother in the Coronation Hall, greeting the guests and Lords on this most auspicious of days.”

Thor’s brow furrowed in distaste. “If you think I’m going to play along with this lie -“

Loki interrupted, speaking like some flustered organizer at a party directing guests.“There isn’t time for this - we must be going to the Coronation. Everything’s fine, no one is hurt, no harm is done. Or not yet, anyway - if we start the ceremony late the feast may go cold, and who knows what Volstagg will do in retaliation - “

Thor narrowed his eyes. “There was a disturbance on my Coronation Day, wasn’t there? Father said he took care of it, told me not to worry…were you behind that, Loki?”

“That’s irrelevant,” The younger brother snapped. “Father needs our help - ”

Odin cut through Loki’s unending guff. “Don’t try to excuse this as mere mischief, Loki. This goes far beyond that. Allowing Frost Giants into the heart of Asgard - men could have been killed. Weapons could have been taken, peace could have been threatened - “ he advanced on his younger son, eye burning in condemnation.

Thor rounded on his brother. “Explain what he’s talking about, Loki. What did you do?”

“It was just a bit of fun,” Loki said dismissively. “It doesn’t matter anymore, it was millennia ago.”

“I think it matters,” rumbled Thor. “I think it matters a great deal if my own brother tried to keep me from being king.”

“Delay. I meant to delay your becoming king. You were clearly unfit at the time. I meant to spare you the burden of rule for a few short years, long enough for you to temper yourself -“

The thunder god interrupted with a raised voice that earned the appellative. “And now? Do you think me fit now, snake?”

Loki’s face twisted in irritation. “You are King. It hardly matters what a soon-to-be-demoted Third Prince thinks, does it?”

“It does if I turn my back to him and expect it to remain knife-free.” Thor took a step towards his sylphish sibling.

Loki raised his hands, half-calming, half in preparation for a blow. “Rest assured, Brother, I have had thousands of opportunities to stymie you, and yet all I have done is help you achieve your objectives. No matter how asinine and ill-advised they may be.”

“Oh, and what about when you deliberately overextended our supply chain during the Lim-quay Nebula Campaign so that we’d be forced to retreat to the waystation and attack from behind, which was what you wanted all along, even though I expressly forbid such dishonourable behaviour? Or when you convinced the Queen of Stent that you were the true power behind the throne and signed all those treaties and trade deals, all without consulting me or the Council -“

What are they talking about? Odin fumed. It’s like they’ve forgotten I am here!

Loki shrugged dismissively. “You said you were uninterested, I merely took over the frivolous details -“

“You wish to see me a figurehead while you run things in the fine print behind the fancy chair, do you not?” Thor accused. “You were doing exactly that on Queeg in the negotiations. Undermining me, speaking for all of Asgard…”

“You told me to know my place, Brother. And I do,” Loki sneered. "I’ve always done the things you find unpalatable or uninteresting, and yes, there is power in those places, because they are the duties of the King! If you were interested in all aspects of the role, they would be your powers, but the one bit of wisdom you seem capable of is knowing that you are ill-suited to most of the political and administrative responsibilities of your role. Now, excuse me while I do yet another task you’d rather not.“ Loki turned fully towards Odin and finished his short journey to his side. “Come along, Father. We need to prepare for the evening.” He reached out to take the All-Father’s shoulder, meaning to pull him towards the stairs -

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” shouted Odin. With a jolt, he knocked Loki’s hand aside and scrabbled backwards, splashing into the water at the edge of the room.

The brothers stared, shocked.

“You mustn’t…mustn’t touch me,” Odin hissed, holding his shoulder as if it had been burned.

“Why not?” Thor asked.

“I…because…because he simply must not,” Odin commanded.

“That’s not a real reason,” Thor said bullishly.

“Brother, please,” Loki groaned. But there was an edge under the exasperation. A faint note of hurt. He shook his head and doubled-down on his critique of his brother. “You’ve got to stop questioning these things and just go along with them until he forgets and it’s over with.”

“I will not encourage Father’s delusions!” Thor retaliated. “You’re going to make them worse -“

“That is not what I am -“

“Your Maj-majesties,” interrupted an unexpected voice.

The feuding twosome glanced towards the sound. Collapsed between the wall and a large, stone plinth was Sigfried, Captain of the Einherjar. He had been unnoticeable until they stood at this angle. He shakily raised a hand and waved a little. “Hello,” he gasped.

Both brothers looked down. Sigfried was lying in the water feature that made up the perimeter of the room. Well, it had been the water feature - he was dyeing it a dark red, meaning everything downstream of him was a blood feature.

“Oh,” Thor said.

“Dear,” Loki agreed.

“Ow,” Sigfried concurred.

“Who are you? What are you all doing in my Vault?” Odin growled.

The three men had barely a chance to respond before a ring of fire exploded out from Odin.

“Trespassers! Thieves!” he labelled them with a roar, summoning more starfire to his hands.

The blonde man rallied quickly, returning Odin’s roar with his own. Meanwhile, the smaller, dark intruder attempted various spells of imprisonment and capture, but Odin was not so easy to out-magic. He crushed each in turn and delighted to see the look of vexation on the sorcerer’s face turn to dawning fear. The delight of upstaging him nearly distracted Odin from the other man raising his hammer aloft. The lightning moved fast, but Odin’s fire was little slower.

Fire and thunder clashed in booming splendour. The blast ricocheted into the ceiling, sending blocks of stone hailing down. There was a yelp and a brief flash of green light - the mage was gone, buried in the rubble. The two were clearly more a liability to each other than an asset.

Odin felt slightly feverish with battle-hunger. How fortunate that he should happen to be in the Vault just as these tragic fools thought to relieve Asgard of her war-prizes. It had been too long since he’d last…last fought…when had he fought like this last…?

Nevermind. The beefy bruiser was putting up a wonderful show - he enjoyed this in the way Odin himself did. It would almost be a shame to kill him. The reverberating gong of his somewhat impressive hammer as they wove a duet of blows against each other - it was music that he could dance to.

The brute was laughing now, spinning his hammer in a whirl to deflect Odin’s gout of flame.

Perhaps he didn’t need to hold back so much…who really needed a vault anyway, why not just really let loose, give it all he had. He’d been stewing for far too long, all this power and never the chance to let loose. Well, now he was free, free to do as he please and what he pleased was to -

“ODIN BORSON. Just what do you think you’re doing to our son?!”

Odin stumbled, fire instantly steaming away in his hands. His opponent, too, seemed struck by the image of the person clambering out of the debris. Her hair was a mess, her face caked in dust and twisted in disapproval - but she was still as beautiful and angry as the day he met her.

“Frigga…” breathed Odin. His heart soared, some dark fog he’d been unaware of seeming to lift from it.

Frigga dusted off her dress with a scowl. “I don’t want to hear it, Odin! You brought down a ceiling on me!”

Odin looked around at the destruction, blinking. Had he done this? “I…I did not know you were here, dear,” he nearly stammered.

She arched a brow. “That does not seem to be the case now.”

“I suppose not,” Odin agreed.

Thor was snapping his head back and forth between them as if watching a sports match. “What is this trickery-“

Frigga held up a hand. A deep impulse to obey seized Thor, clamming him up.

She smiled. “Now that everyone has gotten the violence out of their system, I think we all should retire for the evening. Come along, Husband.” She glided over to the stairs purposefully, turning at their base. A twinkle glimmered teasingly in her eyes. "Or I’ll use my witch’s eye on the lot of you.”

Odin grinned ruefully, clasping his hands behind his back and wandering over to stand next to her. She slipped her arm through his and they made their way up the stairs together, and if he leaned on her a little heavily she was careful not to let it show in their gait. She was as poised and in control as always.

He wanted to tell her that he’d missed her. That was silly, of course; it wasn’t like she’d been gone. When they got to the top of the stairs he hugged her close, a brief, extemporaneous need seizing him. For a moment, she seemed to resist, and Odin feared she hadn’t forgiven him for the ceiling-coming-down-on-her thing. Then she softened and gently wrapped her arms around him, returning it.

“Just warn me the next time you want to redecorate the Vault and I won’t stand in the middle of it next time,” she murmured. “It was a bit dour, I suppose. A skylight may be just what it needs.”

“Indeed,” chortled Odin.

Thor started up the stairs, expression accusing. “How could you, Loki. Using the image of our mother for such a -“

Frigga flicked her hand at Thor. He gasped silently, clawed at his throat, then gagged. He tested his jaw. Flicked his tongue. Attempted to shout and only turned a very quiet shade of mauve from the effort. Finally, he glared at Frigga with naked aggravation. Odin frowned at him. That was no way to treat his mother.

“A temporary spell to get you to listen,” Frigga said tightly. "Loki is otherwise occupied with tasks that you should have been doing already. Do you think that your father really couldn’t tell the two of us apart? The Witch-King would see through any such thing. And don’t you have some cleaning up -“ she nodded towards a plinth behind him meaningfully. “-to do?”

Thor glanced at the plinth, expression shifting. He disappeared behind it for a moment, emerging the next with a bloody soldier in his arms. The boy lost no time on his father now; he moved quickly up the stairs and hurried off in the direction of the infirmary.

“That looked quite nasty,” Odin remarked. “What happened?”

“Nothing to worry about. It’s over now,” Frigga soothed, leading him down the opposite hallway.

And yet Odin could not help but look behind them. He saw the spatters of blood and listened to the pounding footfalls of his son running with concern only for speed and not decorum. He wondered if this odd sense of guilt that had returned to its familiar place in his chest had anything to do with any of it.

“Forget about it, Dear,” urged Frigga, pulling him around the corner.

Once he could no longer see any of it, it was only a few steps more until he had.

Chapter Text

The RAVEN

“Do this, do that…never any rest for wicked birds…” Huginn muttered to himself as he ascended through the palace, dodging through corridors and up stairwells, leaving Odin and the Vault far below.

He never liked descending into the Vault; the weight of Asgard above seemed to crush down on him. When at last he spotted the sun shining through an open archway, he plunged through it eagerly, wings tight to his sides to increase his speed before opening wide to catch the thermals off the warm palace. Up, up, up he went, Asgard becoming small and insignificant beneath him.

And yet he still felt heavy, every wingbeat an effort.

…place a burden upon your wings, that I may journey lighter…

He choked, spitting up something gold. Before it escaped his beak, he swallowed, trying to force it back down. It resisted, lodging in his throat.

Huginn choked.

Asgard was so far away, but getting closer, faster and faster…

Huginn did not see it. Gold spread through his vision, pulling him away from thoughts of falling. It was warm, and safe, like sidling up to his brother and letting their downy black feathers touch…

ᚼ

"Over, under, over, over, under - over? Does that look right? Odin, stop tapping on that chair and look at this -“

Od beat out another few notes to finish the tune before sauntering over to see his mother’s handiwork. Cul turned his head as much as he was able to and shot his brother a look of pleading desperation.

Od couldn’t help it; he laughed.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” Cul and Bestla said in unison.

As was his compunction, he answered the question with another question. “How long has it been since you braided someone’s hair, Mother?”

Bestla sighed and undid her work on Cul’s braids. “At least there’s still a few days before the ceremony to get it right. You don’t mind me practising a little more, do you, Dear?”

“No, Mother,” Cul assured her, though he had to suppress a grunt of pain as she pulled at his hair. “It’s…all for me, after all. It’ll help me think of you when I’m out there.”

Od’s smile flickered briefly. Neither noticed. He cleared his throat. “What, you won’t be thinking of me, dear Brother?”

Cul groaned. “No doubt you’ll haunt me like an earworm, Little Brother.”

Od clutched his chest in mock shock. “Earworm? How dare you. My musical talents won’t be so unjustly discounted! I shall compose you a farewell song that will bring you strength when you are weak and courage when you are afraid!”

“As long as it’s a bit annoying and goes round and round in my head begging for attention, it will surely remind me of you, Od,” Cul smiled.

“Better than being forgettable,” Od said with a shrug.

Before they could continue, the door opened and Bor walked in. “Still practising the Åldrasbraid, Bestla?”

“You’d think with all my experience with weaving, I’d get it right,” she frowned, picking up Cul’s dark locks again. “But I suppose I’ve grown too lazy, relying on maids.”

“At least Cul’s hair is straight and clean,” Od remarked blithely, mind already half-returned to composing the song he’d been working on that day. “Imagine if you had to braid Gefjun’s hair. It had a mind of its own, all those curls…”

The tapping of his hands echoed into sudden silence. He looked up.

Bor’s eyes were blazing, somehow redder than his beard. Cul and Bestla stared at Od in mute horror.

Od just waited.

“How…how dare you…” Bor seethed. “You know better than to talk about…you cast a shadow into this happy moment…Can’t you let her rest in peace?”

The ground rumbled ominously. Od reached out for a wall to steady himself.

Bor took a breath, only wheezing a little. The shuddering stopped. “You are a public figure, boy. That means you have to be trusted to know what not to say and when not to say it. If you can’t do that even within your own family, then you certainly can’t be trusted in front of all of Asgard.” Bor clanged Gungnir against the stone floor. “You are hereby banned from attending Cul’s Coming-of-Age ceremony. In fact, you are hereby banned from seeing him at all, until you do a little growing up of your own.”

“Bor!” protested Bestla, starting to get up. “It will be years until Cul returns to us -“

“Norns willing, it will be long enough for his brother to have learned a little respect for his family’s pain and loss,” growled Bor. “Borson!” he snapped at Cul. "You have other preparations to attend to. Your mother can practice her braiding on her other son. If he can even manage the task of staying still.”

The king left, each of his footfalls like a rock falling down a mountain. Cul stood, hurriedly shaking out his hair. “I’ll speak with him,” he promised as he ran out after their father.

Od watched them go with half-lowered lids. When their footsteps faded, he shrugged and went back to tapping out a beat on his leg again.

“Oh, Od,” Bestla sighed. “Why must you antagonize your father so? You know he is still grieving.”

Yes, why must you keep rubbing salt in the wound? Od thought to himself. Is it because you don’t want it to close? To keep your Father bleeding?

But outside, he only smiled. “Oh, Mother, you know he shouldn’t take me so serious-“

ᚼ

The memory abruptly ended. Huginn stared emptily ahead, not yet remembering he was a raven. Nearly too late, he became aware of the roar of the wind and the quickly-growing expanse of golden roof hurtling towards him.

With a surprised caw, he opened his wings, muscles straining. He levelled off nearly a second too late, his pinions skimming the hot tiles. A mere inch away was his reflection in the gold - and the painful fate of becoming one with it, if he hadn’t woken in time.

But for a moment, even as he still fought for control of the air, it was as if there were two ravens again.

Then the roof ran out.

Replaced with a tree.

There wasn’t enough space to avoid it. He hit the trunk with a crunch, which he hoped was mostly smaller branches and not his own fragile bones. He crumpled and fell with a squawk into the garden below, breaking his fall on a bunch of Pheasant’s-Eye flowers.

He lay there, watching the sky spin above him.

Eventually, the capacity for thought returned to him.

Stupid. Very stupid.

It wasn’t a very useful thought.

He tried to search his mind for the other half of the memory that had so rudely interrupted his flight. But he couldn’t find it. It just…ended. And the memories that should have been connected to it, like strings in a spider’s web, had also vanished.

First stupid, then losing my mind. Not even Huginn’s mind to begin with. But losing it all the same.

Huginn began to try and stand again, though he yearned to rest in the grass a little longer. Unfortunately, his disorientation caused him to flop and fall over twice more, leaving him panting only inches from where he’d fallen.

Stupid weakness. Important things to do. If only little pain stop me now, greater pain in future.

He raised his head far enough off the ground to seize at his third primary feather, left-wing. His eyes narrowed. He pulled.

The feather came loose, followed by a bolt of pain.

He staggered to his feet again, triumphantly, and before he could fall seized and plucked the matching feather on his right side, to ensure he could still fly in balance.

Muninn gone, he reminded himself as he spat the feathers out. Can’t be just weak little Huginn anymore.

He began to flap, and soon the pain in his wings faded.

If memories lost, then I will find again. Make whole.

Cannot be stupid raven anymore. Must be more. More than Huginn. More than Muninn. More than both together. Must be myself.

The rook took flight again, a little wobblier than before, but once he was in the air he was soon a distant ᛊ, banking back towards the palace.

Beneath the tree, the abandoned feathers quivered in the breeze. One tumbled deeper into the undergrowth. With a faint hiss, it dissolved into smoke and light.

The other feather, left behind, lingered only a little longer.

LOKI

He hated doing this. It was so easy now - which only made it worse.

Odin’s furry glove in his hand felt strangely childish. It was entirely trusting, allowing Loki - Frigga - to lead him forward without question. It was hard to believe that only moments before his gormless face had worn a grimace, illuminated by a handful of fire.

Without thinking about it, his grip hardened. As if he could keep Odin sane if he merely held on to him tight enough.

“You’re hurting me,” Odin said, his voice noticeably higher and childlike.

Loki forced himself to relax. “I’m sorry, Dearheart,” he said, his mother’s name for Odin dripping easily from his mouth.

“Where are we going?” Odin asked.

Loki’s hand was itching again; probably irritated by the fur of the gloves. I think the better question is where have you been, Father, that you needed a warm hat and gloves? “Back to our room, Dearheart,” he said instead.

Odin puckered in a near-parody of a pout. “But I can’t. I’ve got to go out.”

These expressions just looked wrong on him. As if his father were a borrowed suit being worn by a child.

I say that even as I wear my mother. I am a child in a suit; or in this case, a dress.

Loki steeled himself against the thoughts as soon as they occurred to him; he was doing what he had to do. Not every problem had an elegant solution; and all in all, wasn’t this less cruel? Thor would have come to blows with Odin, but this way no-one had to be hurt.

Captain Sigfried…what to do about that?

He would take steps. Speak with the Einherjar, make sure it was clear that their captain had been injured in an accident. Tell them to be more careful around Odin.

Everything was going to be fine. And if it wasn’t, he’d make it so.

They’d arrived at the royal apartments, where a goblet of mead had been left on a table outside. Sven deserved a raise.

“Let’s go in, shall we?” he said sweetly as he bent down to pick it up.

“Mmmmm…no.” Odin shook his head. “I have to do something else.”

“No,” Loki-Frigga sighed. “You don’t. You did everything you needed to do today. And more than that besides. Come, we need to get ready for bed.”

“Don’t want to!” Odin disagreed. “You’re not my mother! You can’t make me!”

Loki raised Frigga’s hand to her face and rubbed it in a long-suffering way. “Is that all?” she asked. When she pulled her hand away again, the face behind it had shifted.

The incredibly ancient portraits of Bestla that hung around Asgard were hardly the best material to draw from when it came to this kind of illusion. Still, they had at least contained a few different angles, and Loki was a talented enough artist to approximate the rest.

Bestla smiled a perfectly recreated smile. “Now, do as I say and get inside.”

Odin stared at her, perplexed - then something clicked into place. His posture shifted into a slouch. He rolled his eye. “Alright, fine. I suppose there is a risk that Father will see me out here and think of something else to ban me from.”

And with that strange pronouncement, Odin threw open the doors and strode inside.

Loki-as-Bestla followed, making sure to lock the doors with an additional spell. In the main receiving room, Odin was already lounging on the settee, legs up on the table in front of it. When he caught sight of Bestla, he quickly removed them, feigning an innocent expression. Loki resisted the urge to sigh.

So that’s where Thor gets that from, he thought as he put down the goblet of drugged mead where the boots had been.

“Are you thirsty?” he asked brightly.

Odin twisted a finger through his hair and shrugged, the picture of pre-pubescent disaffectedness. “Not really.” He pulled the hair through his hand and presented it to Bestla. “Do you still want to practice braiding hair? That’s something I can still do for Cul’s Coming-of-Age.”

Cul…? Loki’s curiosity piqued. The only time he could even remember Odin mentioning Cul before was when, as a child, Loki had once asked who else in their family had had black hair.

“My brother did. Wore it very long, too - it was longer than I was tall, back then…”

When Loki had eagerly pressed his father as to what had happened to this new-found uncle, Odin refused to say more. The only evidence Loki had ever found of Cul Borson’s existence was a faded scorch mark on the painting of their family tree. He’d been clever enough to guess what that meant and asked no more questions.

But now…well, if Loki just happened to hear…curiosity had always been one of his greatest sins.

“How are you feeling about Cul?” he asked innocently.

Odin shrugged. One of his hands started tapping out a beat on the back of the settee. “I’m not worried. Cul’s always taken care of himself; I’m sure he’ll kill a few dozen monsters on Alfheim, become so beloved by every citizen there that several dozen children are named after him, and return a hero to raucous applause and Father’s praise. Hel, Cul’s so charming the monsters will likely name their children after him.”

While Odin was speaking, Loki subtly began preparations to put Odin to bed. With a gesture, he activated the spell to lower the lights in the room and curb the fire. Unfortunately, Huginn was still gone and couldn’t be settled, but there was little he could do about that.

At least he could take off the ridiculously inappropriate hat and gloves.

Odin continued as Loki reached out to pluck the furry monstrosity from his head.

“I mean, the whole thing is really a formality; Cul has always been mature, he doesn’t need to go anywhere to prove he’s ‘of age’…whatever that even means. I don’t see why he has to do it, especially with a war on and everything…”

Quick as a flash, Loki withdrew, taking the hat with him. His hand only lightly brushed Odin’s ear as he did. So triumphant was he of the successful de-hatting that he barely registered the faint tingle that had resulted from the contact.

Perhaps tonight I can get him changed without him noticing or protesting, and I can go to bed before sunrise myself.

“War is a constant; boys become men only once,” Bestla remarked as she pocketed the hat with a flash of magic. Now for the gloves. She held out a hand, indicating Odin should give her his.

“What is taking so long, anyway? They’re just little Dark Elves,” Odin muttered as he ignored Loki, preferring to still tap away on the settee. “Any one of our warriors is worth ten of theirs, and yet centuries later the war drags on and on.”

Dark Elves? The only Dark Elves Loki could think of came not from history books, but from fairytales. From what he could recall, the Dark Elves were masked creatures who preferred guerrilla tactics to full-out war. When Bor had defeated them, they’d run their ships into their own planet, devastating it and all their race in one last attempt to scar Asgard. If it weren’t for the living Light Elves of Alfheim still holding vigils for their lost brothers every ten centuries or so, Loki would have thought them only bedtime beasties.

“The war will be won,” Loki said with certainty. “Have faith in the strength of Asgard.”

“Asgard’s strength...but not Bor’s strength…” muttered Odin.

“What was that?” Loki said in a neutral tone. He watched his father carefully, looking for hints of how Bestla was expected to act. He knew Frigga wouldn’t have liked such disrespectful talk.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Odin shrugged and returned to his tapping.

“Hmm.” Loki snagged one of Odin’s hands and tugged the glove off before he could protest.

Odin jumped at the contact, trying to snatch his hand back. “Mum, I can take off my own gloves,” he protested.

“But you haven’t yet,” tutted Bestla, grasping his wrist tight as she reached for his other hand.

Loki’s skin began to tingle, as if he were holding a hive of fire ants instead of father’s wrist.

Panic in his eyes, Odin tugged free.

Loki stared at his hand. His hand. Not Bestla’s. His glamour had been torn right off him……his other hand was still disguised, and his clothing remained the fine dress he had seen in grandmother’s painting. He quickly withdrew the revealed hand into her sleeve.

Odin appeared not to have noticed. He was playing with his one remaining glove and refusing to make eye contact with his mother.

“Odin,” Bestla said reproachfully. “What did you do?”

Odin squirmed, looking left and right before eventually settling with a sigh. “I should have known you would notice, Mother.”

Golden light washed over Odin. A glamour being removed. If Odin had looked tired before, now he looked worn to the nub. But that was not all.

Loki gaped. “Blood?” he said faintly, his concern and Bestla’s melting into one. “What on Midgard…when did this happen? Is it when you ran off? Where did you go - who did this to you -“

Instinctively he reached out towards Odin, meaning to turn his head and examine the wound.

Odin, nimbler, leaned away, covering it with one wrinkled palm and shaking his head. “It’s nothing, Mother, nothing…can’t even remember how I got it.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Bestla and Loki said reprovingly.

“I’ll see Healer Unna later,” Odin promised.

Bestla made a most unladylike-like snort. Healer Unna is a pile of dust in a crypt somewhere, but even if she were here and hale and hearty I still don’t believe you’d keep that promise. The guilty look on Odin’s face was confirmation.

How strange, to glimpse his father’s past in such a way. It was something like a badly put-together stage show, his elderly father hilariously miscast in the role of his child self. Yet the open earnestness of his father’s face was oddly refreshing to the inscrutable, untouchable figure Loki knew.

Bestla arched an eyebrow. “I didn't raise a liar, did I?” she said, but the words were Frigga’s.

Still borrowing your mother to manipulate your father? hissed a thought.

It’s for his own good, Loki shot back at it. Look at what he’s done to himself.

“Magic's not a lie,” Odin mumbled. “I really do feel fine. Besides, I…think I did a pretty good job. Only you noticed. I know magic isn’t proper for a boy or a king’s son…but I can’t do the things you and Father and Cul can do.”

Deep in Bestla’s warm brown eyes, Loki’s own blue flashed. Taking another note from his mother, he folded his hands in his lap and waited expectantly. Sure enough, Odin was compelled to continue, as Loki had always felt when taking his troubles to Frigga.

“Does the water speak to you, Mother? The same way that earth speaks to Father and the animals speak to Cul?”

So Odin was a later bloomer, Loki thought. I wonder when he discovered his command over the wind and sky. That moment had never come for Loki at all. If Frigga hadn’t shared her gifts with him…well, even with that, it had been hard to compete with the lightshow that was Thor whenever he so much as wore woolen socks on carpet. How curious to imagine that Odin himself might have once felt similarly, however impermanently.

He tried to remember if Thor had ever spoken about how he communed with the storm, and imagined how that might have been felt by Bestla and her apparent connection to water itself. “It is…always there. I feel the…ebb and flow in my veins, a part of my being. It is me, and I am the water.”

Put more elegantly than Thor ever did, but I believe that was the gist of it, Loki recalled.

Eventually he’d realized he was built for…more indoor sorts of elements. When it came to something flashier, well, at least magic’s reputation had improved enough since Odin’s time that he didn’t have to hide his mastery of it, even if it still lacked the respect a bloody bolt of lightning commanded for some reason.

Loki tried to smile reassuringly. “Your day will come. In time. And when it does, all of Asgard will tremble at your might. They will know you are your father’s son - and mine.”

Odin nodded, and it was easy to picture him as a child, still long from coming of age. But no child was innocent, and there was something still lingering in his eye...

“Are you envious of your brother?” Loki asked before he could stop himself.

“What sort of small and pathetic creature would envy a brother who has only sought to protect him?” Odin shrugged. “Honestly, I’m grateful - no one expects much of me. I’m free. But Cul…he doesn’t belong to himself. Or even to his family…” Odin trailed off, a look of confusion fighting with one of guilt on his face. As if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d allowed himself to say.

Why are you letting a disease lay bare your father’s secrets? hissed Loki’s thoughts. Is it because it makes you think that perhaps you aren’t so different after all? That at least if you are not alike in strengths of character, you might at least share some flaws? Do you think that somehow makes you closer?

Odin cleared his throat. “…I…I’ve been working on a song. For Gef. At least that’s something I can do…for her.”

Gef? Short for Gefjun, probably. Loki tried to remember the tapestry of the family tree again. My aunt? he hazarded. Although Odin mentioned having a sister even less than he did of his brother. Her name is unblighted, at least. Though the branch certainly bore as little fruit.

“Father just wants to forget she ever existed. But I won’t.” Odin tapped louder, finding his beat. “I’m going to make sure her name is known throughout the Realms and beyond. In a song, she can live forever. It will be the best song I ever make, and that will be saying something, for I intend to write as many as there are stars in Yggdrasil.”

Loki wondered again at the bizarreness of it. It was rare to hear his father sing at all - in fact, he could not recall an instance in the last ten centuries. To think that in his youth he was an aspiring skald. It seemed too… gaudy a childhood dream for such a reserved man, one who carefully weighed every word he spoke.

Odin tilted his head back and closed his eyes. His beard opened, and a most strange sound began to escape him. It seemed an attempt at song, but mangled in some way - perhaps because an old man’s deep and cracked voice was trying in earnest to hit the high notes of a boy.

“Red hair, like bloody sunrise

Blue eyes, like stormy sea-skies

Green thumb, raise green plants high

Loud voice, calling in the dark

Silenced, though still I hark -

Where did you go, Sister Mine?

How I miss your heart’s shine...“

It was undeniably amateurish. Loki couldn’t help but feel a pang of second-hand embarrassment for his father.

Must his humiliation be utterly complete to satisfy you? chided his thoughts.

He turned away as Odin continued to sing in sad, broken falsetto. Such long-passed grief is no business of yours But not all his secrets are so…

The garden. The trees. The hidden thing beneath them all.

The way you've itched and writhed since this morning.

He clenched the hidden hand in his sleeve, remembering the sensation when he’d come into contact with the glamour proved that he was reacting to Odin’s magic in an unnatural way.

There are things you have a right to know about. Ask those things.

Loki swallowed. Such questions wouldn’t come from Bestla.

His hands shook slightly as he raised them in front of Bestla’s face, hiding the brief flicker of green light. He emerged from them again as Frigga.

“ - Red hair, like bloody sunrise

Blue eyes, like stormy sea-skies -“

Frigga cleared her throat loudly. “I went to the garden today, Husband,” she began.

Odin trailed off, looking at her in confusion.

“I went to the grove. To visit the…place. By the trees. They aren’t looking very well.” She watched for Odin’s reaction. “You haven’t been there in some time. Have you forgotten what we left there?”

Odin stilled. He opened his mouth, seeming to struggle to speak. Then, like a puppet with its strings cut, his face suddenly went slack. He collapsed into the settee and didn’t move.

“Husband?” Frigga said, a note of alarm in her voice.

No response.

Loki hurriedly leaned forward, reaching out across the space between them, worry beginning to dawn in his eyes. “Fath-“ he began.

He’d barely brushed his shoulder when Odin suddenly reared back with a gasp, his one eye wide and staring. “DON’T HURT MEEE!” he screeched, suddenly cowering. “I didn’t know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, I didn’t - please, not the box, it’s so dark - please!”

Loki flinched in shock, Frigga’s mouth hanging open. Slowly, he realized Odin wasn’t even looking at him - he was staring at some fixed point in the air, several feet above any Asgardian’s eyeline.

Odin had splayed his limbs wide, covering the entire piece of furniture. “I won’t fit like this,” he cackled, deranged-sounding. “Whatcha going to do now, eh?”

He held his maniacal grin for a full five seconds. Then it slid off his face and the fear paled him once more and he withdrew his arms and legs into himself.

“No…don’t cut them off…I’ll fit, I’ll fit in the box, all of me can, I promise, I’ll be good, please -“

Before Loki could even think of approaching him again, Odin suddenly sprang from the couch and ran deeper into the apartments, knocking things over as he went. Still in Frigga’s guise, Loki rose to follow, pausing to swoop up the drugged goblet from the table.

Odin had disappeared down the long, shadowy hallway that was the main trunk of the apartment. Loki’s eyes didn’t have time to adjust to the gloom before a door slammed and he was left having to guess which of the many rooms Odin had hidden within.

Loki couldn’t suppress a small sigh. Not again.

The bedroom at the end seemed the obvious one. He hurried to it and reached to pull it open.

As he did so, a memory came back to him. One of his very first, and yet somehow it struck him now with more vibrance and detail than he could have summoned to describe his breakfast of yesterday.

It began much like the last childhood memory he recalled - running out of the nursery in the middle of the night, panicked and desperately needing to not be alone. He’d rushed down this very hallway, right to the bedroom at the very end and slipped in the door, expecting Mother and Father’s reassuring lumps to be there on the bed.

But just the same as now, the bed was empty - the room hollow.

In eerie tandem, he followed in the footsteps of the memory to the bathing room, though with much less haste.

The room was dark and quiet but for a leaking tap. Loki lingered a moment anyway, staring into the shadows. In the memory, there had been someone - Frigga, quietly preparing for the day ahead, though it was the middle of the night.

A wave of relief went through the child; he rushed to her and lunged into her lap. She allowed him to wrap himself around her waist and cry into her fresh gown.

The strangeness of the situation eventually penetrated his reassurance. When his throat had loosened enough to allow for speech, he asked “Why are you all dressed up, Mama?”

“It was cold in bed,” she said simply. “And I thought…I might go for a walk as well…”

“Will you take me with you, Mamma?”

“No…no, you cannot go where I am going.”

He tightened his grip around her, heart starting to pound again. “No. No, you can’t go, you can’t leave me -“

Something else occurred to him. He looked around wildly.

“Where's Pabbi?” he demanded.

Frigga didn't say anything. Tentatively, she reached out and touched his hair. “He…he’ll be back soon, Loki.”

“Back?” His little meaty hands loosened their grip on Frigga. “Pabbi can’t come back unless Pabbi is gone.”

“He always comes back. It will be like he never left,” Frigga said tiredly, and here Loki of the present wondered if she’d been speaking more to herself than her son.

“He can’t be gone. Why - why would he go?” Loki panicked. Then it came to him - this was just like that game they’d played. Odin was only hiding. If he could find him, he’d gasp and shout and Thor would tackle him to the ground and hit him with a wooden mallet, and Odin would laugh and the terrible fear in Loki’s heart would be banished, as it always was when that happened.

He slid down from Frigga’s lap and ran to the tub to peer inside. Empty. “Help me look,” he begged. “Help find Pabbi!”

But Frigga shook her head. “No, Loki,” she said, voice leaden. “He’s not here.”

“Stop trying to trick me! It’s not funny!” Loki cried, pulling at her skirt. “Come with me, Mamma!”

But Frigga only stared ahead at her own reflection in the mirror.

“Stay here?” Loki told her, torn. “I’ll go look and bring him back. Don’t move!”

He withdrew slowly, still holding her dress. Still hoping against hope he could pull her out of her chair and keep her with him.

But the fabric ran out and fell from his fingers.

Loki blinked. His arm, ironically the one still clad in Frigga’s guise, was outstretched into the dark room. He withdrew it, blinking fiercely. Never before had he experienced so vivid a recollection - there were details he’d never...he hadn’t recalled Frigga behaving like that at all. Not that this was a memory he usually...

He hurried out of the bedroom, locking the door to ensure Odin couldn’t slip back in while Loki checked the other rooms.

The old nursery had long since been converted into a storage room of sorts, though what it housed was valuable treasures and gifts from foreign dignitaries. It was so full that Loki was sure no old man could have possibly run through here. Too many delicate things seemed like they were looking for the first excuse to fall over with a very expensive crash. He locked that door, too.

The door knobs were so very high, he could barely reach them. He had to jump and grasp, practically hanging off them when they swung open. “Pabbi!” he’d shout into each room - or he tried to. His throat was so tight that he could only manage a strangled, twisted noise.

Loki shook his head fiercely. Concentrate.

Next was the spare bedroom, used only in such terrible times as when the Queen and King were at odds and Odin was banished from the bed. It was rare he spent longer than a week there at such times, for while Odin’s stubbornness was legendary, it always wilted in the face of Frigga’s dislike. (Although others would say that the Queen had ensured the spare mattress was especially hard, the pillows lumpy, and the heating spotty, which couldn’t hurt her persuasiveness.)

Odin had stayed in that room for an entire decade after he’d lost Frigga.

“Where are you, Pabbi…” he whispered into the dark, again and again. “Please come out. I can’t find you. I’m not good enough at games. I give up, please, please, come out…”

He locked it and moved on to the next door.

“…I’m sorry.” Loki said as he felt around the dining room, touching chair after chair. “I’m sorry, Pabbi - I won’t do it again, I promise I won’t, I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll be good forever and you won’t have to leave ever again -“

The dining chamber was still set for four people. Loki’s eyes lingered on Frigga’s place, as it always did when they used this room. He could never bear to move it from where she’d last left it, pulled out from the table. Sometimes Odin would talk to it when he and Loki supped there, and if Loki looked away it was easy to pretend that all was -

Click, clunk. Locked.

Another door. Another cold room.

Click, clunk.

Click, clunk.

Click -

Loki stared into the contents of a humble closet. Empty.

Which only left the study.

Somehow, even now, he dreaded it. It was never a good thing to be summoned into the study. It meant he’d done something terrible enough to interrupt a king’s work. That rarely went well.

He opened the door.

The room was dark, but he knew immediately he had the right room. There was something off about it, though he couldn’t quite say what.

“Lights on,” he commanded the room-spell. The torches burst into life.

Odin’s imposing desk was the first thing he noticed. For a moment, he almost saw his father there, eye moving deliberately over various holograms and papers - and yet Loki would feel carefully observed nonetheless. He suppressed a shudder and looked away, searching the rest of the room. But something niggled in the rear of his mind. The desk wasn’t as it should be.

He approached it, frowning. Before he moved away again, something gave him pause. Even though it was a long time since the old All-Father had been expected to do any work, there were still a few scattered pieces of parchment upon it, lightly coated in dust. But in the corner of the desk was a single clean circle, as if something had been recently removed.

Clearly housekeeping needed a reminder, perhaps a very-carefully-worded and implication-filled one, to keep his father’s home hygienic. But secondly…what had been there?

Placing the goblet of drugged mead down on the desk, he recalled the frightening times he’d been summoned to this room and had wanted to look anywhere but at Odin. Luckily, there were all sorts of little distractions he could focus on. While Odin kept relics of great power secure in his vault for the good of Asgard, here he enjoyed collecting little curiosities from around the universe. On this table there should have been a pretty glass thing filled with constantly transforming crystals from a planet far beyond the Nine, or even the current Twelve. Loki had long suspected they reacted in some way to those nearby. Certainly the thing seemed prone to building its thorniest, ugliest fractals whenever he’d had to stand next to it, desperately trying not to confess to everything on the spot.

Was anything else missing? He looked again at the bookshelf he’d passed on the way in. The floating stone samples used to fly the wooden galleons of Ed’je’kronik should have been hovering above it. They were gone - all but for the smallest one, left lonely in an empty space. Beneath them should have been the pickled eye samples from Derek, the Living Moon - a creature that had covered the entire surface of its homeworld. All that was left was more circles in the dust. Beside them was an empty scabbard on the wall, which should have sheathed an ornamental blade so thin that it could cut the very air with the slightest movement.

Loki’s boot clacked against the floor - which wasn’t the sound it should make here. He looked down at the bare gold, realizing that here, by the fire, there should have been an elderly dragon skin.

As he was staring at the empty floor in confusion, the smallest of creaks came from behind him. Loki turned and stared, but saw only the empty desk. Which he’d already checked.

He turned towards the desk again. There was still nothing beneath it, yet there was nowhere else large enough to contain Odin. The cupboards were far too small…although…just to be sure…

Loki stood to the side and quickly opened the doors. With a thump, a very compressed Odin fell out, accompanied with a loud crash as a scaly bag in his grip hit the ground, spilling out the missing items.

“I ken explain! I’ isn' what i’ looks like, Ay’ve ben framed by thar no-good rat-eatin’ scutter Tilberious Tailless, yeh’ve gotta believe me - “

That isn’t All-Speak, Loki realized. The language and the accent were entirely foreign - he couldn’t even begin to place it. It was certainly a coarse one.

Odin ceased struggling to stare at Loki. “Hey, now. Thar's a pretty face ye got thar. Where did ye get that?”

Loki touched his face - no, Frigga’s face. He’d completely forgotten he was still wearing her guise. “From my mother,” he said honestly.

“Yeh don’ say,” Odin grinned. “What are yeh wantin’ with me, Missy?”

Loki’s stomach dropped. Even Frigga’s face doesn’t bring him back to himself anymore?

“I was…looking for someone,” he replied. “But I... don’t think you’re him.”

“Ah, curse m’ luck, ha ha. Seems ther only folk lookin’ fer me are creditors and bounty hunters, har har…” Odin spun the heavy wooden chair behind Odin’s desk as easily as a top, then sat in it with exaggerated casualness, swinging his feet up onto the desk. He leaned back, balancing the chair at a terrifying angle. “Woulda been a nice change to have so fine a lady after m’ company.

“Be careful,” Loki cautioned.

“Ach, i’ touches m’ heart to see a lady so concerned for m’ welfare.” Odin theatrically grasped his chest, leaning even further back.

It set Loki's teeth on edge.

This is not my father, he reminded himself. Whoever he is, he has taken the man I know hostage. Any sudden moves and he may injure both or either of us.

“So, who arr yeh, exactly, aside from pretty?” The stranger grinned.

“Frigga Fjörgynndottir,” Loki said, unable to hide a hopeful note in his voice as he said the name.

But Odin’s eye remained dark and unmoved.

“Now tha’s a posh name,” the stranger whistled. “Wha’s a lady wi’ a plummy name like tha’ doin’ on a planet like this?

“What’s wrong with this planet?” Frigga asked, still watching the chair wobble on its hind legs with rising worry.

“Thar’s a rather nasty infestation of scoundrels, villains, thieves and rogues, Miss. They say i’s chronic.”

“And which are you?”

The stranger opened his hand to reveal the missing crystal glass. He held it up to the light and admired the crystals that had formed for him. They were blue in colour, but opaque, as if filled with thick smoke. He turned his hand over again and it vanished from his fingers, only for him to open his other palm to reveal it there.

Loki might’ve mistaken it for highly advanced seidr if he hadn’t been paying close attention. This was mere sleight of hand, a tool of charlatans and…

“You cannot be a thief,” Loki said before he could stop himself.

“No’ jus’ a thief. Ay’m something of a scoundrel, wi’ a dash o’ rogue and part-time work as a villain,” the stranger grinned. “Ay’m half th' infestation on m' own.”

“Surely you have other talents,” Loki said, his tone off. “Surely you did not wish to be a thief when you were a child - why…why would you choose to live like this?”

“’Tis nah a matter o' choice, be it? Th' strong prosper, th' weak perish, 'n th' scavengers pick th' bones o' what's left t’ survive. Me, Ay’m surviving.”

Frigga stared at him, at a total loss. Perhaps I was mistaken to think this disease was only of the memory; this cannot be Odin at any point in his life. It is some delusion, some alter-ego conjured in the throes of his decay.

“Didn’t you wish to be a…a…bard or the like?” Frigga said. Never mind that no Prince of Asgard and future King of it would ever have the need to stoop so low…

Odin shifted in the chair, tilting back another dangerous degree. “A bard? Nae, ken’t say Ah ev’r did fancy such a thing…folk migh’ like a pretty song but they won’t give a pretty penny to hear it.” He played with a bit of his hair casually, but there was a disguised edge in his next words. “Where in th' world didja get th’ idea that Ay was any kind of a shanty-spurter?”

“Your voice is simply too…pleasant to think otherwise,” Frigga managed. It was more of a barefaced lie than he thought was artful, but his actual face was far from bare. Hopefully the flattery of the woman Odin would someday fall in love with would be enough to sell it.

“Is that so?” Odin said, eye flashing. “Well, don’ mind if I do polish the rust of me ol’ pipes, then…” He cleared his throat, and before Loki could react, he did begin to sing.

“Hearing, I ask, from the holy races

From the Norn’s eye, watching high and low

I will now relate, with all of my graces

Old tales remembered from long, long ago…”

A peculiar feeling, as if a large, cold egg had been cracked over his head, washed over Loki. Odin’s accent had fallen away, and his speech was once more All-Speak - and yet Loki felt only dimly aware of that. The sounds reached deeper than the words. He was transfixed.

"I remember yet the giants of yore

Who gave me bread in days gone by

Nine worlds I knew, Nine worlds at war

Nine voices became one battle cry

Something was tugging at Loki’s core. Insistent. Demanding. Pulling him forward.

He’d never felt anything like it before.

It frightened him.

"Only one rose from the sea of blood

Broken were oaths, words not what they seemed

Before the breath of liars, we scud

Shaped, like clouds, by forces unseen..."

The legs of the chair were creaking ominously. Loki’s skin was crawling again, tingling as it had in the Garden -

"Take me from this o-ode to slaughter

Take me from Hel, though I may belong

Le~ad me to my sons and my daughters

Le~ad me to the heart -”

The chair suddenly slipped. Odin fell backwards, his song abruptly cut off. Without a thought, Loki stepped forward, reaching out for his father -

Instead of taking his hand, Odin latched on to Frigga’s wrist and pulled. They crashed to the ground together, but Odin rolled to his feet, pulling the ornamental blade out of the spilled sack on the ground with a shriek of anguished air. The sound only stopped when its impossibly sharp point was pressed warningly to Loki’s back.

And it was Loki’s back. Frigga’s guise had been completely torn from him in an instant.

“Who are you really looking for?” Odin asked calmly.

Loki lay perfectly still, still reeling. “You tricked me,” he said upon finding his voice again.

“You first. Although you neglected to disguise both arms. They didn’t match,” Odin observed. “You are a liar."

“And your accent was inconsistent,” Loki snapped. What a fool I was to be so easily put in this situation…I know better, I should know better -

“I’d ask who sent you, but why waste the breath."

“What do you mean?” Loki asked innocently, eyes still darting about the room as he looked for something, anything that he could use to alter his situation.

Odin tapped Loki’s back with the sword again, reminding him who was asking the questions. “How fares Asgard? I’ve nearly forgotten what it looks like.”

It would appear that Odin abandoning - leaving Asgard would seem to be an old habit of his, Loki mused. “Why did you leave Asgard?” he couldn’t help but ask, although it seemed to him that Odin only ever left on a whim.

Odin raised a near-invisible eyebrow. “Why did no-one come looking for me until now?”

Running down endless hallways, banging on doors and opening them time and time again on empty rooms, calling and calling until his voice was hoarse and his feet sore, but still finding nothing, still alone until -

Loki swallowed. "Because you always come back again.”

Something flickered over Odin’s face. The point pressed to Loki’s back suddenly vanished. At once he rose and retreated a safe distance, watching Odin warily. His father stuck the sword (a pretty carved relic from some dead world) into his belt, where it stuck out oddly.

“So it was my father who sent you then,” he said simply. “What does he want from me?”

“Cannot a father miss his son and wish to find him again?” As a son misses his father and hopes that somehow he can pull him back to the surface of his madness...

“If my father truly knew me, he would have told you not to bother with the disguise,” Odin declared. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the forgotten goblet of mead on the desk. “You’re handsome enough as you are."

As Loki stared at him, uncomprehending, Odin lightly picked up the goblet and sniffed it. “A fine enough brewing. If you’ve more of this, we could truly pass a pleasant evening in each other’s company. Forget all about what my father's wishes, whatever they truly are.”

Loki felt as if he’d swallowed a stone. Somehow it was simultaneously stuck in his throat and pulling his stomach down past his knees. “Begging your pardon?” he asked faintly.

Odin sipped at the mead, still staring at Loki appraisingly. “There’s no need for Asgardian pretence out here. We can be as we are.”

Loki’s mouth had gone totally dry. Unconsciously, he took a step back.

Odin looked down at the mead, head tilting. “Say, this is…some strong…stuff…” he took another gulp and swayed, grabbing the desk for support. He looked up and noticed Loki’s retreat. “Wherrrre are you going’?” he slurred. “Weren’t you….looking for me…”

“I’m terribly sorry. I was mistaken - you’re not who I was searching for,” Loki said quickly, taking another step back.

Odin fell to his knees, the goblet slipping from his hand and clattering loudly against the golden floor. “I knnneeewww it,” he slurred, eye nearly closed. “No-one would llllllooook for mmmmeeee… I got too far….away…”

Loki was nearly at the door when Odin completely slumped over on the floor, little more than a bundle of rags.

Loki realized his heart was pounding in his ears. He was frozen where he stood, grasping at the door frame for support.

He should go over to Odin. Pick him off the floor, prepare him for and place him in bed, douse the lights. But he didn’t move.

I never knew, he realized.

The doorway seemed to glide away from Loki, as if he were standing on a wheeled platform being gently pulled. He passed from light into the dark hallway, then out into the dim Receiving Room and past the golden door to the very apartment itself, which closed and locked, though Loki had no sensation of lifting his arms to do so.

I never knew.

You were like me - no, I was like you - all along.

And I never knew.

Chapter Text

LOKI

A breeze pulled the door to Odin’s office open.

“Come in, Loki,” said a voice from within.

Loki strained to hear the inflexion in those three words. Was his father angry? Ashamed? Disappointed?

He couldn’t tell.

“Loki?” Odin called again.

His legs jerked into motion. Unwillingly, the rest of him followed.

“Father,” he said once he was standing in front of Odin’s desk.

He bowed stiffly, his eyes never meeting Odin’s. Instead, they fastened themselves to a glass sphere sitting on a stack of papers. Inside were ever-changing crystals. They were currently sphenoid, solid and a near opaque white. As he drew nearer, however, the crystals faded to a transparent, ugly yellow and fractured.

Loki had a sneaking suspicion about that crystal globe. He bit his lip and hoped Odin would not look at it.

Odin was not looking at it. Unfortunately, he was instead looking unwaveringly at Loki. The boy’s stomach twisted. How much did he know? How much did he suspect? What was he going to say?

“When I sent you to the stables for that incident with Thor, did you think it was meant as a punishment?” Odin asked.

The crystals had formed into green octahedrons, bouncing around inside the glass with the faintest of plinks.

“I’m sure you thought so while mucking out stables and taking orders from Stablemaster Gulltopp. He can be a hard man.”

The first day he had me burning ticks off the goats, Loki thought. I think he very much enjoyed getting me ‘off my high horse’ and into the manure. If you didn’t mean it as a punishment, he certainly took the opportunity to make it as unpleasant a lesson as possible.

“A hard man, but a good and loyal one. There is none other I would entrust Sleipnir too.”

Sleipnir had been a perk for Loki, as well. He’d made it a point to smuggle his father’s steed some choice treats every day and had been rewarded with the horse’s affection - something that had gone a long way to convincing Gulltopp to let Loki do more enjoyable tasks, like grooming and exercising the horses - though not without supervision.

“Admittedly, Gulltopp does not much care for two-legged creatures as much as four, although he makes occasional exceptions. One of them being that stable boy he’s taken under his wing. Sialfi, wasn’t it? He tells me you’ve been getting on well together.”

Loki thought he was going to be sick.

He knows.

“I am glad to see you making friends. Especially among the common folk - their counsel is important for a king to take to heart. It is easy to lose perspective when you sit on a high chair. It is part of the reason I sent you to the stables.”

The crystals are swiftly losing all geometric shapes. They were ugly, misshapen, hitting the sides of the glass with more and more force. Surely Odin would notice the sickening noise - surely Odin would know the feelings Loki was desperately attempting to shove deep into his collapsing stomach.

“Which is why I regret to inform you that the boy’s skills have been noticed by more than Gulltopp; Lord Dagur has taken a shine to the lad. He has enlisted him as his squire.”

Lord Dagur was a famously itinerant man, rarely resting in one place for more than a day before continuing. The only thing more famous than that about him was his horse, the magnificent Skinfaxi, whose mane was made of light.

That would have surely caught Sialfi’s attention. Perhaps he’d taken good care of the beast, as he always did, his affection and talent plain for Dagur to see. Perhaps, on a whim, the Lord had requested him, and who would Sialfi be to refuse such an honour?

After all, it wasn’t like he and Loki would ever be able to continue as they were. Why would he sacrifice his future for a few more moments with the stringy second prince, risking his life for the simple pleasure of besmirching royalty? Why even risk telling Loki, who might be expected to sabotage everything out of spite?

Perhaps it was as simple as that.

“I am sorry to say they left early this morning. I expect Lord Dagur will return to Asgard in a century or so; it is difficult to know with that man. But should you wish it, Huginn and Muninn can find them and deliver any messages you would like to send your friend.”

“He wasn’t my friend,” Loki said quickly. “He was just someone to talk to. That’s all.”

He still couldn’t look at Odin. He needed to look him in the eye. Needed to prove to him that he meant what he said. After all, if Sialfi could just leave like that, without a word…maybe they hadn’t been even so much as friends.

But he couldn’t.

“I see,” Odin muttered, as mercurially as everything else. “Well, in any case, I see no need for you to continue to labour in the stables if you no longer want to. You are free to return to your usual duties as Prince of Asgard.”

Loki finally met Odin’s eye.

It pierced through him, like a pin through a Fluttering Asp. He stood, paralyzed.

“You’re dismissed,” Odin said.

Loki couldn’t move. To his horror, that paralysis didn’t extend to his lips.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Odin waited a beat too long to reply. “What do you mean?”

“Why not tell Mother to tell me? Or wait for Gulltop to let me know? I know your time is limited - why waste it on something so small?”

Just say it, Loki wanted to shout. Just tell me that you know.

“It was I who decreed you should go to the stables. And it should be I who tells you that you no longer have to.”

Loki persisted. “You meant for me to learn a lesson. How are you so sure that I did?”

Odin still didn’t blink. He considered Loki for a time before replying “You’ve spent six months there. If you haven’t learnt it by now, you won’t learn it with another six.”

“What did you mean me to learn?” Loki was aghast at his own rudeness, a passenger clinging for dear life to his runaway words.

Odin, of course, answered a question with a question. “Why did you turn your brother into a frog?”

“…It was just a little jest. Nothing more.”

“Hmm. I suspect one could learn quite a bit about the world and its dangers, if they were a frog for awhile…”

Thor didn’t learn anything from the experience. He thought it was hilarious, never thinking for a second that something could have happened to him while he was green and small and squishy -

"Horses are much larger, but still vulnerable. They require care and attention. Not all of it pleasant work. Most of it unseen.” Odin shuffled the papers on his desk before stowing a scroll into a drawer. “You would put yourself and others in danger. I sought to put you in a position where you would be a caretaker of those directly ‘beneath’ you.” A ghost of a smile at that little joke.

Loki’s heart began to slow. Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe -

“I won’t always be here to correct you, Loki. Gulltopp is a very loyal man whom I can trust with both my horse and my son’s discretion. The next time you get into trouble, the lesson may not be so private an affair.”

The hair along Loki’s arms stood up.

“You need to be more careful,” Odin said with finality: a clear note of dismissal.

Loki left.

Odin knew.

He knew.

…Didn’t he?

Chapter Text

LOKI

The royal apartments were far behind him, but still Loki fled as if the hounds of Hel itself were at his heels.

I never knew.

He’d always assumed his desires were the result of an innate inner failing, or perhaps punishment for acting less-than strictly masculine. Even this beard, thin and short as it was, had taken a great deal of coaxing and magical aid. Proof of, or so he’d always assumed, some terrible confusion in his flesh.

And yet this secret longing inside me might have had roots in the very man I most feared discovering it.

How ironic; how hilariously ironic.

Not as hilarious as the great irony of my entire life, though; there I was, trying so hard to be more like Dear-old Dad, desperate for him to see me as a worthy son. No wonder he’d rather look anywhere else. What a punishment that must have been for Father - to see his own perversity passed along, knowing if the son were exposed, the father was at risk. ‘Where did he get it from?’ the people might ask. They’d look upwards from the apple, and see the tree. And they’d wonder. Surely they would.

The House of Odin could not risk such disgrace. So he protected me and by so doing protected himself.

Loki felt like a stoppered kettle, the urge to laugh boiling inside him.

And now it falls to Loki to return the favour - otherwise, people may look downwards from the tree to the apple and wonder ‘How strange the second son never did remarry.’

But what could he do? It was clear his control over the situation was slipping.

What would happen if some other Odin took over his father’s elderly form again and wasn’t satisfied with merely mouthing off about ancient times? Wasn’t interested in staying put in the palace, and ran off? Wasn’t content with propositioning his own son, wasn’t invested in protecting the family name?

Even if he was with his father every moment of every day - could he really prevent Odin from letting slip something even more sensitive - perhaps to the danger of all of Asgard rather than just his reputation? And if he couldn’t do even that, could he really expect to prevent another violent episode like what had happened in the Vault?

I can’t. I really can’t.

Not alone.

“Loki,” came a familiar growl.

Loki looked up, startled. His brother stood silhouetted in the corridor ahead. It was not a very happy sort of silhouette.

“Brother,” Loki responded cautiously.

Thor moved towards him. Loki took an involuntary step back.

“Why aren’t you still with Father?” The king asked quietly.

Loki thought fast. “I thought I better see how Sigfried fares." Thor must be just coming from there; this would be the correct way to go to the healing rooms.

“Do you care for his sake or for Father’s?” Thor said tonelessly.

Loki frowned. “Both. Sigfried has long been a loyal soldier and merits our concern, but it is important the extent of this incident isn’t widely known.”

“Or what?” The king cocked his head slightly. Challengingly.

“Or what?” a note of ire straightened Loki. “How can you even ask that? It should be obvious. Or the people might panic; there will be councils on what must be done about the mad old king. They will fear it runs in our blood, perhaps use it as an excuse to remove all our bloodline from the seat of power.”

Thor took a heavy step forward. “An excuse to remove someone from the seat of power. Of course, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Brother? Since apparently you weren’t as in favour of my coronation as you claimed.”

Loki froze; he’d completely forgotten Thor had heard Odin’s accusations in the Vault. More fool him - at the time, he could have denied it, claimed it was part of the clear delusions Odin was experiencing. Instead he’d confessed, like a fool.

His hesitation now only further incensed Thor. “So Father covered up for you. And you said nothing, all these years.”

Loki shook himself internally and shifted his tone to something more soothing. “They were the actions of a malcontented child. I was…ashamed. I have regretted it ever since.”

Thor’s face did not soften as Loki had hoped it would. He continued to walk slowly forward, closer and closer.

“Is there anything else you regret?” Thor asked.

A memory came to Loki - pretending to read a book in front of the fire, all the while listening for a knock on the door -

“Not that I can recall,” he said instead. But the hesitation had been obvious.

Thor was now scarce inches away. Though they were not so different in height, Loki still felt as if he were looking up at him, as if his brother were a towering beast.

Thor’s eyes narrowed. “You do not behave like an innocent man, Loki.”

Loki swallowed involuntarily. Frustrated at his show of weakness, he squared his shoulders and retorted “My behaviour is the one in question? Pray tell, who was it that literally fought with Father today?”

“Don’t try to change the subject -“

“You could have blasted his other eye out!”

“And you went behind my back and negotiated with the Queega in secret, the day before we were meant to officially meet!” Thor accused.

Loki froze.

Thor’s eyes flashed. “So it’s true, then."

Once again, saying nothing had said everything. Loki cursed himself. “I did send greetings ahead, to better ingratiate ourselves and ensure success in the following day’s proper discussion. It was little more than-“

“Weasel words,” Thor growled. “You made a deal, Loki. And you asked them to keep it to themselves until you could convince me it was my idea. During negotiations, they kept looking at you after everything I said - as if you were the real king, not I - “

“I merely meant to clarify what you were saying -“

“DON’T DENY IT!” Thor roared.

Loki jumped, stumbling backwards. His ears rang.

Thor breathed heavily, still shaking with rage. But his next words were quiet, almost a whisper. “You never believed in me.”

Somehow, those were the words to echo longest in the empty golden corridor.

“Thor…I -“

But his brother continued straight on through before Loki could even begin. “And now you manipulate Father, using Mother’s very image. I would have thought it below you.”

Loki turned his head to the side, as if he’d been slapped.

Thor looked over Loki’s shoulder, towards Odin’s chambers. “What do you whisper to Father, when you’re alone together? All your discontents, your doubts about the son he chose as heir? Do you press his failing mind to reconsider -“

“Never,” Loki said reflexively, horrified.

--You’d never take advantage of his infirmity to further your own ambition? Loki’s thoughts tutted. You didn’t succeed, but you certainly tried, didn’t you?

Loki shook his head, trying to clear it. It wasn’t like that, I just wanted to know about the garden-

Thor interrupted Loki’s internal protestations. “There’s a great many I things I thought you’d never do, Loki.”

“Never thinking is a bad habit of yours,” Loki snapped back. “You don’t enjoy thinking about Father, either, do you? You avoid him as if his illness was contagious -”

“I saw him this morning -“ Thor protested.

“Yes, you wait for him to go to you at his best, but then call me for me to come and take him away again when he’s at his worst.” Something was rising in Loki’s chest. Something hot. “If you were actually there you’d know I can’t convince him to change into pyjamas, much less turn him to my side in some political crusade!”

“You convinced him you were Mother today!” Disgust carved Thor’s features into harsh angles. “He believed you and every word you said with her mouth! You encourage his delusions, shape them to your advantage - and all that, in front of me! What am I to think happens behind closed doors?”

“What happens?” Loki nearly giggled. Oh, if only you’d been there earlier..."What happens is I attempt to reason with the unreasonable, staying up late into the night simply trying to convince him it is indeed night now instead of whatever time of day he believes calls him to long-passed duties. You think I have his ear? All I have a front-row seat to watch him fall apart a little at a time, while you wait outside those closed doors for him to just get it over with and die, sparing you the embarrassment.”

The air had gotten heavier and heavier the longer Loki had spoken, and now every hair on his arms and neck were standing on end. Thor’s lips moved, but no sound escaped them. He stepped forward again, this time to barge past Loki, his thunderous footsteps echoing down the hall as he stormed towards the Old Royal Wing.

For a moment, Loki felt bitterly victorious. Let him see what it’s like to deal with the madness for a change.

But as Thor’s footsteps faded away, so did Loki’s temper, replaced instead with a wave of exhaustion so intense he tilted forward. Haze filled his mind, and for a moment he thought he could fall asleep right there, still standing up. An image emerged from the fog -

An old man lying slumped on the floor, soaking in spilled mead. His head wounded, his posture undignified, his figure forlorn and abandoned.

Because Loki had left him there.

He awoke from the fog with a rush of guilt and a ragged inhaling of breath.

--Whatever will Thor say when he finds him? hissed a thought in his head.

The clip of heeled boots raced to catch up with the echo of thunderous footfalls.

“Wait - Thor - I should not have said -“

“Why? Because it was honest?” Thor snorted, eyes still fixed ahead, where the golden door to the Old Royal Wing was already in sight. “You're right. For too long I’ve trusted you to do this. I should see him myself.”

In desperation, Loki tried to turn back the conversation to an earlier point of impasse, hoping that if he could douse a previous fire he might yet stop the steam engine. “I do not want to be king,” Loki stated, as plainly as possible.

“Oh, I believe you,” Thor snorted. “There’s too much about being king that would suit you ill. The spotlight that follows, the eyes and expectations of an entire world upon you at every moment. No, Loki prefers to work from the shadows, where it’s far easier to just do as he likes without the risk of disagreement or debate.”

“You think no-one watches or judges me?” Loki had drawn up beside Thor, matching every step. “I am a Son of Odin, same as you!”

“I never said you weren’t,” Thor said tightly, increasing the length of his stride and pulling ahead. “But you are not the one who must bear his legacy. You are Loki before you are Odinson. I am called Odinson before I am called Thor. You are lucky to be free of such expectation.”

Free? Loki wanted to laugh. Not only am I Odinson - I am Thorbróðir also. I work from the shadows because I stand in two. My story will only ever be in your footnotes.

“I am the King’s brother, and the old King’s second son. I have tried to live within those things, even as you try to live up to Father’s name. I truly acted in what I thought were the best interests of Asgard, and our family. I…wanted to help. In the ways I am good at. I wanted to ease the negotiations. Truly. And before the Coronation…I was the one who was truly unprepared for things to change.”

Slowly, Thor nodded, though the motion was still stiff. He walked up to the door and put a hand on it. Loki winced, waiting for him to push it open - but Thor only traced the casting of a goat’s horn with his finger. “Father wasn’t sure at all about crowning me. If it weren’t for his oncoming Sleep…” A long hiss of breath escaped Thor. “It meant a lot to hear you thought I could be a good king.”

It occurred to Loki that their positions now were not so dissimilar to how they were then. Thor, at the precipice of entering a new world. Loki, speaking reassurances, but actually working to keep his brother from advancing at all.

His saliva curdled in his mouth at the realization. He spoke anyway. “I did mean it, you know.”

“You say that. But what have your actions shouted, Brother?”

“I am still here, am I not? You may think what I have done is treachery - but though my methods may not be honourable to your eye, they have ultimately achieved your goals, and bring me little publicized glory. Can the same be said of anyone else around you?”

Thor looked around the empty corridor, melancholic. “Yes. You are still here. I never thought it’d just be that...how I miss our friends, the Warriors Three and the Lady Sif, Villi and Ve, Gerda the Falcon Master, Iron-Footed Ivar...they all seemed to slip away, after I became king.”

Loki nodded, though the rest of his body stiffened.

“And then...Reidunn…” Thor shook his head, quickly casting the rest of any would-be sentence aside. “Only you and Mother have been a constant in my life. And she’s...no longer.” Thor covered the face of a falcon with his palm. Frigga’s falcon. “...What would she think of us fighting?”

Even covered by Thor’s hand, Loki could feel the eyes of the falcon boring into him. "She’d probably ask if we wanted a refreshment when we were finished, and to remember not to go too long, since we’re likely to fight again tomorrow and she’d hate for us to repeat material.”

Thor snorted, and with that loud staccato noise the tension seemed to finally break. “I suppose that’s true enough. Although for the life of my goats, I can’t remember what it was we used to argue about. I suppose it was all silly nonsense. Now, though…” Thor’s hands wandered dangerously towards the spot on the door that would trigger it to open if pressed. “I went too far. What I implied - it was vile of me.”

“We are just trying to do right by Father,” Loki said quickly. “It was your love for him that drove you into anger.”

“I despise him,” Thor snarled. Loki drew up his eyebrows in surprise, but Thor continued before he could ask. “The stranger who steals away Father and sits in his place. Who humiliates him. Who takes away everything that made Odin himself.”

If only you knew.

Loki gently squeezed Thor’s wrist. “...He still loves you, Thor.”

With that, Loki was able to guide Thor away from the door, hating himself a little more with every step.

“...This morning he was more himself than in years…” The older brother contemplated. “I knew it couldn’t last, and yet I still ran off to battle. When next I saw him, it wasn’t long until we were doing battle ourselves. And yet...he felt even more himself in that fight, in a way. Strong. Fierce. Alive.” Thor turned to look at Loki. “Fighting him was a mark of respect, warrior to warrior. Father and I - we are connected to nature, a conduit for its power. It makes us whole.” Thor’s hand curled into a fist. “It was something I could do for him. In every other way, I’ve been useless.” He turned and looked at Loki with a sad smile. “Why do you think the first thing I did when things went wrong was to call for you?”

Loki’s brows crinkled in confusion.

Thor studied him. “I’m not as good as you at this. What you can do for him…” He rubbed his face. “I can give him war, but you give him peace. Perhaps I judged your methods too harshly because mine do not work. And it has cost me the most precious thing I have left with Father.” He looked at Loki. “The thing you’ve had to give too much of. Time.”

Loki dare not disrupt this unlikely self-reflection; it was like seeing a unicorn through the fog - he surely wouldn’t see it again, and it was likely skittish and apt to evaporate should he speak.

“I was content to look away and let you take on the burden alone. I reaped the benefits of your labour, even with just the comfort of knowing my father was near. But what has it cost? Sigfried, injured. My brother, stretched thin. The price of my selfishness puts all of Asgard at risk. It cannot continue.”

With a sudden burst of energy, Thor relinquished Loki and strode back towards the doors, swinging them both open dramatically and entering the Old Royal Wing before Loki could stop him.

“What are you doing?” Loki squeaked, scrambling to catch up.

“What I should have done years ago. What you have done alone for far too long."

They were already almost at the entrance to Loki’s chambers - it would only be a minute until they entered Odin’s rooms and revealed the pitiful condition Loki had left him in.

I’m so sorry, Father. How could I…what was wrong with me to leave you like that? What is wrong with me now to seek first to hide the evidence of my neglect instead of seeking the fastest way to aid you?

“Surely it would be better to visit him tomorrow -“ Loki protested.

Thor paid him as much mind as a Trampling Kergispine would a palace lady’s lap dog yapping at its heels. “How many times have you spent the night in vigil over him? I wish to do the same tonight.”

“He’s asleep -“

“You think because I am the God of Thunder, I am incapable of quiet?”

“It’s very hard to get him back to sleep again if he’s woken -“

“Then I’ll be the one to do it. Rest, Loki, and let me take over filial duties for the night -“

“Tomorrow would be -“

Thor put a finger to his lips. They’d reached the ornate doors at the end of the hallway, resplendent with sculpted wolves and cats. Before Loki could try anything else to stop him, Thor slipped inside.

Loki trailed behind him as the large man tiptoed to the bedroom, knowing full well he would not find Odin there. Thor gave Loki one last wave, directing him again to rest, and disappeared inside the room.

Quick as a hare, Loki spun on his heel and returned to the study, rushing to where he’d left Odin behind. All he found was the puddle of mead, reflecting the golden ceiling.

Thor appeared behind him. “Loki! Where is he?”

Loki stared at the spilt mead. “He’s…gone.”

“Gone? How can he be gone again?” Thor rushed to the veranda and the windows. “The containment spells are intact! How could he get out? The only other way is the door…” Thor trailed off.

He didn’t have to say it. Loki’s stomach was already dissolving into a lake of fiery guilt.

“Loki…I didn’t need to unlock the door when I came in.”

ODIN

The training yard was filled with shouts, curses and clangs - and of course, with men.

There was one exception. Prince Cul was still a boy, officially, albeit one currently holding his own against ten men at a time. On a balcony above, Bor All-Father watched intently. He began to clap, signalling his approval and the end of the fight. At once, Cul dropped to his knees in deference to his king. The other men would have done so too, but they were mostly lying prostrate on the ground, moaning.

Hidden behind a weapon’s rack, Od couldn’t help a smirk of pride.

“Well done, Borson!” the king proclaimed. “Asgard has never sent off so fine a warrior on a coming-of-age quest. You will bring glory to your name. ”

“I hope only to bring glory to the name of Asgard, and not myself,” Cul intoned smoothly.

The warriors getting to their feet stared at their prince in admiration. Od rolled his eyes.

“You will bring glory and honour to us all, my s-s-skoffn, koff…” Bor suddenly doubled over on the balcony wheezing. Cul didn’t move, waiting patiently for their father to finish.

A pair of men behind Cul leaned in to whisper to each other. One sniggered. Both looked at Bor in open contempt.

Od made sure to memorize their faces.

Bor recovered, and the men snapped to attention. The king continued as if nothing had happened. “…my son. Go now and rest awhile - it will soon be time for your final feast as a child of Asgard.”

After another nod, the All-Father turned and left with a flustered-looking high servant. No doubt there was still much to be done before Cul’s departure in the morning, which was sure to be quite the spectacle.

The warriors trudged back towards the rack, removing helmets and gossiping amongst themselves. No better than fishwives, really. The first helmet hit Od’s chest with a solid ‘oof!’. It was followed by an avalanche of sweaty armour and clanking weapons.

Od was about to loudly berate them for treating the King’s son so before he remembered he was currently wearing the face of the armourer’s squire. With very little enthusiasm, he sorted through the warriors' cast-offs. At least he managed to drop a spear precisely as the two men with memorized faces passed, tripping them up. They scowled at him as he stammered apologies.

The moment they were gone, he picked up the spear again and walked to the center of the yard. Cul was still sitting there - but he wasn't as alone as Od had expected. One of Asgard's many ravens had joined him. Cul was caressing its chest with a single finger, a soft smile on his face. He only ever had that expression for animals.

Od tossed a gauntlet on the ground. The clatter didn’t surprise Cul at all, though the bird turned its head to give Od an irritated look.

Cul glanced at the glove. “Are you challenging me, Darri?”

“My spear against your sword,” Od said in the squire’s voice. Trust Cul to even know a servant boy’s name. Even Od hadn’t bothered.

“I’ve just fought some of the best men in Asgard; what would I prove in facing you?”

Od raised Darri’s eyebrow. “You, the prince, fought the best men in the employ of Asgard while the King watched. You’ve proven nothing."

Face inscrutable, Cul stood and unsheathed his sword. The raven took flight, reluctantly. “Begin,” he said.

It was over in less than five minutes. Od gasped in the dirt, inches away from Cul’s blade. The prince sheathed it and offered Od his hand. When they were standing, Od said “Again.”

Cul looked uncomfortable. “I do not enjoy knocking little boys on their backsides, Darri.”

‘Darri’ whacked his spear against Cul’s blade. “You’re still a boy yourself. C’mon - best of three.”

This time it took less than a minute until Od was on his back. The moment he had his breath back, he wheezed “Best of five."

Cul helped him to his feet again. “Maybe try as yourself this time, Oddity.”

Od allowed the glamour to melt off him. “What gave it away?”

A sad smile quirked the corner of Cul’s lips. “You’re the only person I know who wants to fight for hours, but never tries to actually win.”

“Ridiculous. I’ve always wanted to win - think of the mockery I could inspire from the entire kingdom! The great and powerful Cul, brought low by a measly gnat!”

“You talk about how you’d talk about it, but when it comes to actually trying-” Cul pointed to the small nicks and scratches on his elbows and knees, the few victories Od had scored. “-you don’t aim for the heart.”

“Perhaps I wish to make you suffer first,” Od said glibly. “Let’s go again - if you can bring yourself to fight a gnat with poor aim.”

Cul frowned. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

Od twirled his spear. “Why don’t you try and make me?”

With another sigh, Cul raised his sword.

Again, Od charged. Again, Cul was ready for him.

It went as it had previously, hundreds of times. Od tired quickly while Cul’s relentless athleticism never wavered. Until -

Cul suddenly stumbled, pitching forward.

Od stared, as surprised as his brother. In the next instant, however, Od used the butt of the spear to finish sweeping Cul’s legs out from under him. After the First Prince had hit the ground with a crash, Od buried the spear in the ground next to Cul’s head.

Cul smiled up at him. “Well done. You won.”

Od did not smile back. Instead, he scowled. “Nice try, Cul. But did you really think I, of all people, wouldn’t recognize a faker?”

Cul wrinkled his brow. “What are you talking about?”

Od pointed at the sandy ground. There was nothing there that could trip anyone. “You pretended to fall. Why?”

Cul was giving him another look - an angry look. Od felt taken aback. Cul was almost never angry, and certainly not with Od. No matter how hard he’d try to nettle his older brother.

“Why do you find it so hard to believe I might trip over my own feet?” Cul accused. “I’m not perfect, you know.”

“Norns, have I forgotten to remind you of that today? My apologies -“

“No, Od. You say otherwise, but what you say and what you believe are entirely independent notions. You think I’m perfect.”

Od, for once, fell quiet.

“I’m not perfect,” Cul said again, forcefully. “There is every chance I’m going to fail my Coming-of-Age quest. Every chance that after I leave Asgard, I never come back. Maybe the Midgard Serpent gets me instead of me getting it.”

Od didn’t like seeing Cul so unhappy. He opted for his usual method of cheering Cul. “Oh, Brother, it would be a terrible tragedy if you should never return home.”

“So at least you can admit you’d miss me?”

“Hmm? Oh yes, never seeing you again, I suppose so…I was actually talking about the tragedy of me being the one to ascend the throne of Asgard. Can you imagine Father’s face? No, wait, you don’t have to -“ Od wiped his hand over his face and, to Cul’s astonishment, revealed their Father’s. It was comically large on such a small body.

Od - Bor - scowled. "So this is how Asgard falls. Not with the crash of Ragnarök, nor the woeful call of the e’er-hungry Midgard Serpent - but when they let the strumpet with the trumpet sit in my favourite chair.”

The tension in the air deflated as Cul fought off laughter. “Oh, come off it, you would be a fine king -“

Bor-Od scrunched up his face. “Would I, though?”

“Why not? You’ve the same blood as me -“

Od dispelled Bor’s face with another flourish. “Blood runs thicker in some than others.”

Cul scoffed. “That hardly sounds scientific. Besides, you’ve many qualities that’d make you a great leader -”

“Are you trying to insult me? I’ve done my very best to show my utter incompetence in all fields of leadership. Here, allow me to demonstrate in song...

If I were king -

Wouldn’t that be something?

I’d paint the castle gold

and outlaw growing old -

I’d start a war or two

Just to have something in the news.

I’d break the planet in a week

The outlook for Asheim would be pretty bleak -

So Cul, please, don’t let this come to pass

The last thing that should be on the throne

is an Ass.”

Finally, Cul cracked. "I will miss you and your songs, Od,” he laughed. "If only you could follow me like a skald of old and record my exploits.”

Od sighed theatrically. “Oh, all right. If you insist. But we’ll need to go tonight.”

Cul stared at him. “Are you being serious?”

“Weren’t you?” Od grinned cheekily. "If we take one of the boats to the forest, there’s a portal that’ll get us to Muddla-no-wares, and from there you can get anywhere."

“What are you talking about -“

“You’d be surprised what you find when trying to find a good place to practice singing where no-one can hear you.”

“But the ceremony -“ Cul protested.

“Tomorrow is nothing but pomp and fanfare. It’s perfectly acceptable for Coming-of-Age questers to sneak out in the night, even a King’s son. And travelling companions like skalds and squires are allowed, though it is a more antique custom, and as long as they only perform small acts of aid. Which, being the size I am, is a guaranteed adjective.”

“Mother -“

“Will find it hilarious! …Eventually. I’ll send her a raven every day.”

“Father would be...”

“Apoplectic. But absence makes the heart grow more forgiving; by the time we’re back he’ll surely prepare twice the celebration he would have.” Od reached out a hand to help his brother up. “So…are you perfect, or aren’t you?”

Cul took Od’s hand.

Od smiled wickedly and heaved his brother to his feet. “Meet me by the docks after the feast.”

ᛟ

The smell of brine seared through Odin’s nostrils. Black as glass, the ocean slid by a few feet below him. A breeze blew back his hair, tangling it with starlight.

He was in a boat.

In the distance, a shadowed shore grew. He must be headed there. But why?

He didn’t know. Nor did he know any reason why he shouldn’t go there.

The shore grew closer and closer.

Odin heard it before he saw it.

A voice. Singing. But not with the sounds of men or women. No, this was a song made from the rustle of trees, the muttering of brooks, the keening of animals searching for their pack. It was a voice made from the sound between sounds, the breath taken ahead of words spoken. This was a song that was not a song - but a call.

There was a light on the distant shore. A glowing white figure.

At first, it had no features. As Odin drew closer, a long curtain of dark hair became apparent, along with soft brown eyes.

“Cul?” he whispered.

The figure smiled, teeth as dazzling as Midgard’s moon. “What took you so long, Oddity? Are we going or what?”

Chapter Text

LOKI

Loki wrung out his hair again, still muttering an unending stream of curses.

Thor rolled his eyes as he restored Mjolnir to his belt. “Just change your clothes already, Brother. We’ve enough to deal with without your wet-cat attitude.”

“You dropped me in the ocean, Thor.”

Thor shrugged. “Don’t be so slippery next time.”

“You didn’t even give me a chance to prepare myself. The moment that guard said they’d spotted the boat, you slung me over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I hate flying with you like that -”

But Thor had already marched to the abandoned Asgardian skiff on the beach, leaving Loki to grouse alone. Still fuming, Loki did change, magically swapping from palace finery into his hunting garb. The clothes still clung to his wet skin, but at least he wasn’t wearing twenty pounds of water in his cape anymore. He slicked back his wet hair with one last grumble before joining his brother beside the boat.

Thor was bent over a few obvious bootprints in the mud, studying them closely.

“Shouldn’t we hurry up and follow these?” Loki said.

Thor stood and walked beside the prints, measuring the length of his pace. “He ran to this spot. Pretty excitedly. Then stopped suddenly.” Planting his feet together, Thor matched the much smaller prints of Odin beside them. “He didn’t move from here for some time.” Thor scanned their surroundings. “I don’t see anything that interesting here now.”

Indeed, there wasn’t much in that direction but a bit of muddy beach and a few scruffy bushes. Loki gave an irritated half-shrug. “Perhaps he spotted an animal. Or there was nothing there at all, but he talked with it awhile anyway.”

“Or perhaps it’s the reason he came to this place,” Thor muttered. “Afterwards, he went into the woods. Straight line. No wandering. He knew where he was going...”

Thor kept talking, but his words ceased to mean anything to Loki. They entered his mind in a haze, slurred and unintelligible. Without realizing it, Loki was falling away from it, tilting towards something dark, warm and safe…

“Are you coming, Brother?"

A sudden, alarmed lurching in his stomach as his mind snapped back to attention - Loki stumbled forward, sliding in the mud, nearly collapsing before catching himself.

Thor was already deep in the forest, staring back at him quizzically.

“I’m fine, fine,” Loki said before he could ask. “Just a bit tired.”

Thor didn’t look convinced. “Perhaps you should go home and rest. I can find him alone.”

A flash of irritation flared in Loki’s chest. He channeled it to one hand, casting an illusion of a flame. It had no real heat, but its light was real enough.

“You were planning on walking in the dark?” Loki took long paces, catching up to Thor without the indignity of breaking into a run on the slippery footing. When he caught up to his brother, he sent the flame to hover above the trail, to better illuminate the tracks.

They walked side by side with nothing to say. A few times Loki caught his mind veering into sleep again, and was forced to covertly pinch himself to stay focused. It had been an exceptionally long day, filled with enough trouble to fill an entire unfortunate year. No wonder his body longed for it to be over and fall into blissful sleep. If he could have but a moment to rest his eyes -

Loki walked straight into Thor’s back. His eyes snapped open, his brain only now realizing they’d been closed.

Before he could ask what was the matter, Thor pointed at the illuminated tracks. They were ascending a steep hill, and halfway up the tracks disappeared into a mess of churned-up earth and a series of ruts and streaks descending from it.

“He fell,” Thor said simply.

They didn’t have to exchange anything else. They rushed to the bottom of the skids, unsure of what they hoped to find. To their relief and continued worry, there was no body, injured or otherwise.

Thor examined the wreckage of mud and broken branches and announced “He broke his fall here and recovered before starting to climb again.”

Loki sighed in relief.

“…but with a limp. He injured his right leg.”

Loki’s sigh turned inside out and became a quick inhale. “How serious?”

“Hard to tell. He’s leaning hard to one side, but the leg appears to be usable to some degree.”

Well, at least he’ll be easier to catch up to now.

It was a rather cruel and blasé thought, but Loki hoped it was true.

They continued on, painfully slowly. They couldn’t run and risk losing the tracks or damaging them. Loki fidgeted with his hands, suppressing the urge to run to the fore. Thor, surprisingly, was methodical in his task, eyes furrowed in concentration as he led them through the wilderness. Once upon a time Thor would have recklessly charged off in every direction until he’d trampled down every tree, leaving Odin the tallest thing standing. At some point in their lives, however, Thor had honed that energy into something sustainable and relentless.

Thor made a bootprint of his own next to Odin’s to compare the edges of the two. “We’re about three hours behind him,” he announced. “He’s moving slowly. If we can keep this pace, we should find him in just over an hour.”

Loki noted his brother’s continued terse tone. He wished he could be angry or frustrated with Thor for that - had he not just sworn fraternal co-operation just a short while ago? - but he could not claim that he did not deserve it. Loki had left the door unlocked. Like a fool.

And that was just what Thor knew. If he’d also known of how Loki had treated Odin beforehand - quizzing him with the face of Bestla, abandoning him on the floor - he’d be more than a bit terse with Loki.

An urge to tell Thor swelled in Loki’s throat. He imagined the rage kindling in his brother’s eyes, the betrayal, the disgust and disappointment that might etch his face as he raised Mjolnir to strike. Loki could almost smell the crisping of ozone, almost feel the sweet relief of a bolt of lightning striking him down. Thor leaving him behind in a pile of charcoal would only be fair and ironic punishment.

Loki played the fantasy over and over again in his thoughts until Thor himself interrupted him.

“This can’t keep happening.”

Loki nodded at once. “Yes, the spells on his room are proving wholly inadequate lately. I’ll seek out better Locksmages, scour all the Twelve if I have to -“

“No, Loki.”

Thor’s face was eerie in the flickering light of the false flame. The strong chisels of his face became planes for dancing shadows, but his eyes stayed bright and turned away from his brother.

“No?” Loki bristled at the word. “What do you mean, no? What’s wrong with stronger spells? We can’t keep him safe in his rooms if we don’t try a little harder to secure them.”

“Maybe it’s time to leave those rooms behind.”

The crunch of Loki’s boots suddenly silenced. Thor kept walking, leaving the circle of light.

“What are you saying?”

As if finally realizing he couldn’t track Odin’s trail without Loki’s light, Thor slowed to a stop as well. “...There is Vanaheim,” he said slowly.

A cold needle slid into Loki’s sternum. “Vanaheim? What could possibly be better about Vanaheim?”

“We could modify our old summer retreat there. It’s a calming place, filled with good memories.” Thor fiddled with a loose piece of moss Odin must have disturbed. “And…the Sisters of Idunn are nearby.”

“Why would we have need of them?” said Loki carefully. “Have you lost faith in Bronwenna and Asgardian healers?”

“Many Asgardians are sent to the Sisters when all else fails, Loki. There’s no shame in turning to them for help. They are experienced with…such matters.”

"Experienced with mad people, you mean. Mad people no one else wants to take. And ‘all else’ hasn’t failed at all. There’s much more we can do here. Why are we even having this conversation now? What we need to do is get Father home.” Loki’s fire flared up, twice as bright, and raced ahead. He followed it, brushing past Thor.

“We’ve put off talking options for far too long,” Thor said, eyes still tracing the ground for signs of Odin’s passage. “Our inaction is why we’re here now. What better time to talk? He turned here, by the way.”

Loki was forced to retreat back towards Thor. He’d never had much interest in tracking - far too much dragging your knees in the dirt and sniffing at dung. And yet that skill was what lead them now. A skill Thor seemed to have almost naturally.

“We’ll visit often. Your time with him should be special, instead of continuous obligation," his brother said encouragingly, though his eyes remained fixed to Odin's trail. 

Thor spoke as if it were already done. Why wouldn’t he? He was accustomed to every choice in the realms being his to make.

"If he’s in Vanaheim, or even just outside the palace, you know we’ll rarely have the time to visit. Surrounded by strangers, he’ll deteriorate even faster -“

“Everyone is a stranger to him these days! He knew Sigfried well but that didn’t stop him -” Thor took a breath. “I know he did not mean it…but it can't go on like this. You can't go on like this.”

“I’m fine,” Loki snapped. “A touch of fatigue after a long day proves nothing - I can go on, and I will go on. I’ll find the weakness in our security and I will seal it.”

“The weakness was you forgetting to lock the door, Loki,” Thor said softly.

He had been waiting for it to be said, but hearing Thor say it so calmly, so pityingly, made Loki bristle more than if Thor had shouted it.

“Then I will ask the Locksmages to create a spell that will lock the doors automatically,” he said, a little too sharply.

“That’s not enough, Brother, and you know it.”

Not enough. Never enough.

“I’m enough,” Loki insisted. The confidence of his tone was brittle, its foundations as stable as hour-old ice over a dark lake.

Thor sensed Loki’s frustration, and, irritatingly, continued to speak soothingly and reassuringly. “You shouldn’t have to be enough. You deserve better. Already you’ve sacrificed too much. When was the last time you took time for yourself?”

“My affairs are my affairs,” Loki said coldly. “And this is one of them. As the youngest son, Father’s care falls to me. I’ll decide what’s best.”

Thor groaned. “Best for whom? Certainly not best for you. Not best for Father, either, and certainly not best for Sigfried. Or even best for our family-"

Loki's heart was racing, beating loudly in his ears. He raised his voice to speak over it. “What’s best is that we stay together. As a family!”

The foliage erupted at Loki’s words, emitting a flock of startled sevjislukers into the night. He hadn’t realized how loud his voice had gotten.

Thor put a finger to his lips. Loki bit down on the instant flare of anger that caused. He knew they had to be quiet, couldn’t startle Odin, couldn’t risk him running on his hurt leg into Norns-knew what kind of danger next. But he’d shouted anyway, like a fool.

“We are a family,” Thor stated plainly. “Distance cannot change that.”

Loki said nothing. He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t shout again. His heart was hammering in his chest, flushing his face, scrambling his thoughts. Though he and Thor were the ones hunting Odin through the forest, he felt as if he’d been running from a pack of hounds.

Thor was looking at him with concern. He clearly had been prepared for some pushback, but apparently had not anticipated so heated a response. Loki took a shuddering breath, trying to force his body to be still. Before he could say anything more, Thor’s face crumpled.

“You must think I’m a terrible son. That I don’t care. But I don’t want to send him away. I want him here as desperately as you do. If I could keep him with me and guarantee his safety and everyone else’s I’d never even consider…" Mjolnir reverberated at Thor’s waist, sparking. Thor patted it until it settled. After a long pause, he spoke in a flatter tone of voice. “Father once told me that a good king must think from the perspective of a raven over Asgard, and not dwell within one house - his own most of all.”

"That does sound like something he’d say,” Loki said tersely. “But I’m not king, am I? Good or otherwise.”

“Loki…”

Loki spoke faster and faster. “He’s safer on Asgard. Asgard is safer with him on it as well. That’s how it’s always been.”

“Nothing is for always.”

“A promise is. You took oaths to protect the realms. My oaths were to protect this family.”

“Look around you,” Thor swept his arm out to demonstrate the dark forest. “Is this where Father belongs? Is this protecting him?”

“You aren’t listening to -“ Loki paused. When Thor had gesticulated at the woods, his eye had been drawn to a tree. On its trunk, unmistakably, was a rune for Asgard and an arrow pointing back the way they’d come. He looked away, quickly, feigning interest in something else, hoping Thor hadn’t noticed his sudden attention behind him.

Unfortunately, Thor’s eyes were sharpened by his tracking. He turned and spotted the sign at once. He approached the rune, eyes narrow, and touched it. At once it lit up with a faint, flickering green light - an old spell. And one with a magic too familiar for Thor not to recognize. As he lifted his hand from it, the flesh turned transparent.

Raising an eyebrow, Thor wiggled his rapidly-disappearing fingers and said, “I’m listening.”

“We’re near a fissure in Yggdrasil,” Loki said reluctantly, eyes falling again to Odin’s trail.

“I see. Would this be the one you used to invite your guests to my Coronation? The one you failed to mention for years, despite its obvious risk to Asgard’s security?”

“Nevermind that now. What if that fissure is where Father is going?”

“Then he would travel to another world. Which he is quite capable of doing on his own.”

Loki itched his hand. “You don’t understand. This fissure…it isn’t as simple as a door between worlds. You have to know where you’re going or else you’ll be lost.”

“He’s already lost.”

“No - not like this. This is the kind of lost where you can be found again. People who get lost in the inbetween - in the Ginnungagap - they’re never found again. Lost in Nowhere.”

Thor looked at Loki. Then at the trail.

“Lead the way,” he said. “Quickly.”

ODIN

The fissure seemed almost innocuous. It was curved, like a secretive, craggy smile, full of troublesome rocky teeth. Odin stared down at the darkness within, still ruefully rubbing his hurt ankle.

Cul strode ahead, almost disappearing from view. “Come on, Odball - it’s not long until dawn, we’ve got to hurry!”

When had his brother become the nimbler of the two of them? By rights it should have been him who lead the way to the portal. Instead Cul had brought him here, nearly leaving him behind. How had he even known where it was?

“You know I should be the one leading the way, Brother,” Odin chastised. “You don’t know where we’re going.”

“I know where we’re going. Away from here!”

“Not inaccurate,” Odin admitted. “But we’ll need a clearer destination than that if we don’t want to get lost.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being lost. Many things are.”

How strange Cul’s voice was. It was Cul’s, warm and reassuring and still breaking occasionally, a fate Odin had pitied him for (and dreaded in his own future). But it wasn’t just Cul’s. There were others inside it, like the whirring of moth’s wings trapped in a lantern.

“Someone is near,” Cul said suddenly. “They are looking for you - for us.”

Odin whipped around. “What? How did they find out so fast?”

“It doesn’t matter - quickly, Brother - we must escape!”

Cul leapt into the craggy gap, making almost no noise as he glided down inside it. He seemed to barely touch the sides of the cave, though his pearly light made the whole thing glow.

Odin rubbed his eyes, wondering if what he’d seen was even possible. His hand touched something hard as he did so. He blinked in surprise. As he did so, he became aware that it was only one eye that blinked. In fact, it was with only one eye that he was seeing at all.

He seized at the metal thing, plucking it from his face. His vision remained halved. Panic pricking his chest, he felt the eye socket and found it scarred and empty.

“What happened to me?” he whispered in horror. He looked at the metal in his palm. It was golden, shaped by a fine craftsman. A patch so well-made it seemed more ornamentation than disguise of injury.

Eitri is as talented as his mother, he thought idly. Then, Who’s Eitri? What mother?

The golden eyepatch stared up at him. Existing. While Odin’s right eye did not.

This was wrong. This was all wrong.

“Come on, Od! They’re nearly here! Jump!”

Cul was right - he should hurry. They didn’t have much time until…but they never made it this far, did they? They’d just gotten here, had been about to leave when that terrible sound had shook Asheim -

It was quiet now, but for the hissing of the voice in the chasm.

“We’re in this together, Brother - come with me! Let’s be lost together!”

The voice was so beautiful. He had to follow it. Had to go with it. Had to -

Two voices called out from the darkness. “Father?” The sound was so jarring Odin turned his head as if he’d been struck on the cheek.

“They’ll take you away,” warned the voice from the portal. “They’ll take you away from me!”

“But who are you?” Odin mumbled, his brains pounding.

“Come now!”

“FATHER!”

“JUMP!”

Instead, Odin stumbled backwards, falling into some low shrubs behind him. Almost by instinct, he threw up an illusion to make him appear as one of them - but even more uninteresting.

Moments later, two towering figures broke into the glade.

“The tracks go right to that opening,” said the wider one. “Is that the portal?”

“It is,” said the weedier. “Are we too late?”

The wider one bent down and squinted at the stone. “…No,” he said in relief. “He lingered, then moved on.”

Odin tensed as both figures turned towards him, blue eyes piercing the darkness. He tried to think bushy thoughts.

“…but with all this stone, it’s harder to see a trail. Brighten your light, Brother.”

The weedy brother raised his hand. The ball of false fire at their feet grew twice as large, throwing hungry light over the entire clearing.

Thinking bushy thoughts as he was, Odin couldn’t help but feel a twinge of fear, even if no heat came from the thing.

The tracker grew increasingly agitated as he circled the space, kicking at undergrowth. “It just stops,” he seethed. He looked back at the mage. "Can’t you do something magic to reveal where he’s gone?”

The mage shrugged. “My kind of magic is, unfortunately, more about making things appear as they aren’t, more than revealing them as they are.”

The tracker snorted and muttered something under his breath. The mage tensed. “It was quite useful when I eased our escape in Nornheim -“

“Running away ‘better’ than we could have is hardly something a warrior would brag about -“

“A true warrior knows when a tactical retreat can lead to greater victory -“

The larger man sighed loudly. “Not this again. Haven’t we got bigger problems?”

“You brought it up,” the mage said peevishly.

“I did not.”

“Thor, you're - ”

“Enough, Loki.”

So, they were called Thor and Loki. They fancied themselves warriors. They were definitely fools. It probably ran in the family, seeing as their father had managed to get himself lost in the woods at night. Or maybe he’d run off to escape their bickering. If so, the man was a coward - he should face the failures of his parenting and correct it before these two could inflict themselves on the rest of Asgard.

Soundlessly, Odin drew back his arm, still clutching the golden eyepatch. The two men continued arguing, loud enough that Odin knew to aim for something even louder. He hurled the patch through the woods, striking a hollow stump, ricocheting off a stone, and finally landing with a loud ‘ploop’ in the stream. It wasn’t too bad a throw - about a quarter of a mile. The so-called warriors at least had sharp enough hearing to detect it. They hurried into the woods after it, leaving him in blessed quiet.

Oldest trick in the book. Their father really did have a lot more to teach them.

How could I have failed them so badly?

What? Failed whom? What sort of thought was that to think? He had to get back to…where was he going, again?

His body moved without his conscious direction, shedding his bushy illusion as he walked to the edge of the clearing the men had disappeared into.

Thor. Loki.

Thor? Loki?

“Thor…Loki…” he called out, still confused.

Hesitantly, Odin followed the trail they’d left. Hampered by his hurt leg, halved vision and lack of light, he soon found himself swallowed whole by the woods. He fell twice more, double-backed without realizing it, found himself staring at impassable gorges and deep streams, but seemingly never the same obstacle twice. Or maybe he had, and simply forgotten it.

“Children…” he tried to call into the thickening mist. “Where are my children?”

Shadows flickered just out of the corners of his eyes. Sometimes they were low, only at knee-level. Others towered. All fled when he turned to look at them, dissolving into the thickening mist.

He followed them anyway. The fog soaked his clothes, weighing him down, and his ankle twanged with every pivot. Again and again he stumbled in one direction after another, almost hearing, almost seeing them, their names coming and going from his mind.

A branch caught at his leg, very much like a small hand grasping for attention. He spun around, reaching out to grab the hand, his heart swelling with relief and joy -

It was too much, too fast for his injury. He fell, striking stones and thorny weeds on the way down. He didn’t rise again. He lay there, struggling to breathe the heavy mist.

His children…where were his children? Why couldn’t he reach them? How could he have been so careless as to lose them in the haze?

“Father…?”

It was faint, but familiar. Odin called back to it. “Here! I’m here!”

Something broke through the mist, striding towards him. Not a shadow, but a light. Odin had to shield his eyes.

“Oh, Father…what have you done to yourself?” The voice seemed to change pitch and tone as the glowing figure spoke. It didn’t seem like one voice, but to be shifting between several that Odin knew well.

“I am well,” Odin grumbled gruffly.

“Hardly. You’re injured, and lost.”

The All-Father scoffed. “I am not lost. I am always exactly where I mean to be.”

“Do you mean to be on your back? Surely you’d rather stand.” The figure held out a glowing hand.

Without thought, without doubt, Odin reached out and took the hand.

He recognized the shape of it as the figure helped him to stand. Surely this was Frigga’s hand? It had the same softness, the same cleverness - but no, the fingers were broader, the nails a touch squarer.

Now close to it, Odin squinted at the figure’s face, which dimmed slightly, as if welcoming his examination. Blue eye met blue eyes. Odin’s darted to and fro over the boy’s face, growing wider and wider with every discovery.

The curl of the hair (so like Gefjun’s).

The thin eyebrows, barely visible (Mother had the same).

A small cleft in the chin (that was all Cul’s).

The jaw was square (a mirror of Thor’s), but the chin was blunted at a familiar angle (Frigga again).

And of course the eyes. A colour that’s haunted every gaze in my family.

The shy smile was new. All his own. Something Odin had never gotten to see.

“It’s not so terrible, being lost. Sometimes two lost things can find each other.”

Hand shaking, Odin reached out to brush his fingers against the boy’s cheek. It burned and froze in equal measure. “It can’t be…”

His name…I should say his name…

He could not remember it.

“It’s alright, Father. I don’t need a name where we’re going, anyway.”

The boy put Odin’s arm over his neck, shoring up the injured limb. As they set off even deeper into the woods, the boy began to sing. There were no words, few sounds that were even human. It was a mix of branches clacking in a winter breeze and the ruffle of hawk’s feathers.

It was so beautiful that a tear was brought to Odin’s remaining eye.

Before he could remember that he didn’t sing anymore, he joined in, his voice melting into the boy’s in perfect harmony.

LOKI

“Brother? What’s happened to the light?”

Loki had stopped dead on the path, his illusory light guttering in and out of existence. He didn’t seem terribly aware of its manic state - his eyes were fixed dead ahead, vacant.

“Can you hear that?” Loki said distantly.

Thor frowned. There were many noises in the woods at night - they seemed louder than they were even in the day. Yet nothing unusual interrupted the usual chatter of bugs and nocturnal beasts to his ear.

“Is it Father?” Thor asked eagerly.

Loki held up a finger to shush him, gaze still fixed. "I think…one is.”

Thor frowned, moving closer. “One of what? What else is there?”

Loki’s skin was crawling again, as if covered in marching ants. It was faint, so faint - like trying to hear a private conversation by pressing his ear against a stone wall. He could almost make it out.

“There’s another…voice?” That wasn’t quite right. “A…sound. Many sounds. Speaking like a voice, but not…not actually speaking.”

Tentatively, Thor squeezed Loki’s shoulder, as if trying to wake him. “You aren’t making any sense, Brother.”

That’s because this doesn’t make any sense, Loki thought, the crawl in his skin intensifying. Yet there was something else, something more beneath it - a pounding in his blood, a dryness in his throat, a building urge in his mind he could not name.

“I…should be doing something…” he muttered under his breath.

“Yes, you should be lighting your false-fire and telling me plainly what it is you heard,” Thor said, but Loki was not listening to anything near him anymore.

Something was pounding in his head, like an incessant knock on a door. He just had to find that door and open it, and he’d know what it was, and what it wanted with him…

Thor was still saying useless, distracting things like “Where are you going, Loki?” and “Slow down, I can barely see you,” and “Wait, come back! LOKI!”

His cries slid through Loki’s consciousness like water through a net. Instead, his ears focused on the song.

It wasn’t the right song. It had echoes of it - stolen fragments, weaving in and out of its abductor. A different voice, a hungry voice. Singing a hungry, hunting song.

He ran like he’d never run before. There was no decorum, no thought as to where he was going or how to place his feet to get there. Every step simply landed where it needed to be, every scratch against his person no more than a tickle or passing annoyance.

Brambles caught at his cape. Without a second a thought, he released it from his shoulders, breaking free like a horse escaping his reins. He soon recovered his speed, ears registering the slowly growing volume of the song as he grew closer and closer.

Loki ran through a stream, its loud babbling drowning out his own splashing footfalls. The water still soaked through his boots, chafing his skin against the leather. He released the buckles and plucked them from his feet without a second thought.

Mud squelched through his toes, slimy and oddly satisfying. One of his knees cried out in protest, but he overrode it. Pain was part of the flow. Part of the chase. And he was so very near the end.

He scrambled up the bank on the other side, emerging into a thick blanket of mist. Without hesitation, needing merely the song to guide him, Loki plunged in.

His body vanished from his sight. This did not bother him - he’d never felt more aware of himself, of every nerve exposed to the cool air. His bare feet found his way without conscious effort until he stood in front of a tree. He waited.

It flickered. For a moment, it was not just another tree. It was taller, blacker, deader. Familiar.

The tree from the Garden.

Loki turned to see if the other trees were here.

The mist was too thick to see more than two other nondescript, average looking conifers. Then again -

Loki squinted, and they shifted, blurring into the trees he remembered. The tall, strong oak with branches reaching high. The stunted rowan tree, choking with mistletoe.

At the base of the rowan was a figure, glowing white, staring across at him.

A blink. The conifers returned. At the base of the furthest -

Father.

Odin's knees were dark with mud, his eyepatch missing and his hair tangled with leaves - but Loki hardly noticed any of that. It was his father’s gait that felt odd. He moved with a limp, and yet his weight seemed to be shifting oddly. At times, his feet barely moved, and yet he glided forward again anyway.

He’s not alone.

Loki’s skin crawled, suddenly growing hot. Again the world seemed to flicker. The glowing figure reappeared, its arm wrapped around Odin, half-supporting, half-dragging him forward. Its voice became suddenly very clear, like a loud whisper directly into Loki’s ear.

“Come quickly, come with me

There’s so much below to hear and see

What was lost has now been found

Deep, deep under the ground

Come and see - it’s under the tree

Quickly, quickly - stay with me…”

It did not sing alone. Odin’s voice trailed behind, as if half-heartedly learning the words.

As the figure approached the tree, it began to shudder. It fell to the side slightly, something shifting near its roots…

A hole. A hole was opening in the ground. Wide enough to fit a man.

The figure went in first, still gripping Odin’s hand. The old man obediently slid down after it, clambering into the hole willingly. As if he was being stolen willingly.

Loki watched no more.

The earth shuddered as his feet slapped against it, the trees rustled in surprise and anger. The music changed. Faster, faster, faster it sang, and faster, faster, faster Odin moved with it. He’d nearly vanished completely into the opening - only the stub of a boot remained outside. Even as Loki reached out, the hole began to shrink, as if about to swallow.

“No you don’t!” Loki hissed, plunging his hand inside and grasping at the trailing pants leg. The hole choked - the music shrieked - the leg kicked, nearly striking Loki in the skull. He added his second hand to the first, even as the old man raged and clawed at the dirt, trying with all his might to go into the dark.

Something on the other end of Odin pulled back. Loki was snapped forward, plunging into the tunnel. The legs continued to kick and fight, even as the tunnel began to narrow and the air ran thin. Behind them, the mouth of the tunnel closed. Ahead, the light of the new, unknown portal flickered.

“Let me go!” Odin shouted, his voice so overwhelmed with emotion it was unrecognizable.

Loki did not let go.

“He can’t have you,” he grunted, his own voice ragged. With every exhalation of breath, the dirt closed in, making every breath shallower and shallower.

“He’s mine. My son. I have to go with him…I have to protect him this time…” Odin was still clawing at the dirt, trying to wriggle away.

“I’m your son,” Loki wheezed, tightening his grip on the fabric.

Odin stilled, staring down the tunnel at the light, as if listening rapturously to something.

“I remembered his name,” he said, hoarse. “I remember…”

“Thor and Loki,” Loki hissed. “Your sons are Thor and Loki, and you are coming with Loki -“ He tried to yank Odin towards him. Whatever it was that held his father’s other arm pulled Odin forward another two inches instead, stalemating him.

“…Thor? Yes…I know Thor…good lad…I left him, too…he was supposed to have a brother when I returned…we’d already chosen the name…”

“Loki…you called him Loki…I am your real son, that creature is not yours - help me save you from it -“

“Loki…” Odin said the name slowly, without a hint of familiarity. “What a strange name. That’s not it at all…no…my son was given a warmer name than that...”

“You named him Loki.”

“Lies. I remembered it…his name…his name was…”

The boot collided into Loki’s nose with no warning. Hot blood gushed instantly out of his face, leaving him reeling and choking. His grip loosened. Odin seized the opportunity and slipped from his grasp like a wet fish.

“BALDUR!” he cried, crawling into the light.

The music returned, so loud that Loki’s ears rang with it, Odin’s broken, disjointed voice driving it, singing out the name of Baldur, Baldur, Baldur - he was slipping away, disappearing into the light, pulling away, and for an instant in his pain Loki saw a pale, phantom form spreading its arms to welcome Odin into the light, a face that was both familiar and unfamiliar, with eyes so terribly blue.

Loki stared into them, and with an overwhelming sense of utter hatred, he snarled, throwing himself forwards, swimming through the dirt, and, at the last second, snatching Odin’s leg with both hands.

“You…named…him…LOKI!” he declared, pulling on Odin’s leg with all his strength. Where his hand touched Odin’s skin, a tingling sensation spread, but Loki did not fear it now. In fact, he felt a sudden rush of strength, and with a surety he could not name he pressed his hands to the top of the tunnel and pushed.

The earth turned cold and solid, cracking like an egg. Blue light from above breeched the tunnel.

Odin screamed like a dying animal as Loki wrapped his arms around him and brought him out. Loki could scarce contain his father’s manic struggling in his arms. He only made it a few steps before being knocked off-balance, sending them both tumbling down. Immediately Odin started crawling back towards the rupture, still flickering with an unholy light.

Loki pounced, pinning Odin’s limbs to the ground.

“You can’t have him!” Loki shouted at the voice, which was still chanting, still reaching, still beating in his ears. “He’s mine!”

Odin wailed again.

An invisible force grabbed the scruff of Loki’s neck and began to pull him loose. Loki thrashed, resisting it, hands clenching over Odin's wrists even tighter. A strange wave of lethargy passed through him. No doubt it was some trick of the thing in the hole, trying to weaken him, trying to steal away his magic as well as his father - well, he’d show it just how much power he really had.

He pushed back against the drain, sending power racing to the tips of his fingers with vengeful zeal. There was a hiss and sharp stench of burning flesh, and Loki bared his teeth in triumph.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, LOKI?! Let go!!”

Something grabbed ahold of Loki, attempting to lift him off Odin. He fought, digging his fingernails into the old man, refusing to lose. Meaty hands seized Loki’s own wrists and forced his palms open. Odin fell from his grasp. The tingling itch retreated.

Loki screeched in rage. No, he’d won, he’d caught the old man fair and square, he was his, his catch. He’d never let Odin sing such terrible songs again, no, he wouldn’t, because Loki had won!

He writhed in the grasp of the creature that held him, spitting and fighting, trying to get free enough to see its face -

Thor’s face swam into view out of the cobalt darkness, furious and - frightened.

Loki faltered, eyes darting back and forth between the dim glistens that marked his brother’s.

“What's come over you?” Thor said, uncharacteristically hushed.

“I… I…” Loki’s mind reeled, confused as to where he was, aware of sudden aches and pains throughout his body. “There…there was something here…it was trying to take him…”

Thor's face was covered in scratches and his hair full of lichen - yet he had to look better than Loki, who could still feel his nose streaming blood, the clumps of mud stuck to his face and the chill of his naked feet in the grass. Even as Loki’s gaze darted about feverishly, Thor’s held steady.

“There’s nothing here but us, Loki. You were the one wrestling Father.”

Odin, as if aware he was being spoken of, began crawling away again.

“Stop him!” Loki's sudden, powerful attempt to get free nearly took Thor by surprise. “He’s getting away!” he hissed as Thor crushed him against his chest.

Odin had scurried back at the spot where the hole had been. He looked about frantically, grabbing handfuls of sand and tossing it away, digging with his own bare hands, tearing his nails against the hard-packed soil.

Still clutching Loki tight, Thor tried to go to Odin, speaking words that did not penetrate his mania. Odin began to keen, beating his fists against the dirt in despair.

Thor backed away. His grip on Loki loosened, changing from one of restraint to one unconsciously seeking reassurance. The younger brother did not take advantage, only standing next to Thor and swaying slightly, eyes still perplexed and clouded. They stayed that way, frozen, as the first rays of pink light peeked into the clearing.

Eventually, Odin’s howls became sobs and his sobs became whimpering and the whimpering became whispering as he curled up upon the churned earth and drifted into a shuddering sleep.

Even then, neither of Odin’s sons moved.

The pink dawn light warmed to golden, burning away the last of the mist. In the light, Loki finally noticed the wounds on his father's arms. Blackened weals, with lines emanating outward. A distinct shape that took Loki a while to recognize.

Slowly, the tattered prince raised his hands up to his eyes. They were torn and muddied, yet much as he remembered them. A perfect match to Odin’s burns.

Chapter Text

THOR

The walk back to the beach passed slowly - or seemed to, anyway, as it was still early morning by the time they reached it. Without saying a word, Loki climbed aboard the skiff first. Thor, still carrying Odin, stepped in after. Loki raised his hands to help, but Thor shrugged him off.

“Drive,” he said curtly, sitting at the front of the boat.

Loki, for once, did as he was told.

They skimmed just above the sea, dappled with the rose of sunrise without surrendering the twinkle of reflected stars. The whine of the engine and whip of wind was a welcome alternative to conversation.

Eventually, the gleam of Asgard’s city emerged from around a fjord. It shimmered, impossibly gold and bright in the new day. The palace at its heart cast a long shadow to one side, likely allowing some Asgardians a small respite from the morning. It was as pristine and untouched as ever, as though today were just the same as yesterday.

“Stop the boat,” Thor ordered.

Loki slowly released the throttle, holding the skiff in a hover.

Thor still couldn’t bring himself to look his brother in the eye. “We can’t return like this. The Einherjar would probably shoot us on sight. We are hardly…our usual selves.”

Loki again glanced down at his hands, as he’d done over and over again on their way out of the woods. They were still smeared in mud and covered in small scratches, likely from his mad dash through the foliage. The more obvious problem, at least to Thor’s eye, was the copious amount of blood that crusted the bottom half of his brother's face and a good deal of his chest, dying his usual green livery to a dull red-brown. His lack of shoes was also a sure-to-be-noticed detail. Thor couldn’t even recall the last time he’d been able to verify that his brother possessed toes - but there they were, all ten of them, as scratched and muddied as the rest of him.

It disturbed Thor, far more than his own rumpled appearance. It was one thing for Thor to be scratched, muddied, or wearing torn garments - and something else entirely for the fastidious Loki, who had limped all the way down the mountain without so much as summoning another pair of boots.

“We need appropriate attire,” Thor prodded Loki again.

Loki gave a sudden, quick shake of his head, as if he’d been jolted awake in class. He frowned down at himself and brushed away the larger pieces of bark and mud before dissolving his attire with a flurry of magical sparks. When they cleared, he was wearing an outfit Thor knew he generally reserved for observing ceremonial sporting matches. The last time he'd seen his brother wearing it had been in the summer, at a game of Knattleikr. Loki had little cared for such events but enjoyed socializing with visiting diplomats in the Royal Box, offering colourful commentary and subtly seeding ideas into casual conversation that would prove useful for manipulation in later negotiation - that was the real game, for him. He did it all with smiles and laughter, never having to get out of breath.

He’d been nothing like the dazed man that sat before Thor now, seemingly unaware that even this swapped garment was imperfect - creased in odd places, ill-fitting in some undefined way.

Loki glanced nervously at Thor, raising his hands in offering. Thor tightened his mouth into a hard line but nodded. Loki approached and gently tapped Thor’s shoulder. The glamour tingled over his skin, but it was thin enough that he knew he could easily dispel it with a brief flicker of lightning once he returned to his rooms. His armour shone, while what he could see of his own hair was now free of lichen and small twigs. It would still be agony to comb them all out later, he knew - they were only disguised, not removed.

His brother moved to do the same to Odin. Abruptly, Thor stood, sending Loki stumbling backwards. “That's not necessary,” Thor growled.

Loki took several more steps back. He glanced down at Odin’s wrists and back at Thor, opening his mouth as if to say something. Instead, he sat down at the navigation without a word. Awaiting further instruction.

“Your face,” Thor said after a long silence.

Brow wrinkled in confusion, Loki touched his face. Some of his dried blood flaked off. He itched at it, then seemed to flinch at the sight of the red collected under his fingernails. Another glamour spread across his face and hands in a quick flash of golden green.

Loki looked almost himself again. But Thor knew the blood was still there. Every so often, Loki itched at it again. It didn’t seem to occur to his brother that he could have leaned down and scooped up some ocean water to wash it away for real.

Thor turned his attention away from Loki and back towards their father. The old king still hadn’t stirred from his exhaustion. Gently, he plucked at Odin’s sleeves, pulling them down over his burned wrists. He brushed off as much dried mud as he could and tried to straighten his clothes. He couldn’t do anything about the missing eyepatch, though. It was a nest of scar tissue - some from the blade of Laufey, that which had taken his eye, and some that were the remnants of Odin’s eyelids, before the healers had welded them shut.

The times Thor had seen Odin without his eyepatch were fewer than the times he’d seen his father entirely naked - both felt like a disturbing transgression. He liked the idea of the rest of Asgard seeing it even less.

He brushed a little of Odin’s hair over it. It wasn’t that wounds of war were reviled in Asgard - in fact, Odin’s missing eye was something of a national pride. It proved him a king unafraid to put his flesh on the line, along with his soldiers, and so permanently marked. And yet…there was something disturbing about the scarred, eyeless pit. Something vulnerable that the metallic, decorated patch Odin usually wore did not convey.

It was proof that Odin could be harmed, and never truly fixed.

Thor settled Odin back into his arms and told Loki to return them to the docks.

When they arrived, there was already a crowd waiting for them. They clamoured with concern, asking for orders Thor was only too happy to give. An Einherji peeled off to get reinforcements to guard Odin’s room, while another was sent to speak to the head healer, Bronwenna. Other servants he dispatched to gather supplies and to tell concerned lords and ladies that all was well once more - a lie he’d had to tell without Loki, as his brother had seemingly evaporated into the crowd. There was relief in that - Thor wasn’t sure he could’ve taken much more of his silent shadow hanging a little way back, making Thor ask himself questions he didn’t want to know the answers to.

Thor broke free of the crowd with a stride, still bearing his father. He took him to royal chambers himself, arriving several minutes before Bronwenna could. He laid Odin down on his vast mattress, propping him up against the pillows. Still he did not stir, nor so much as snore. It was too easy to see this as a preview of…

Thor looked away, only to see a game of hnefatafl in progress on a small table near a window. He’d never had much of a head for strategy, but he’d been forced to play Loki enough times to recognize one of his typical strategies in progress. He was only a few moves away from taking the king piece hostage and winning. Behind the table was a glass case, where Odin used to keep a wide array of rare spirits. Thor had often sought to purloin one or two in his boyhood rebellions, even though at that age he could scarcely appreciate their quality. Now, however, the bottles were oddly shaped and filled with tinctures and potions, each carefully labelled in Bronwenna’s hand with a time it was meant to be consumed. Thor approached the cabinet and opened it, wondering vaguely if he needed to feed Odin one of them. A piece of parchment fluttered to his feet when he did. It was a chart, clearly marking off what had been consumed and when, as well as a few short notes of observed symptoms and reactions. The spidery writing was not Bronwenna’s, but still familiar to Thor from many long hours spent copying it for schoolwork.

Thor returned it to the cabinet and locked the door again after failing to really decipher much meaning from it. It would be better to wait for the Healers. They’d know what was right.

There was a chair drawn up by the bed. Thor sank into it, realizing too late that it wasn’t empty. He awkwardly pulled out a book whose crimson colour had blended into the chair’s velvet. Thor immediately recognized it - The Tales of Askeladd.

Thor put it back on the nightstand before drawing his chair closer to Odin’s bed. He gently took his father’s soft hand in his, avoiding the burns on his wrists. The burns in the shape of fingers.

He hadn’t even known that Loki could do that - in both senses of the word. Loki couldn’t summon true fire - only the illusion of it. This very room proved that Loki pursued Odin’s wellbeing.

…Didn’t it?

Loki could be cruel. His grudges were legendary and his paybacks orchestrated over decades (he’d once told Thor that he approached revenge as a five-act play, with potential for sequels). But while Thor had, on occasion, been on the receiving end of petty vengeance, the sort of tricks Loki had played on his own family always lacked much heat - he’d often forgiven Thor for his perceived sleights weeks before Thor could figure out just what he’d ‘done’, if he ever could. Loki’s darkest ire had always been reserved for those outside of themselves.

Or so you thought, a niggling thought came to Thor. What he did before your coronation - that had shadow. If he was capable of that, all those years ago, what else has he been doing with you none the wiser? Your friends often tried to convince you of Loki’s ill intent, and you shrugged them off, claiming they didn’t know him as you knew him.

Odin muttered in his sleep, pulling his hand out of Thor’s and rolling away to face the opposite wall. Without really thinking about it, Thor picked up the Askeladd book from the night table and opened it to the bookmark. He started reading, if only for something to do.

Thor knew this story - The Heartless Troll. He smiled at that, though he’d never been very interested in anything Askeladd related. Sure, there were giants killed, unicorns captured, princesses rescued and prizes won - but the older brothers, the warriors, always had to fail first before the clever Askeladd could show them up with deception and cunning. It always struck the young Thor that there was something distinctly unsporting about that, and he protested whenever Askeladd was chosen as the evening’s entertainment. Still, it was a fixture of their childhood, and Thor knew its battered cover and intricate illustrations well. How had he not immediately recognized it by the cover?

He flipped the book closed and stared at it. The cover was dark brown leather. The stamped runes that made up the title were so cracked they were nearly illegible, the gold leaf long worn away. There was, however, a faint impression of a bird on it, still stained faintly dark.

Thor didn’t remember their copy having any of that. And this was too old to be a replacement cover.

He returned to the spot marked by the bookmark and skimmed the story. To his surprise, although certain passages were identical to the ones he knew by heart, others were entirely different.

“What on Midgard is a gjällarhorn?” he wondered aloud. “And what is it doing in this tale?”

As far as Thor was concerned, there was one version of this story and one only. He didn’t much like the idea of another, incorrect version out there, confusing what should be a simple truth.

Thor skipped to the end, determined to see if it ended as it should. It had been one of the few parts he’d enjoyed as a child. All brothers and wives had returned home to their father, who’d prepared a grand feast for them. They’d danced and sung and fought good-naturedly all night long. Surely this version wouldn’t have the conceit to go differently?

All the same, he called out once more to his father. “My body may have changed, but you must recognize my voice!”

The king fell silent.

“Surely you remember my voice!” Askeladd asked again.

“My son left me many years ago,” the king said. “Leave me to my grief, you heartless monster.”

And so Askeladd was banished to the Wasteland with the other twisted and unwanted creatures of the world. He had once wanted to see the world, but now everywhere he wandered looked much the same - burnt and blighted.

He saw such terrible things. Suffering and death, loneliness and despair were all around him. It should have torn him apart with its wretchedness.

But he walked on, feeling only a coldness.

…Thor stared at that final period, uncomprehending. This was not at all the story he remembered, nor even the formula of the Askeladd stories he’d grown sick of. It was not at all the small comfort he had hoped to find, here at his father’s sickbed.

“My King?” said a woman’s voice, outside the bedroom door.

“Enter,” Thor said quickly, standing and dropping the book to the table as if it were a dog dropping he’d picked up by mistake.

Healer Bronwenna didn’t waste a moment, bustling in like a minor force of nature. She activated the Soul Forge built into Odin’s bed and immediately began to catalogue the damage, tutting and chatting all the while. This disturbed Thor a little, as he’d grown up used to the stern silence of Eir, the previous head healer. Bronwenna had been her apprentice and was younger than Thor by a good amount. Somehow it still seemed unreal that she was now indeed head healer, instead of the shy, spotty girl always clanking about with jars of plant specimens she could conveniently hide behind.

“How did you get these burns, All-Father Odin?” she clucked as she examined his wrists. “They have a very peculiar shape…”

Bronwenna kept talking, but Thor felt the presence of a silence nonetheless. It took him a moment to realize what hadn’t been said. “Healer Bronwenna… we need…desecration. I mean, discretion. About…how this happened.”

Bronwenna nodded absent-mindedly, already behind Thor and opening the cabinets full of medical supplies. “Of course, Your Majesty. That is expected. Lady Eir told me that I’d need a very bad memory to work for royalty.” She winked, so quickly Thor wondered if he’d imagined it. “At least, if anyone ever asked me about anything. Your medical histories are well guarded, of course.”

“Er…yes. I…Odin was burned by…well…” Thor rubbed the back of his neck. “It was…an accident. While trying to catch him. Is it serious?”

Bronwenna pursed her lips. “I’ve certainly seen worse.” She searched her endless pockets and pulled out a jar of ointment and gestured.

Thor took it and began slathering it on Odin’s wound liberally but gently. He’d done it many times before, although never for his own father. Burns were common in war. Thor’s back had had a particularly nasty one courtesy of Muspelheim, and Captain Siegfried had lost a finger in Jotunheim to a freezing burn.

Odin’s flesh hissed and spat as the poultice rushed through its work. The old man flinched, but the wound healed in the time it took for him to do so. Bronwenna saw to his bruises next, with a poultice that faded them until they were indistinguishable from the numerous liver spots.

The wound on his forehead was the first mark that seemed to give her pause. She examined it carefully. “When did he get this?”

“Same time as the other wounds,” Thor said. “Just this night."

“…No. I don’t think so.” Bronwenna brushed at the seeping scab, lending it a little of her trademark blue magic. “This is at least a day old. And whatever did it was powerfully magical in nature. I cannot easily close this.”

Thor’s eyes flashed in consternation. “He was hurt before this night? How?” He thought back to the Vault. Had something fallen on Odin’s head? But…no, that had only been a little before the night, not a full day as Bronwenna claimed. Although Thor could not recall any marks on Odin at all in that battle.

Lost in thought, Thor dragged his fingers through his hair, catching bits of detritus and a small twig that had gotten caught there during his pursuit of Loki. He looked directly at them in his palm but saw nothing but clean skin. He dropped them to the floor. They reappeared on impact with a ripple of green magic. Dirt, lichen. Bits of bark. He was still a proper mess. Yet when he looked across the room into his mother’s mirror, he saw himself as well-groomed as he’d ever managed.

Just as Loki had intended.

“Do you know if he missed any of his potions?” Bronwenna asked, finishing a series of magical stitches on Odin’s head. “It’s very important he get them at specific times. The log for the past day is blank. That isn’t like your brother, to forget to record these things.”

“I…I’m not sure. It’s been a…hectic time,” Thor said distractedly.

I can’t be thinking what I’m thinking.

I can’t have seen what I saw.

It just can’t be like that.

“What time will your brother be by, All-Father? I can start him off as usual for today, but if he did miss a day of potions I’ll need to adjust the amounts.”

Thor brushed his thumb under the wound on Odin’s head. The stitches were fighting to close the gap, but something malevolent lurked beneath the flesh, resisting their pull towards healing.

“Loki will…not be coming today. Nor tomorrow. Or…for the next while.” Thor heard the words as if spoken by someone else. “I will be attending my father.”

Bronwenna had never been as good as Eir at hiding her emotions. Her stare was like that of a thunderstruck fawn.

“Oh, I see, I see. He has been stretched rather thin, lately. That’s very good of you, Your Majesty. Especially with a war newly started and everything.”

“I’ve had lots of wars. I’ll only ever have one father,” Thor huffed.

“You’ve also only got one body, and not much sleep in it,” Bronwenna noted shrewdly. “I can care for All-Father Odin for now. It might be best if you recovered before attending him this evening…?”

Odin still looked so pale. So fragile. So alone. How could Thor abandon him, so soon after finding him again?

Though it was true that there was little he could do for his father here. He’d only be getting in Bronwenna’s way. There were other things he could do to protect Odin. Had to do.

He thanked Bronwenna again and departed, but not for his bed.

It was a long walk out to the Bifröst Observatory.

Heimdall was waiting patiently, up on the dias with his hands resting on Hofundr.

Thor didn’t waste any time with pleasantries. “Did you see what happened in the woods last night?”

Heimdall’s ever-even orange gaze fixed itself at some point far behind Thor, as the Gatekeeper had a disconcerting habit of doing. “When I realized something was amiss, I turned my gaze upon Odin. I found him only a little before you did.”

Thor’s temper had always had a short fuse, but lack of sleep had snipped even that in half. “When you realized something was amiss? How did it take so long for you to realize - were you not watching Odin?”

“The Royal Apartments and Chambers are protected from my gaze unless I am given express permission to observe,” Heimdall intoned. “I had no such permission last night. Nor was I asked or informed of events."

Thor wanted to growl in frustration. Privacy had trumped security. Both in terms of banning Heimdall’s gaze and Loki’s infuriating desire to keep things ‘quiet’ and not even ask for the Gatekeeper’s help.

“When did you realize something was amiss?”

“I could not see something.”

“What couldn’t you see?”

Heimdall frowned, so slightly that it scarcely creased his brow. “I do not know.”

Great. Very helpful. It seems ‘All-Seeing Eyes’ may require an asterisk. “Could you see Loki?”

“No. He usually hides from my sight. Last night was no different.”

“Was he the thing you couldn’t see?”

“…When Loki slips my watch, I notice nothing. Last night I noticed…a nothing.”

Confused, but also a little intrigued, Thor inquired “Is it a threat to Asgard?”

“I do not know. I am not even sure if it is of Asgard or…elsewhere. It is currently gone - or rather, not gone. It may not even properly exist.”

Then it is not currently one of my pressing problems. Thor quickly returned to his previous track. “But you did see my father?”

Heimdall nodded. “I did. Eventually. I am sorry I could not have been of use sooner.”

Thor couldn’t take anymore of that relentless, endless stare. He looked off the bridge, into the sky’s battered reflection on the water below. “Did you…see what happened to him? I…when I came upon him…I’m not sure what I saw.”

Heimdall delayed speaking for a long time. Longer, even, then he usually did.

“…I do not believe that Loki meant to hurt your father,” he said at last.

Thor’s blood chilled. “He didn’t mean to…but he did. Didn’t he?”

Heimdall held another long pause. “Yes.”

Thor cupped his hand over his eyes.

“I believe he meant only to restrain your father - to prevent him from injuring himself,” Heimdall continued.

How twisted things must be if Heimdall is trying to defend the actions of Loki… Thor resisted a smile. It would have been a twisted smile, too.

“Have you…ever seen my brother harm Father before? Whether he meant to or not?”

Heimdall bowed his head. “Harm is a broad term, Your Grace. When Odin is…unreasonable, he takes offence easily. His feelings have been harmed in such times, but he soon forgets it. Sometimes he injures himself, or attempts to fight your brother in the midst of some delusion -“

“I would not believe it of you, Gatekeeper, but you are reminding me rather too much of Loki. It is he who attempts to dodge a simple question by making it complex.” Thor met Heimdall’s eyes again, this time with a sharp stare of his own. “Did Loki harm my father a day previous to last night’s encounter?”

Heimdall met Thor’s stare without losing an ounce of his trademark serenity. “I cannot say.”

It was not like Heimdall to lie. Legend had it that he was incapable of it. And yet Thor sensed that at the very least the Gatekeeper was holding something back.

There was only one person he would do that for. And it was certainly not Loki.

Thor squared himself directly in front of Heimdall. “What did my father ask of you?”

The Gatekeeper pulled Hofundr from the dias and walked down the steps until he stood on the floor next to Thor.

“…I did see your father. Yesterday morning. We spoke in confidence. I cannot tell you the subject of our discussion, but I can tell you what we did not speak of. He said nothing of any harm caused by Loki upon his person, and nor do I think Loki is a threat to his father.”

Thor replayed Heimdall’s words in his head. It seemed straightforward, and yet there were still assumptions in there that Heimdall meant for him to make. “Do you think it is safe to have Loki near my father at this time?”

Heimdall opened his mouth and closed it again.

Thor raised his brows. It was unusual for so confident a Gatekeeper to change his mind about what to let in and out.

“…No,” Heimdall said at last. “It would be best if he were kept from Odin for now. For his own sake.”

Thor wished he was better at reading people, though Heimdall was legendarily obtuse to even the most gifted empath. Still, even so, Thor wondered if he sensed a pained note to Heimdall’s words. Or perhaps that was simply his own ears, his own feelings projected upon Heimdall’s famous neutrality.

“I will…inform the guards. I will say that Loki is not to be let into Odin’s rooms for his own good. My brother is on official vacation and cannot be allowed to do any work until he…recovers.”

Heimdall said nothing. He neither approved nor disapproved. As ever, he simply was.

Thor turned to leave. He wondered, a little loonily, if he could still fly, feeling as heavy as he did.

“Your son Magni is looking for you,” Heimdall told his back. “General Tyr and Councillors Snotra and Honir and are also seeking your audience. ”

Thor sighed and cracked a weary smile. “And my bed? Does it miss me as much as I miss it?”

But he was not really thinking of his bed’s feelings. He looked back at Heimdall, and in a different tone of voice asked “Is she…alright? I…I don’t want to spy. But just…is she alright? And the children?”

Heimdall had retaken his position on the dais. “Yes. She is in good spirits. The children are learning to ski with Lady Skadi today. It is a beautiful day in Alfheim.”

Thor opened his mouth, about to ask for more details. It hung open for a long moment, his tongue drying in the air. Then he took Mjölnir from his belt and threw her into the sky, dragging the rest of him behind.

The RAVEN

When Huginn returned to Odin’s chambers, it was in one of the few moments that no healers were about. He fluttered to Odin’s side to inspect the cut on his head. It was still rather nasty.

Huginn covered it with his wingtip. “Sorry to Odin.”

Of course, apologies could not undo what he had done. There was no way to take back the past.

Though there was a way to take some of the pain.

Huginn’s wingtip began to glow.

He drew it back, pulling out a worm of twisting gold. Without hesitation, he put it to his beak and swallowed.

The room melted away, replaced with one far colder, though a fire burned in the centre. He heard, with Odin’s ears, the screeches of a hysterical raven.

“HUGINN! ENOUGH!” he called with Odin’s mouth, full of its weird, pebbly teeth, though Odin didn’t really notice that.

On Odin's shoulder, the frantically shifting weight of his raven settled. It seemed like Huginn had listened.

Then - Pain. Sudden, visceral, in the centre of his forehead. Wetness streaming down past his eye. A fierce cawing, black feathers torn loose from fierce wingbeats, a shout -

Huginn shuddered. It hurt. It had hurt so much.

But it was not Odin’s pain anymore.

Huginn had taken it away from Odin. Huginn would keep it safe.

Voices outside the room. Discussions of treatment. Mentions of food.

Huginn listened intently, hoping to hear ‘corn’. Regrettably, only broth was ordered.

Just as well. He still had work to do. From what he’d heard, Loki would not be returning to this room.

He seized the book from the nightstand, dimpling the leather with his talons. With two strong wing beats, he’d taken it into the air with him, outside the window and into the sky once more.

Chapter Text

LOKI

The water stung his hands. His scrubbing did not abate, not even when he reopened a cut along the meaty part of his thumb.

The rest of him was still a mess, but his hands - he couldn’t leave them alone.

When they were bright red-raw and could not bear another touch from his sponge, he ran a hot bath and inflicted his feverish scrubbing on his muddy and bruised feet, and then the rest of him. It took three drains and refills of the tub before the water was unclouded. He sat in the hot water, still breathing heavily, wanting to continue cleaning but knowing that there was no more his hands (his alien, treacherous hands) could do. If only he could swallow this soapy water and a brush and scour his insides as well, vomiting bubbles and blood until the invasive entity that had seized him in the night was expelled.

He was unclean in clear water.

What happened to me?

Loki stared at his hands again. How had he done it? He’d never burned anything in his life. His magic was illusory only - false fire, never with any real heat.

Someone had to have done this to him. The thing in the woods - perhaps it had enchanted him as it had Odin, and compelled him to become that…that creature.

Loki thought he knew nearly all of Asgard’s beasts, curses, ghosts and monsters. But the shining, singing thing in the woods resembled none of them.

Odin had known it. He’d called it by name -

“Baldur.”

The name rang out against the tiles. Loki had heard that name before, only yesterday. The name Frigga had wanted for him.

How had that thing stolen it from Odin’s fractured mind?

“Come quickly, come with me

There’s so much below to hear and see

What was lost has now been found

Deep, deep under the ground

Come and see - it’s under the tree

Quickly, quickly - stay with me…

Here in the dark for Eternity…”

Loki only noticed he was humming the song after he’d finished the verse. It echoed in the bath chamber even more ominously than the name.

Something stirred in his chest as the reverberations reentered his ears.

He repeated the song, again.

“Come quickly, come with me

There’s so much below to hear and see…"

It was soothing. And, though he would have sworn he’d never heard it before, familiar. He knew this song. Knew it well.

He said it again. And again. With each repetition, his heart slowed. He sank deeper into the scalding tub, his eyes finally creaking shut.

“...Come and see - it’s under the tree

Quickly, quickly - stay with me…

Here in the dark for Eternity...”

Darkness. He had descended deep into it, inside himself.

But it wasn’t truly dark.

Something flashed above him, briefly. Like a synapse in a brain firing. And again. And again. Golden threads, woven loosely into a tapestry. Or perhaps strings was more accurate - they vibrated and hummed like the strings on a lyre, echoing the music of that simple phrase over and over again. One string drifted towards him, vibrating the next verse of the song.

“...Lover, no, I cannot stay

I’m of the land of the forever day

I cannot live in black and earth…”

Loki reached out and grabbed the strand.

ᚲ

“Open your eyes,” Odin commanded.

A young woman twitched her fingers and peeked out between them. “Oh, it’s so lovely, Odin, it’s a….a….where is it, exactly?”

He grabbed her hands and pulled them down the rest of the way off her face. “Look down.”

Frigga scrunched up her face. “Is it down in that hole somewhere?”

Odin couldn’t suppress his chuckling any longer. “It is the hole!”

Frigga stared down into the void in the earth, bemused. “I see. I’m making you a child in my very body, and in return you give me…literally nothing.”

“A hole isn’t nothing. You can put things in the hole.”

“I rather think you already did that,” Frigga said with a twinkle in her eye.

It went entirely unnoticed by Odin, who was fumbling around with something in his sleeve. “Hmm? No I didn’t, the hole is still empty. But I have something we shall put in this hole the very day our child is born.”

He produced a small velvet bag, then upended it gently into Frigga’s palm.

Now she took her turn to laugh. “Have I married Ratatoskr in Aesir form, that I should be given an acorn as a maternity gift?”

Odin’s beard twitched, but the motion didn’t reach his eyes. “I assure you I am no squirrel, Ratatoskr or otherwise. But I am sure that even he would be tempted by an acorn such as this.” Odin held it up to the sun, where it sparkled as if made of pure gold. "This one is the last surviving seed of my family’s ancestral tree. It was planted by my father’s father, and grew taller than the palace itself. The only tree more mighty than he was is Yggdrasil herself.”

Frigga raised her eyebrows. “Why have you waited so long to plant his son?”

Ruefully, Odin returned the acorn to her palm. “I did not trust that I could nurture it. I’ve never been good with growing things. But you - you are the sun and the rain and summer’s warmth. There is no other I’d trust with this.”

A shadow moved behind Frigga’s shoulder. Odin looked at it before he could command himself not to.

The black oak tree rustled eerily, though there was no breeze to stir its emerald leaves. It seemed to be leaning forwards, its dark branches like fingers reaching out.

Frigga noticed his distraction and looked behind her. She saw nothing, of course, but Odin used the moment to free his hand and plunge it back into the velvet bag.

He withdrew a seedpod, this one as silver as a distant star. “This is from a younger tree, one still living. Do you recognize it?”

It joined the golden one in Frigga’s hand. She cupped it with a little gasp. “A Vanaheim Elm?”

“Not just any Vanaheim Elm. The one under which I met you.”

The tinkle of Frigga’s laugh made Odin’s heart ache with gratitude.

“That wasn’t precisely a happy occasion at the time. I seem to recall your throat was introduced to my sword point before we ever spoke.”

“It’s one of my fondest memories. In retrospect.”

“I suppose that day did lead to peace between our worlds. Eventually.”

“Eventually,” Odin agreed. He wrapped his hand around hers and closed her fingers over the seeds. “You'll choose which to plant when our child is born. And, Norns willing, I shall get you another hole when there is a second child.”

“You spoil me, Borson,” the queen mocked.

“There is a spell I’d like to perform with you, upon these seeds. I would tie them to the life-force of the child, so that as one prospers and grows, so does the other. And if some sickness should take root in the child, we would see it in the tree. They would reflect one another, and wherever they should wander in the wide universe, you could come here and see that they are well. A piece of them would always be here, in Asgard. In caring for them, you could keep them safe, wherever they are.”

Frigga’s smile was large, but a tear still slid down her cheek and coiled in a dimple, sparkling. “Thank you.”

Odin smiled back, and moved to pull his hand away from hers.

"Oh no you don’t.” Frigga caught his retreating hand. She laid her other on top of it, sealing it against the seeds. "Odin Borson, you will not run off and leave me to tend to this on my own.”

“But you’re the one with the green thumbs, not I,” he protested, tugging slightly on his hand. “Trust me, my queen of life and loveliness, the best help I can give would be to stand back.”

The black tree rustled. Only Odin heard it.

“You will be a good father,” said Frigga, cutting through the metaphor as surely as she’d sliced off the bottom part of Odin’s beard on the day they met.

“Second time’s the charm,” croaked the ravens, sitting high in the black oak tree only Odin and they could see.

“I can only try,” Odin said, but he didn’t seek to escape Frigga’s hands again.

ᚲ

The thread moved Loki’s spectral fingers. Its end was entangled in another, vibrating in tune with the whispers of the song. He grabbed ahold of it -

ᚲ

The golden leaves of the little sapling trembled in the heavy rain. Each drop struck it with enough force to tear apart a lesser sprout, but again and again it sprang back into proud formation.

The hole beside it tinkled as if filled with tiny silver bells. It was filling with water. Drowning in it.

Frigga stood a few feet away, in a sodden blue cloak. When Odin placed his hand on her shoulder, it squelched.

“You’ll catch a cold,” he said, barely loud enough to hear over the rain.

She said nothing.

“The baby needs you,” Odin tried. It wasn’t all of what he meant.

The shoulder under his touch tensed.

The rain slowed; drops hung in mid-air, unnaturally. A feeling gripped the scene - not one shared by its actors, but imposed upon it. Odin spoke again, the words straining against the feeling as if it wished it could stop him. It was powerless.

“Baldur needs you,” he said.

Frigga fell away from Odin’s grasp. She’d collapsed into the mud, hood staring down. He reached down to her, alarmed - and was met by her raised hand.

He didn’t want to. Yet he relented, stepping back.

In her other hand was the little bag. She placed it, strings still drawn tight, between them.

Finally, she spoke. “That cannot be his name.”

The bag stirred in a current of water. Before it could be washed away, Odin collected it.

“What should his name be?” he asked.

Frigga relapsed in silence. After some time, she left and returned with a shovel. She started to dig the water out of the hole, throwing it over her shoulder in muddy arcs. It never emptied. She only made it deeper.

Odin should have stayed with her. He should have been there until the sky cleared and the sun’s reflection was caught inside the hole. He should have helped her bury it. He should have been there when she was ready to cry and could fall into his arms.

But he did not remember that.

ᚲ

The vibration guided him along, deeper and deeper. The threads were sharp, cutting like a hot wire into his being. As he drew himself deeper and deeper, the vibrations strengthened. The thread bucked. He held on.

The source of the song was near. There, knotted at the end of this thread - a knot. It pulsated, like a sickening heartbeat.

Loki plunged his hand inside, seizing at the source of cacophony -

ᚲ

Odin suddenly paused in conversation, oddly disconcerted.

“Is everything alright, All-Father?” questioned Lifari, King of the Light Elves.

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course. Pardon me, I thought I…heard something.”

Odin’s eyes roved the ornate dining hall, even though he couldn’t be certain what he was looking for. It had only been a flash of sound - a broken piece of something more. But for a moment it had stirred something in him, and he felt as if he were an entirely different person.

He couldn’t afford such things. Right now, he had to be Odin, King of Asgard and the Nine Realms. This function may seem gentile, even celebratory on its surface, but tension dripped from every interaction.

Odin coughed to cover up the embarrassing break. “Please do not mistake my distraction for disinterest, Lifari.”

“It is only to be expected that you’d be fatigued, All-Father,” Lifari said carefully, pale yellow eyes fastened tightly to Odin’s every move. “The War with Jotunheim has been raging for so long, it’s a wonder you can even bear to hear the sounds of knives and forks and not think of battle."

“Why would I be fatigued by a war we are winning?” Odin said, taking a drink of wine without breaking eye contact. “Asgard is never in better form than when she is defending the Realms.”

Odin’s bones ached. To think he’d come here, straight from a war of steel, ice, and magic, only to end up fighting a battle of words with every breath.

Lifari smiled and muttered some other platitude, but Odin understood his meaning plainly. If Jotunheim can rebel, so can we. How kind of them to wear you down for us.

Odin’s gullet burned. After everything Asgard had done to protect Alfheim’s interests over the millennia, they still sought to take advantage. All that held them back was the uncertainty of an Asgard-free space - they’d little military to speak of, thanks to relying on Asgard, and were probably hoping that Asgard would finish off the frost giants before they’d mount a rebellion of their own.

But hope was a clear sign of uncertainty. Uncertainty was frightening. Hence Odin leaving the front to attend this diplomatic dinner in the first place - to assure them that there was certainty. That they could rely on Asgard being there - strong as ever.

No matter what.

Odin listened to Lifari with one ear and cast the other, and his peripheral vision, out across the hall.

Frigga’s conversation was far more skillful than his own, bereft of any thinly-veiled threats. She was charming the king’s sister and daughter with stories from her coven-days, complete with masterful innuendo. The sister laughed so hard she spilled her wine. At once, an Elven servant appeared and refilled the goblet. The servant reached out to do the same for Frigga’s cup, but she quickly covered it with her hand. Her other went to her bulging stomach in explanation.

The servant blanched, clearly embarrassed to have forgotten the Asgardian’s queen’s condition. He hastily bowed and backed away before he could be reprimanded for his lapse of memory. Frigga poured the last of her private carafe of plain grape juice into her goblet before turning back to her conversation.

On Odin’s other side was General Tyr, who had abstained from the delicate Elven cutlery to instead use his famed prosthetic as a carving knife for his meats. He’d never cared for these sorts of functions, perhaps because he’d grown up in a soldier’s home instead of the palace.

That was fine by Odin, of course - the General was here not for his diplomatic abilities, but as a show of confidence in the war effort. Even now, Odin could see many elves casting nervous looks at the Asgardian. Tyr grinned back at them, good-humouredly, briefly transforming his golden prosthetic from a carving knife back into a hand to wave at them cheerily.

Then Odin heard it again. Faint, but unmistakable. It was but a few notes in a crowded, clamouring hall, but he knew them. Someone was humming a song.

He wrinkled his brow in frustration. He knew that tune - if only he could place it…

If only he hadn’t left Huginn and Muninn behind in Asgard. Perhaps the memory he needed was one left in Muninn. Perhaps Huginn could have concentrated on this single mystery while Odin juggled all the other things a king needed to be thinking of.

Once the first course was over, the servants faded out of the background to take up the unfinished food (a thin stew that Odin had found more flavourless than air) and replace it with plates of steaming långfågel, a bird native to Alfheim with a wingspan that would take a horse a full minute to traverse. The head was neatly split in two and one half given to each king. Lifari ripped the largest eye out of his side and held it aloft.

“I see you, King Odin,” he intoned, as was tradition.

Odin, in turn, ripped the eye from his bird and held it aloft. “You are seen, King Lifari.”

They exchanged their eyes and bit into them as if they were apples.

Odin made a show of chewing and swallowing without scruple before reaching for the previously-untouched wine glass for the traditional toast. The whole hall raised their goblets with him and Lifari, though Frigga was delayed by a moment as she had to wait for a hurrying servant to deliver her a fresh carafe of juice.

“To unity between our peoples!” Lialfi said with a straight face.

“To peace in the Realms,” Odin said - or rather, the quickly-cast illusion of his face and voice said.

They all brought their drinks to their lips. Without anyone noticing, Odin carefully spat the chunk of sclera and fluid into the glass and vanished it and the wine with an unobtrusive spell.

He’d never cared for the taste of those things. It would linger in his mouth for days after, like a fetid mix of seaweed and the anal glands of a fire-weasel. He had no intention of seeing what it would do to his insides. Anyway, the important thing was that the tradition was observed. He dispelled the illusion of his face and smiled with his actual flesh.

The song passed right behind him. Loud and clear as a bell.

Odin’s face froze. He turned in his seat, slowly, too slowly.

It was a serving girl, hurrying past him, but time seemed to stretch as her humming voice stirred his mind.

He did know this song. Like a dream, the words came back to him. He mouthed along, his eyes widening.

"Come quickly, come with me

There’s so much below to hear and see

What was lost has now been found…”

He didn’t put it together in time. Perhaps, if he had, he would’ve been able to stop everything.

But he had left Muninn back in Asgard. To keep it safe. How could he have forgotten that the true Asgard was with him this day in Alfheim? At his very side?

Shrr-GLISSK.

The sound of shattering glass broke his trance. He turned, along with everyone else in the hall, to look at its source.

Frigga’s glass lay in shards all over the floor, a pool of green liquid slowly growing out from it.

Frigga fell next to it, her breath coming in sudden, having gasps.

...Deep, deep under the ground

Come and see - it’s under the tree

Quickly, quickly - stay with me…

Here in the dark for Eternity...

Odin didn’t feel himself move. He wouldn’t even feel the broken glass that cut his knee until hours after. All he could feel was Frigga in his arms, her pulse racing and her limbs beginning to convulse.

He cried for a healer, for help, for some being even higher than a god.

He was blind to everything but the sudden drain of colour in his wife’s face, deaf to the world but for her strained breaths - and the distant echo of the song, still playing in his mind as some part of him tried to put it all together.

“Lover, no, I cannot stay

I’m of the land of the forever day

I cannot live in black and earth

Cannot make it my home and hearth…”

“Frigga - you have to stay, Frigga -” Odin begged her, his mind blurring the present with a song about doomed lovers.

“ODIN!” shouted Tyr in warning.

A flash of silver - an answering blockade of gold - a shower of sparks.

The serving girl’s long blade twisted and turned mere inches from Odin's face, locked inside Tyr’s golden grip. She tried to withdraw the blade to stab again, but Tyr dissolved his hand into pure molten gold, locking it inside himself. With a cry of surprise, she released the blade before the gold could touch her, drawing another knife before she’d even finished a step back. Tyr moved to put himself in front of his king and queen again, but he was too slow for her sudden throw.

The knife barrelled towards them - and passed right through an illusory image of Odin and Frigga.

Tyr tackled the girl, pinning her to the ground.

Odin looked down at Frigga. Foam trickled out of a clenched smile. Her hand dropped, and the mirror illusion she’d cast of them dissolved.

Even dying, she’d saved him.

“SVARTALFHEIM LIVES ON IN ALFHEIM!!” screamed the elf-girl beneath Tyr. “WE HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN OUR BROTHERS' BLOOD!”

“HEALERS!” Odin shouted over the deranged server.

“They’re dead because of Asgard! You are a murderer, son of a murderer, and your children will be murderers!” The serving girl continued to screech.

The elves were in total disarray. Lialfi’s mouth was hanging open, people were running, others were throwing their food on the ground in a panic, but even the hounds beneath the tables would not touch it and instead howled in terror.

“BUT YOU CAN’T MURDER ALL OF US!” The servant girl’s laugh ended in a choking rattle. Tyr would later tell Odin that she must’ve drunk the poison herself, for she died frothing and spasming. “VENGEANCE IS A HUNGRY BEAST, AND SHE WILL HUNT YOU DOWN!”

Odin raised a hand and summoned the dark energy without thinking. The air split open, revealing a shining path through Yggdrasil. He lifted Frigga into his arms and rushed into cold, dark space, the song still spinning round and round in his head.

"Why not see the top of the tree?

Quickly, quickly - stay with me...

Here in the light for Eternity...”

ᚲ

Loki ruptured out of the tub, spluttering and gasping. Black feathers were floating in the air and in the sloshing, chilly water, the raucous cawing of Huginn echoing throughout the porcelain room.

"Trespasser!” Huginn accused. “THIEF!"

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

Chapter Text

Excerpt from copy of ’The Tales of Askeladd’, entrusted to Huginn by Odin.

ᚫ

His brothers had been given the finest horses and supplies, so all that was left for Askeladd to take was an old nag and the small amount of food he could sneak away from the kitchens. But this was all to the benefit of his disguise - for who would expect a prince to be riding a near-dead horse with almost nothing to his name?

No-one recognized him as he travelled from town to town, asking for news of his brothers. There was little. Still, he took the time to drink and laugh and enjoy his anonymity. The world was so full of wondrous things he’d never known of, high in his father’s towers.

To make the travel on the road go by quicker, he took to singing to himself, mostly a bawdy song he’d learned from an unsavoury mead hall. After a week and a day, someone else replied.

“Your heart isn’t in that song, Prince Askeladd."

The prince looked about for the speaker, but saw no-one about. “Who goes there? What do you want from me?”

“Surely I have not yet become so thin as to be invisible,” rasped the voice. “And surely you are not yet so important as to have become blind to the suffering of others.”

Askeladd looked again, and this time he spotted a raven. He was so weak that he could not fly, but dragged his wings through the dirt, leaving broken feathers behind him.

“Please,” said the raven, with the tone of someone who did not say it often. “Please - give me something to eat.”

Askeladd had few provisions left and was reluctant to waste them on a surely soon-to-be-dead bird. But the raven was also the first creature he had spoken to in ever so long, and he felt starved of company, though he was not yet actually starving.

“I cannot give you much,” the prince admitted.

The raven looked at the old, tired nag with a glint in his eye. “I can be a patient bird. If you save my life, I will save yours someday in return.”

“I do not know that a raven can do much to save the life of a human,” Askeladd remarked. “But I certainly can’t allow you to lose yours for no better reason than hunger.”

“Hunger is the only thing anyone ever dies from,” the raven replied. “The immortal want for nothing.”

The prince lifted him from the ground and into his arms. With his beak full of bread, the raven said no more until Askeladd asked him “How did you know I was Askeladd?”

The raven would only say “It was obvious. You are full of yourself.”

Askeladd would have been insulted if it were not a little true. Royalty are prone to the condition.

“And,” the raven added, “You stink of ashes.”

ᚫ

Chapter Text

LOKI

“Get off me!” Loki tried to dive under the water to escape, but the bird seized his black curls and yanked him back up again.

“That not your memory! It Huginn job to keep Odin memory safe! How Loki get it?”

“I don’t know! Stop it -“

“You not Muninn. Never can be!” Huginn spat.

Loki finally managed to get his hands around the raven, and with only a little drawn blood, hurled the bird across the room and out the open window.

Huginn vanished for only a moment before flying back inside. He perched on the windowsill and panted, still glaring at Loki.

Loki glared right on back. “What do you mean, I’m not Muninn?”

Huginn had gone uncharacteristically mum. Loki knew that had to be difficult for him.

Odin’s memories shifted uncomfortably in his aching, bleeding head. It was a discordant collection of images, feelings, feelings about feelings, and Loki’s own burgeoning horror.

A golden tree sprouting from black earth. An elf laughing as the light left her eyes. Frigga falling. Frigga in the rain. A hole, filling with water. A name that must not be spoken.

Loki pressed his temples into his hands. “Huginn - what is happening to me?”

Huginn started pacing the sill. “…bad dream…” he muttered to himself.

“I assure you, we are both quite awake."

“Now, yes,” Huginn chirped. “But Loki come very close to not waking ever again.” The raven made a show of picking a few strands of dark hair from his talons. “If not for Huginn, Loki forget he not a fish. Let that be lesson to him - if Loki spend too long remembering memories not belong to him, he will forget how to live Loki life. Maybe lose it.”

“I did not want this to happen,” Loki bit out. “Please, Huginn - if you truly want to save me, help me now.”

Huginn stared at the naked Prince with perfectly round, black eyes. Loki looked into them as he had many times before, since he was a child, hoping that the raven would be more forthcoming about the truth than Odin was.

The bird dropped his hunched wings an inch. “Muninn…burn. Huginn…must become two ravens. But Huginn fail. Odin lose memory…” He looked at Loki with a narrowed eye. “Somehow…Loki is finding them.” He held out a wing. "Give back.”

Loki raised a hand tentatively, reaching out to shake the wing as if it were a hand - then he recoiled, clutching it to his chest.

“…Not yet.”

Huginn coughed angrily. “No time waste! This no good for Odin -“

“Or maybe it is a path to his cure,” Loki said stubbornly. “If I could study this - perhaps I can uncover what caused Father’s sickness.”

Huginn scoffed.

Loki narrowed his eyes. “You said yourself that without Muninn, Father is doomed. No, this happened to me for a reason. Father must have given me these memories. He wants me to learn from them, to help him.”

“No, Loki -“

“The madness that afflicted me - it must be some side effect. It wasn’t me that hurt him, it was some…rogue memory. I need to learn to control it."

The raven reached out with his wing as if he meant to grab Loki by the elbow with it, but the feathers passed through air as the prince stood up from the tub. With a shimmer of light, new fresh clothes materialized layer by layer upon Loki as he strode into his main quarters, invigorated with purpose. He did not notice that he’d forgotten to dry himself first.

“There must be some connection between that spectre and Mother's would-be elven assassin -“ Loki wrinkled his brow in sudden realization, his fingers drumming on his sodden stomach. “-and, I suppose, my would-be assassin.” He glanced back at Huginn. “That would have been me in her belly at that time.”

“Odin settle things with Alfheim, long ago.” Huginn said quickly.

“Settled? How can an attempt on Frigga’s life be settled if the planet turned on like nothing ever happened?” Loki scoffed. “What recompense could equal her life? Or mine, for that matter. Just because we survived - ”

Another thought struck him.

Though the bloodline of Odin was famed for its hardiness and longevity, Loki’s childhood was marked with illness. He caught coughs and fevers of mysterious origin, became fatigued and winded at slight changes in the weather, and was prone to sudden bouts of anxiety and chills in the first weeks of winter.

At first he had been cared for in Asgard. Then he had been hidden away in a new residence on Alfheim, where fewer would know of the weakness that afflicted the second son of the mighty king.

A convalescence home provided by the very people who had sickened him.

“How could Father forgive this?” Loki snarled. “I don’t understand. Jotunheim was crushed for daring to set foot on Midgard. How could he allow such gross trespass against his wife and son? How could he accept the insult of a mere castle as adequate recompense for the suffering of his child?”

Huginn’s black beady eyes betrayed nothing. “New war could have endanger Loki and Frigga more. Odin do what best for Asgard and family. Rebels caught, executed by Alfheim King. What more could be done?”

It was a reasonable answer. No less than could be expected of shrewd Odin-King.

And yet a dark desire kindled deep in Loki’s gut.

I wish he'd done something terrible - that he’d razed their capitol to the ground and left a scar upon their planet that could be seen from space. I wish he would have raged like an unholy fiendfire, so hot and so long that I would have heard the legends about it all my life.

Maybe Odin regretted not taking revenge. Maybe he’d given Loki this memory, knowing it would galvanize him into action - maybe he wanted to see Alfheim truly suffer for what it had done, while he was still alive to appreciate it.

“I need to see more,” he declared.

“Loki must return what he stole before Odin find out -“

“I didn’t steal anything! It was that-that singing thing that was trying to steal Odin away, and I saved him! I did that! Look in my head and see if you don’t believe me!”

Huginn quirked his head. “Singing thing?"

“Yes! Thor didn’t see it, but I did. Odin called it ‘Baldur’ - he was going to go with it, it was tricking him somehow. I had to stop him, Huginn. I just wanted to stop him from leaving with it. I didn’t mean - I don’t know how I…” Loki flexed his hands again and let out a long breath. “When I tried to search Father’s memories for that name, I saw a feast on Alfheim. What does that have to do with it? Do you know, Huginn?”

The raven turned away from Loki. “Singing thing not Baldur. This Huginn can tell Loki. It impossible.”

“How can I agree if I don’t know who this Baldur is? That thing is still out there, and it will try to take Odin again. You have to tell me what it is.”

“Huginn not know what it is, only what it isn’t. It not Baldur. Ask no more.”

Prince and rook stared each other down. Neither blinked.

“If you won’t tell me, I’ll just ask Father myself,” Loki declared with a fizz of frustration. When he whirled to leave the door, he found the raven alighting upon the handle.

“There no point, Loki. It decreed that Odin have no visitors but Thor and healers.”

“They can’t stop me. I’m his son. And their prince.”

“Thor is Odin eldest son, and their king.”

“How is that relevant? Thor would never… he can’t. He needs me, he knows Father needs…”

The raven was looking at him pityingly.

"Out of my way, bird,” Loki snapped.

Huginn scrambled into the air as Loki’s hand came down forcefully to grasp the knob and twist it, stepping out into the hallway beyond.

The massive doors to his parents’ room shone at the end of the hallway. Blocking out its bottom six feet was a small mass of Einherjar. Loki strode towards them, forgetting his usual grace.

“What are you doing in the Royal Wing? Guards are to remain outside the entrance, not within this sanctum -“

The bedroom doors opened, and out stepped a man dressed in colours nearly as loud as his famed voice.

“Prince Loki,” he called, and though he clearly intended it to be a cordial greeting, it practically rattled the armour of the Einherjar about him with its volume.

“Herald Haroldsson,” Loki said cooly, at a much more reasonable level.

“Your diligence remains ever legendary, Prince,” simpered the herald through his artificially perfect teeth. “Even when the King himself declared you should be given a vacation, you come to visit anyway.”

“Vacation? I need no such thing. Let me through to see Odin at once -“

"I am afraid King Thor was very firm - after all the stress you’ve been under, you are to rest and recover. Fear not, Odin All-Father will be well cared for. His Majesty himself is making time in his busy schedule to see him, and Bronwenna the Head Healer will attend him around the clock. Your...” Haroldsson curled his greyish lip “…help will not be missed. King Thor was quite insistent.”

“Thor will tell me this himself or not at all. Where is he? I would speak to him at once -“

“I was just dismissed by the king and told to carry this news to all of Asgard. His Highness, Prince Loki, is hereby ordered to go on vacation, and because His Majesty King Thor knows that this is a terribly difficult thing for him to do, he asks for the aid of all of Asgard to ensure his brother has no choice but to rest.” Haroldsson opened his hand to double check a cue card. “That means that the Council is to bar you entry, the Kitchens are to send your favourite foods to your rooms and the Library to send your favourite books. I’m on my way there now, to inform them.”

The tinnitus in Loki’s eardrums rather thought that they’d already heard.

What is Thor doing? If there is any rumour of Father’s injury - and there will be - this will all but assure that everyone thinks I did it!

Loki’s hand itched violently. He scratched it by closing it abruptly. He took an imperceptible breath and smiled pleasantly, as he’d trained himself to. To his surprise, the Herald drew back slightly, as if alarmed.

“Very well,” Loki continued anyway. “Tell Thor that I am touched by his concern. However, I will not be taking my...vacation...here. I will decamp to our residence in Alfheim, where it is easier to find some peace and quiet.”

Haroldsson bowed deeply. “Have a pleasant journey, My Prince.”

ᚲ

Loki did not return to his rooms. He kept walking, out of the Royal Wing, using a simple vanishing illusion on himself before gliding through the more populated halls on his way to who-knew where.

There was no question of actually going to Alfheim. He was needed here, never mind what Thor said. He would discover just what that creature in the woods was, and what hold it had over Odin. Then he would destroy it.

He passed a young group of healers in training, whispering amongst themselves.

“Did you hear that Odin ran away in the night?”

“I heard the king and his brother had to fetch him back.”

Maybe this ‘vacation’ could be a boon - no-one would question just where he was or what he was doing. If everyone thought him in Alfheim, there would be less concern here in Asgard as well, less reason to tonguewag about -

“They had to fight Odin! My brother is an Einheri, he told me himself.”

“I heard Odin All-Father was injured. Almost killed!”

“Really? Which one of them did it?”

He picked up his pace, nearly colliding with a bustling matron carrying a tray of lime tarts. He darted out of the way, only to trip up a hurrying scholar, who collided with the matron. She fell, narrowly catching the tray. Loki tried to slip away, but couldn’t help but hear the scholar sheepishly apologize as he helped the lady to her feet. He asked who the tarts were for.

“Oh, for Prince Loki. They were his favourite as a child, you know. The King says he’s on vacation. Poor thing has been working himself so hard, he deserves a treat -“

“I heard the Prince finally snapped,” interrupted a seamstress who’d been listening in. “They say he got angry at Odin for always trying to escape!”

“That boy has been chasing after his father for so long,” sighed the matron. “Perhaps the stress -“

Faster, faster Loki went, nearing the kitchens now, hoping that the bang and clatter of pots and pans would drown out the whispers -

“Come off it, only Thor would be powerful enough to fight Odin and even have a chance of winning. What could Loki do to hurt him? Blow smoke in his eyes?”

“The King himself has banned him from seeing Odin. Why else would he do that?”

The stone steps slapped against his shoes, but the sound wasn’t loud enough to drive out all the voices, still trailing him even as the walls echoed only his haggard breathing as he pulled on the stubborn wooden door.

“There’s plenty for that boy to be angry with Odin about. He did make Thor king over him. There must be a reason for that.”

“You say that like he ever had a chance…”

Damp earth, the smell thick around him. Purple, pulsing lights guiding the way up the stairs to the archway. He passed through the curtain of witches’ hair and out into the sunken garden.

The fountain was still clogged with algae and rare lilies. He passed it by, heading straight into the forest of vines that had tried before to strangle him.

The thorny vines stirred as he moved through them, and a few half-heartedly plucked on his sleeves, but they seemed reluctant to commit to the attack.

On their other side were the trees. One dead, one living, one dying. They almost looked to be growing out of the sea, so blue were the flowers surrounding them.

A golden oak.

Thor’s tree. Of course it is.

A blackened, dead husk.

A shadow of the past he’s never spoken of.

And a silver Vanaheim elm, choked by a parasitic vine.

Planted in mourning, not celebration. Mine.

There was a rustle in the leaves. A black beak poked out of the shadows.

“Why did Mother say I should not be named Baldur?” Loki asked of Huginn without looking at him.

“Loki should not be here.”

“Baldur. It means beautiful. Happiness. Love.”

“Loki is fine name. Go now.”

“Was I not beautiful? Did I not make her happy?”

The raven did not speak.

“What was so wrong with me that she could not bear to name me after love?”

Loki’s hand tightened into a fist in the dirt.

It was still there. Her magic. Just as he’d felt it before, he felt it now, pulsating under the elm. This tree was sick and dying, neglected and unwanted, but something of Frigga’s heart still beat below it, protected in a snarl of Odin’s magic.

His magic, now.

What did you put in the hole that day, Mother? The day it rained and the seed washed away?

Loki grabbed another handful of earth and tossed it aside.

I want to see it.

A tendril of Odin’s angry protective spell reached out towards him, questioningly. It seemed confused. Loki took advantage and with a knife of his own power, he split the tendrils into strands and pulled them apart.

More handfuls of dirt were tossed over his shoulder. Another spell reached out to stop him. Again, he unwove it.

Bit by bit, he descended into the earth.

Chapter Text

Excerpt from the 'Tales of Askeladd', entrusted to Huginn by Odin. 

ᚫ

After another three days, the horse died. Askeladd was heartbroken, for she was the only thing he had left of his old life. The raven only tolerated his grief for a moment before he demanded to be given the nag to eat.

“What else will you do with a dead horse? She’s gone. Eat alongside me and she can take you a little further.”

But Askeladd, though hungry himself, refused the idea. “I still have far to travel. If I give you this horse to eat, then you must bring me something else to ride.”

“Very well,” said the raven. He ate his fill of the nag. He grew sleek and strong. But he did not eat the heart of the creature. This he took in his claws and flew away into the night.

The raven found a lone wolf, slowly starving to death. He landed in a tree above the wolf and dangled the heart just out of reach. The wolf stirred feebly, little more than skin and bone.

“I haven’t had a meal in two years,” he begged. “Please, raven, help me find food.”

“What a pathetic wolf you are,” the raven mocked. “You would beg a scavenger like me for a meal? Have you no pride?”

“If I do not eat soon, I will not be a wolf any longer at all; I will turn into rot and dust. Better to lose my pride than my life.”

The raven looked at the thin, defeated wolf with a glint in his eye. “Oh? Do you really mean that?”

The wolf looked up at him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“Is any life at all preferable to none? Would you be willing to go on living if it meant no longer being a wolf at all?”

The wolf was quiet for a time, then said “Anything is better than being dirt.”

“Then swear yourself to me, and eat.” The raven let the horse-heart drop to the ground.

The wolf devoured the heart. He grew sleek and strong. He was no longer the wolf he had been - in fact, he was hardly like a wolf at all.

The raven watched with satisfaction. “Now I shall lead you to a prince called Askeladd. I am sworn to protect his life, and since you are now sworn to me, you shall not harm him.”

The bird led the once-wolf back to where Askeladd was waiting.

“What a strange horse,” Askeladd remarked as he climbed upon the shaggy gray thing. The horse growled, and Askeladd said no more about it.

ᚫ

Chapter Text

ODIN

“….Why not see the top of the tree?

Quickly, quickly - stay with me...

Here in the light for Eternity…”

Orange light pierced through Odin’s eyelid. He opened it.

Sunset.

He sat up slowly. One half of his face felt crusty - as if he’d been crying.

“That was a lovely song,” said a woman by the window. “Where is it from?”

“That elfin nonsense?” snorted Odin, rubbing at his face. “Just a maudlin tale about a light elf and a dark elf with an impossible love. The light elf wants the dark elf to live in the land of light with him, and the dark elf wants her lover to live underground in Svartalfheim. In the end, it doesn’t matter. They both die and are buried apart.”

The woman turned and smiled. “Oh. How terribly sad.”

Odin stared blankly at her. She was dressed all in white, a simple cloth unusual for Asgard. Over her heart was an emblem of a golden apple, pierced by twin arrows. Her face was unfamiliar, but that emblem…

His stomach lurched, though his mind gave him no reason for his fear.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

The nurse widened her smile. “Sister Rokia, Dear!”

Odin narrowed his eye. “I don’t know you. Leave my chambers.”

“Once you’ve had your potions, Your Majesty,” she chirped, approaching his bed with a tray of bottles.

“Stay back,” Odin warned.

The air stirred. The bottles began to rattle.

Sister Rokia’s smile didn’t so much as twitch.

Odin raised his hand, intending to push her back with a gust of wind. To his surprise, his arm was heavy. His wrist sported a golden bracelet, embedded with runes. It was a dampening manacle, for use on criminals - and apparently, mad kings.

He pulled himself over to the other side of the bed, deciding that if he could not push her back, he would leave the room and lock her inside until she starved to death and it was safe again to enter.

“Come now, Your Majesty - it’s just a few tinctures. You had some earlier, don’t you remember?” the nurse tutted as Odin strode towards the open windows behind the bed, intending to make his escape as he did before.

“Goodbye now,” Odin said cheerily, walking out the window, hands outstretched in front of him.

As expected, a new magical barrier popped up to meet him. Odin was ready to use his newfound abilities to suck it dry. The manacles might prevent him from using magic, but they couldn’t prevent him from breaking it apart.

The colour of the thing was new - bright red, and lacking the refinement of the previous containment. But it was just energy, all the same. Odin pressed against it with a grunt, sending cracks running from his fingertips.

The wall flashed and moved forward, shoving Odin back. As he stumbled, the cracks healed with a burst of sparks.

Odin turned, meaning to move towards the other window, but there the wall was already active, moving towards him soundlessly.

“No,” he whispered. “How…it can’t be…I destroyed it.”

“The old barrier, maybe,” drawled a second female voice. “But mine is something else entirely.”

Another woman dressed in white had stepped out from the curtains. While her companion wore simple cloth, she wore hardened white armour, though still emblazoned with the same crest. At her side was the hilt of a weapon, but there appeared to be no sheath nor blade. "Please do as Sister Rokia says, Your Majesty.”

The door. Maybe if he -

Another crimson wall erupted in front of it, and another on either side. They drew together, forming a diamond roof, and kept pushing inwards.

“Go to bed, Your Majesty,” the armoured sister ordered.

Odin couldn’t hear her. The drone of the walls, inching in from all sides - the ceiling pressing down - closer, closer, CLOSER -

“Not the Box,” he whimpered, voice suddenly high. “I’ll be good, I swear it. Just don’t put me in there...”

“Everything is fine,” Sister Rokia soothed, silhouetted against the burning red as she walked just a few steps ahead of it, closing in as they did. “Just take your medicines.”

Odin lowered his head. If he couldn’t break through the wall…what would it do to her?

With a roar, he charged, arms in front of him. Glass shattered, the metal pan rolled, the Sister gasped as she was driven bodily against the barrier.

The other woman’s eyes flashed red. She withdrew the hilt from her belt, unleashing a wave of scarlet fire.

Odin cried out.

THOR

BANG.

Thor leapt up from the table with a squeal, summoning Mjolnir from his belt and into his hands. He looked around wildly.

General Tyr withdrew a long silver mallet from the table in front of Thor. “I know you had a long night, Your Majesty, but war does not wait for any man. Even the one who started it.”

With a flourish, the mallet melted, reforming into Tyr’s artificial hand. He flexed it once before reaching over and tousling the brown curls of the boy sitting beside Thor.

“Your father mastered the art of sleeping with his eyes open when he was your age,” the General conferred to Magni. “But he never banished the snoring. How he managed to father such an alert and quiet boy is a mystery any blood-scholar would be confounded by..”

“My mother would take credit for my better qualities,” Magni said dutifully.

Thor rubbed the bridge of his nose with a sinusy groan. “I’m sorry, Tyr. I’ve not been sleeping well as of late. If it’s any consolation, your lectures help me drift into a deep slumber I find impossible to reach on my own.”

“I am glad that my war strategies are more soothing than lullabies to you, Oh King. Still, you should know that a good night’s rest is as important as a day in the training yard. All it takes is one moment of unreadiness…” Tyr glanced at his false hand.

Magni stared at it, transfixed. “Is that what happened to you, General? Were you asleep and - ” he asked, eyes wide as if he couldn’t believe he’d gone so far as to ask.

Thor covered his eyes and mouth with his own hand to conceal a small smirk and shake of his head.

Tyr looked at his gold-and-silver hand as if it were the answer to the deepest of philosophical quandaries. “I was just your age, young master, when I fell asleep beneath a willow tree, though I was meant to be keeping watch over Odin’s tent. Then, out of nowhere appeared a great big -“

What will it be this time? Thor chuckled to himself. A bear? A boar? No, surely he’s fixated on some new beast by now. A stoat? A serpent? A -

"-snapping turtle, with twenty-six fangs each as long as a man!” Tyr shouted, and at the description his arm morphed into a mechanical turtle head, its blade-filled mouth slamming shut an inch from Magni’s nose.

The boy shrieked and fell backwards onto the floor.

Tyr and Thor laughed heartily, but before Magni could even begin to blush, the turtle's head became a helping hand once more and Tyr pulled the boy to his feet.

“Your mother can claim your demeanour, but that scream is all your father’s,” the General chuckled. He returned to the board depicting the current situation on Queeg’s moon, but before he could continue, a knock came at the door.

“Mother Nerian of the Sisterhood of Idunn is here to see you, All-Father,” announced Herald Harold Harroldsson in his usual brassy way.

Magni crinkled his brow. “Whose mother?”

“The Sisterhood of Idunn fancies itself one of the greatest healing institutions in the Asgardian Empire,” General Tyr supplied as the hooded old woman stepped past the herald.

Magni straightened up. “You’re here to help Afi?”

Thor bit the inside of his cheek. Help him? Is there anyone that can anymore? Or is it just to help me?

Mother Nerian pulled back her red hood, revealing an ancient face. Her wrinkles seemed to fold along concentration lines, causing her to appear as if she were studying the world intently. “Sisters Rokia and Embla have assessed your father. I can see why you called upon us. You do need our help.”

“It’s my hope that Odin might be relocated to our summer home in Vanaheim, close to your healers and out of the bustle of Asgard,” Thor said. “It’s a beautiful place - surely good for his soul.”

The old healer’s wrinkles took on a slightly warmer cast. “I remember it. His Majesty was always falling out of some tree or wrestling a pack of squirrels, while your brother seemed determined to catch every germ in the realms. The things I had to diagnose - I likely made Abbess several centuries sooner thanks to the experience gained looking after you two.”

For a moment, Thor was thrust back to those times. Warm winds billowing the curtains in the thousand open windows, sunlight dancing on the lake water, children’s laughter, the sweet sting of a foot-long squirrel tusk jutting out of his side.

“Yes. It was a wonderful place. It seems the sort of place one could…live out their days in peace.”

Mother Nerian pursed her lips. “It is a lovely place, Your Majesty. I suspect your father would appreciate visiting it again. But it is not at all the sort of place you can leave him indefinitely. I would have to move my entire Sisterhood there to even have a hope of keeping him secure. Your father just escaped a palace teeming with guards - how are my girls supposed to stop him climbing out a window in a building that’s as perforated as Gerblurgian Poked Cheese?” She held up a hand to silence him as Thor moved to make a suggestion. “Sister Embla is a talented barrier mage, but even she must sleep. A more permanent solution is necessary.”

Magni frowned. “Permanent solution? What does that mean?”

“We will need some time to construct a facility capable of housing one as powerful as Odin All-Father,” Nerian continued. “It would be within the Abbey. He would be well looked after, every minute of the day.”

Once again, Magni was the one to voice Thor’s thoughts. “What sort of ‘facility’? One with no windows?”

“Of course there will be windows, Prince - a manageable number of them. We will build it out of materials that contain and control magic, reinforced with spells from the outside. It will have everything he could ever need, and you can visit at any time.”

Even prisoners are allowed visitors. Thor’s skin prickled with guilt. And that’s what I would be sending him to. A prison.

But is that not what I’ve done to him in his very home? Can any place meant to hold him be anything but?

Magni raised his voice. “My grandfather deserves better than a box to die in.”

Thor put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Magni…”

His son glared at the Mother. “What good is a healer who can’t heal, anyway? You’re the king. Find a better one who can fix Grandfather.”

Mother Nerian seemingly took no offence. “You do not know what you ask for, child. To heal the flesh is one thing. But a mind…a mind is like a house made out of a single piece of glass. When it becomes cracked, every part is affected, and nothing can be easily replaced. To enter at all is a grave trespass. Anything you touch will be clouded, and it is all too easy to shatter the whole thing.”

“But there are mages who enter into minds all the time,” protested Magni, though his voice was smaller now. “The Inquisitors -“

“Are the furthest thing from healers,” said Mother Nerian sharply. Her face took on harsh shadows.“They enter to steal, not to give back. They are destroyers.”

Magni shuddered at her disapproval. His lips sucked inwards and he said no more.

“Such harsh words, Mother,” General Tyr said dryly. “Are you not proud of your former students? The best Inquisitors learned everything they know from your Abbey.”

The Abbess said nothing, replacing her red hood over her face. “The room will be ready in three days, All-Father. Send us your decision by raven.” She strode towards the door, pausing at the threshold to add, “I will leave Sisters Rokia and Embla here. It wouldn’t do for more of your healers to be injured.”

“Injured healers?” Magni questioned.

Six so far, Thor thought to himself grimly. Sending in warriors to protect them only made it worse. And if I attended…well, the last thing we need is another Vault situation.

As the tail end of the abbess’s headdress whipped out of sight, The Herald popped his nose back into the room. “Pardon me, Your Highness, but there is a message from the Sisters about your father. He is asking to see you and your brother.”

Magni looked at him. “We could go to him now, couldn’t we, Father?”

He should say yes. He should take this opportunity, this little time they had left - while Odin still knew him as his son and would be glad to see him.

Thor opened his mouth and said, “No. There are other matters I must attend to first. And it is late in the day; he is usually at his best in the mornings. Perhaps tomorrow, after breakfast.”

The healers dipped as their Mother had and left the rose garden, presumably returning to Odin’s side.

Thor did not look at his son, but instead turned to walk into the shadows of a weeping willow. “You still haven’t decided on where you will go for your Coming-of-Age, Magni. You should be deeper into preparations. Your name-day is within sight.”

Magni seemed flummoxed by the sudden turn in the conversation. “I - I want to choose a quest worthy of your first-born, Father. That is all.”

“It will be shameful if my first-born never goes on a quest at all,” Thor said shortly. “You should decide soon.”

He didn’t see him, but he could hear the rustle of cloth as Magni bowed to him. “I…of course, Father. I’ll go now.”

Despite Magni's increasing height, he was still so slight that the sound of his feet retreating barely made a sound. To think it was already time for him to go on this quest…perhaps the tradition demanded such adventures too young. Magni wasn’t even half the size he’d likely become, and soon he would be turned out on his own to drag back some monster’s head as proof of his valour and worth.

Of course, Thor had done it. Why not his son?

“Sometimes that boy reminds me more of Loki than of you,” Tyr remarked.

“Hmm?” Thor said vaguely, hardly listening.

“Say now, what does Loki think of this?” Tyr asked.

“Oh…he was not…keen on it, before. But I think now he must realize we have no choice.”

Tyr frowned. “You need to tell him.”

Thor edged towards the door. “He’s still recovering in Alfheim. I shouldn’t disrupt his peace.”

“Send a raven if you’re not brave enough to say it to his face,” Tyr said bluntly. “But you must tell him. You’ve got enough going on with the war on the Queeg. You don’t need one within your own house, either.”

“You do overstep your station, General,” Thor growled. “You may have taught me as a boy, but I am your king now. I come to you for counsel on war, not family matters.”

Tyr raised a dark eyebrow. “A wise man would realize that those are one and the same in your family.”

“I have other matters to attend to. If you wish to prove yourself wise to me, you’ll win this war quickly so we can take on the Kree,” Thor declared, leaving the room with a dramatic flurry of his cape.

General Tyr only shook his head, a knowing smile on his face. “Still a child,” he murmured to himself.

Thor flushed, though the man could no longer see him.

There were indeed many other things for Thor to attend to today. If he wished. He could even have dinner, although with Magni dismissed it would be a lonelier affair than he was in the mood for. Perhaps he’d been too hard on the boy…no, it was that he’d been too soft in the past. Magni was far too indecisive and too willing to bend to others’ opinions.

The boy should have argued with Mother Nerian more today, should have demanded that the Sisters create new treatments if none currently existed, should have insisted that he and his father would accept nothing less than a cure, not containment. Instead, he held his tongue and let Tyr fight his battles for him.

Thor hadn’t realized he’d been walking towards the Gardens until he felt the spring of grass beneath his feet instead of the palace’s metal.

He’d been coming here more and more in the week since the incident in the woods. After avoiding it for so long, he was pleased to see that it was still just as his Mother had kept it. Perhaps he should arrange some sort of gift for the gardeners, for keeping her memory alive. He was close to the cottage where the head gardener lived and kept his tools, after all - he could just drop in and -

Something rustled behind him, ever so slightly. Thor turned, Mjölnir already in his hand, his warrior instincts as sharp as they ever were. He squinted into the foliage, but saw nothing. Still alert, he glanced at the ground. The grass was bent, as were some lower twigs beneath a tree. Someone had gone off the trail here.

“Reveal yourself or my hammer and I will do some emergency hedge clipping,” he threatened jovially. “And if you’re an assassin, you might as well try it; you’re not going to get a better shot.”

There was a low thump. Thor turned towards it and the air shimmered, revealing raised pale hands and a gaunt face to match them.

At first, Thor almost felt disappointed; he could have used an assassin to work out some frustrations out on. Then he remembered something, and all the adrenaline came flooding back.

“What in Bor’s bloody beard are you doing here, Loki?!” he hissed.

Loki lowered his hands, but when he tried to speak he could only manage a croak. He coughed and tried again, though there was still something rough and unused to his voice. “It’s a public garden, Thor. Mother wanted them open to all and sundry. Well, at least all and sundry who live in the palace -“

“You’re meant to be in Alfheim! You sent a raven, days ago. No one’s seen you since -” Thor cleared his throat and softened his accusation. “Why wouldn’t you tell me you were returning?”

He didn’t voice his other doubts. Did you even leave at all?

“I just needed…a little privacy. To think.”

Even though he was shrouded beneath the branches and leaves, Thor could see that Loki’s appearance was… askew. Thor could not tell if Loki still wore a glamour, but if he was, it was in dire need of adjustment. Loki's brow was sweaty and his clothing had dark patches under his arms and at his chest. The nails on Loki’s pale, raised hands were black with dirt, and every line in his palm was stained with it. Another glance at the ground revealed the source of the thump he’d heard just before Loki emerged.

“Are you…are you gardening, Loki?” Thor asked in astonishment.

Loki blinked, glancing down at his hands. Like a child caught with crumbs on his face after the dessert has gone missing, he unconvincingly hid his hands behind his back. “What? Of course not, I’ve never had a green thumb -”

“I can see the shovel behind you,” Thor pointed out helpfully.

“Ah. Yes. Well. You caught me,” Loki muttered. “It…helps me feel closer to Mother.”

“What are you planting that could possibly grow in all those shadows?” Thor tried to look over Loki’s shoulder.

“Plenty of plants prefer the shade,” Loki said stubbornly. “In many places, sunlight is at a premium. Nighthaunt grows in caves. Thornhusks and bellanoches and creeping tarry vines all thrive at the very base of the largest trees. Spotted dead-nettles, spurges and lungwort - they all find a way to live, even as the light is snatched away by the biggest and greediest of giants.”

Thor wondered where all this pent-up aggression about horticulture had come from. “Those all sound awful,” he couldn’t help but rib. “Are you truly planting splurges and nettles and thornhusks in Mother’s garden?”

Loki took a deep breath. “I suppose…primrose also benefits from the shade. So do coral bells, foxglove, valkyrie’s wings and…mistletoe.”

“Those do sound much nicer.” Thor encouraged.

“Don’t be fooled by the names. Mistletoe is a parasite. And thornhusks are quite lovely,” Loki said drily.

“So are you gardening in the dark to practice where no one can see you then?”

Loki scowled. “You still haven’t said why you’re here.”

Thor clasped his hands behind his back. “I also needed to think. There’s a lot on a King’s mind, you know.”

“Hmm,” said Loki, not rising to the bait, though usually any mention of Thor’s mind was too tantalizing an opening to ignore. “A load shared is a load halved. What is it that torments you so?"

Tyr’s words echoed back to Thor.

You need to tell him.

“Well…the war, of course. And Magni’s departure. And…everything else. The usual. There is also...the matter of Father’s...”

Just then, the sun came out from behind its misty cloud. Bright, blaring light from the sunset burst through the trees, illuminating Loki more fully.

Thor gasped. “Brother…what have you done to yourself?”

Loki tried to step back into the shadows, tripping over the shovel behind him. Thor immediately plunged his hand down after him, pulling him up again and into the light more fully.

It was even more ghastly on closer inspection. “Your eye sockets are practically purple! When did you sleep last? And your hair - have you even been near a bath this past week? Just what have you been doing?”

"Gardening,” grimaced Loki, trying to pull his hand back and stand again.

“And nothing else, it would seem.” Anger flashed through Thor, tinged with an odd relief. Maybe this wasn’t an assassin, but Loki’s total lack of self-care was something to fight. Besides, being angry with Loki for Loki’s own sake was easier than trying to sort out the stew of things he’d been feeling about his brother since the forest. “You are going straight to a shower, right now, and then to bed. If you do not sleep for a full three days, I will have Bronwenna whip up a potion that will keep you still for a month."

“You can’t tell me what to -“

“And, once you’ve awoken, you will come to dinner. In Father’s rooms.”

Loki squished up his face in mild consternation. “A family meal? Why? We haven’t had one in -”

“Years, yes. Mother would be very disappointed in us. We should rectify that.”

A shadow of suspicion fell between Loki’s brows. “That is your only reason for this sudden arrangement? A sudden thought for Mother’s disappointment? What else is afoot?”

Thor shifted. “…We should spend as much time with Father as possible. Do we need more reason than that?”

“Funny. I seem to recall there being an official royal decree that I should spend no time at all with Father.”

“You know why that is,” Thor snapped. “I didn’t want to have to do it, but -”

Loki clenched his fists, making them even paler against the grime. “I would never harm him on purpose. Never.”

“Have you been near a mirror? You’re not yourself, Loki.”

A shimmer of green washed over Loki, returning him to a state that would look almost normal, if not for his eyes. Though Thor could no longer see the bruising, a slightly mad light still glimmered there.

“Happy now?” Loki grumbled.

“No, actually. I can still smell you.” Thor pointed towards the palace. “Go find some real water. Now, Loki.”

Both brothers seemed relieved for the chance to end the conversation. Loki slunk off in the direction of Thor’s finger. His face might’ve been refreshed by the spell, but his gait was a stumbling, tired mess.

He was long gone by the time Thor realized he hadn’t told Loki about the Sisters. It was still possible to race after him, or to visit him in his rooms in the morning, of course. But really, should he? When Loki was in such a state? It would hardly help him to sleep well.

Perhaps it’s for the best he doesn’t know.

I don’t know what he'd do, if he knew.

Thor didn’t like that. Loki was supposed to be predictable - predictably an ass, but a dependable one all the same.

Just like Father, really. Even when Thor was king, Odin had always been there, provided he was awake. He’d been a rock Thor could always turn to when the seas roughened. Until one day he just…cracked. And suddenly Odin was no longer…himself...

A terrible thought occurred to him.

Thor continued his walk, though the sun had finally set and the twilight obscured the beauty and colours of the garden.

It cannot be. Loki is still so young. Father has more years than the ten other oldest men of Asgard combined.

Yet…hadn’t Loki always been prone to illness? He’d been bedridden for entire summers in their youth. If this disease lurked in their shared blood, it might have seen an opening in Loki’s weak body that had taken millennia to appear in Odin’s.

Thor searched his own memory, suddenly afraid that he’d find a blank spot. What had he had for breakfast that day? His stomach plunged when he realized he couldn’t recall. Had it been pheasant? No, that was last week…had he even eaten at all? Wait - he’d had milk and honey, then shared in some of Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr’s beef jerky. Because he’d gone to their stable first thing this morning. And then he’d had lunch with Tyr before the private war council.

He was fine.

But there was still the future. It might happen, if he were unlucky enough to live as long as Odin. But Thor was certain he’d die in battle long before that, and would enter Valhalla still in the prime of his life. It was Loki who’d wither away in the palace, without a chance of a glorious death.

Thor caught himself sighing in relief and felt immediate guilt. Of course he was fine - he was the Mighty Thor. It was Loki who was clearly ill, and all Thor had thought about was himself.

You don’t know that it is the same illness. Loki’s been under so much stress of late - once Father is safe in Vanaheim, and he has accepted that, he will return to his old self.

But what if he did not?

I suppose he won’t have to part with Father after all. Or at least, they may share a wall.

Thor shook his head violently.

No. Father is old. There is only so much I can do to save him from nature itself. If Loki were afflicted, I would never let him linger in a cell for millennia. I would send him to every healer in the realms. I would seek out the most powerful artifacts. I would not rest until his mind was his own again.

I am a good brother, if a less-than-perfect son.

Loud cawing interrupted his thoughts. He was at the exit of the Gardens, looking up at the Raven’s Tower. No doubt Mother Nerian was waiting for his decision.

Thor pulled Mjölnir from his belt and passed it from hand to hand.

At first, I thought I needed to send Odin away to protect Asgard. Then I thought I needed to do it to protect him from Loki. And now…perhaps I need to do it to protect Loki from himself.

As much as the reasons changed, the decision didn’t.

The cawing grew louder and louder as he made his way towards the tower.

ODIN

“Stop, Embla!” cried out the smiling nurse, hand extended to block a lash of red magic. With her other hand, she patted Odin gently on the back. “There, there, Your Highness. It’s alright.”

Odin beat his hands uselessly against the red apple emblem on Sister Rokia’s chest. She took every blow as if it were not but a raindrop on a summer’s day. She gently took his hands and held them still.

“You can’t put me in here,” he begged, voice high. “Please. Not the Box. I’ll do anything. Just not the Box again.”

“Sister Embla, I think you should disperse the containment wall,” Sister Rokia instructed.

The scarlet walls burst into sparks, falling to the floor with a light patter.

Odin sagged. The terror slowly receded, like the tide retreating from a beach. Yet like that beach, it left the sands of his mind wiped clean, without impression of what his thoughts before had been.

“Ready for bed?” chirruped Sister Rokia, and this time Odin allowed her to lead him to the massive fur-covered thing and settle him in.

He drank her offered potions, allowed her to dab at his face with a wet cloth, and finally, stared into the distance as she began to read from a book by his table. Only when she reached the halfway point in the story did he interrupt.

“This isn’t the right book,” he mumbled. “I want the old one. Huginn was supposed to…he needs to read it, you see.”

“Hmm?” Sister Rokia opened her eyes up wide and overly attentive. “Who needs to read it?”

“My son,” Odin mumbled. “He needs to read the older version. It will…keep him safe.”

“How’s that?”

“I…I’m sure it will. I planned it, you see. He was supposed to read it and…he’d be alright.” He frowned, the many creases of his face carving him into sections. “Why isn’t he here? I need to see him. My son.”

“The king comes to see you in the mornings, All-Father,” cooed Rokia.

“Yes. Yes, him too. I need to speak with him about…where’s the other one? Why isn’t he here?!” Odin said it like an accusation.

“You mean Prince Loki?” Sister Rokia soothed, smoothing out Odin’s disturbed bed covers. “He’s away in Alfheim, Your Majesty.”

“No he isn’t,” he snapped. “He has to come tonight. He always comes.”

“He hasn’t come by any of the nights we’ve been here,” Sister Embla muttered.

Odin had forgotten about her. His shoulders tightened as he spotted her shadow at the far end of the room, guarding the door. They’d closed the blinds, leaving only the flicker of the torches above his bed to glimmer faintly off her sword and cold, dark eyes. She tapped it lightly, setting off a bright red spark.

“I don’t like you,” Odin declared with a slight tremor. He turned back to Sister Rokia and her gargantuan smile. “He always comes. He must come. He won’t leave me alone.”

“But you’re not alone,” cooed the nurse.

Odin looked around the empty, wide room.

Walls within walls. Getting smaller, all the time. His hands scrunched up the furs on the bed.

“I did it again, didn’t I?” He searched Sister Rokia’s eyes. “I let them die. So I have to go in the Box. Like before. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To put me there?”

Sister Rokia’s smile flickered. “Of course not, Dear. We’re just here to keep you safe.”

“In the Box,” Odin said again, pulling his legs towards his chest.

“There’s no box, All-Father.”

Odin shook his head and started to rock, staring straight ahead.

“I don’t want to go,” he whimpered, rocking. “I’m sorry. I know I deserve it, I know, I know, but please…don’t put me in the Box. I didn’t know he would do that. I didn’t. ”

The Sister gently stroked his hair with one hand, and with the other, waved to dim the torches into total darkness.

The blackness smothered Odin. Did it go on forever? Or was it closing in, six walls that made up the edges of the world? A world with less and less room for him within it?

“Please…please…” he whispered, but the hand pulled away.

And he was alone.

LOKI

THUNK.

The shovel rattled in his hands. He raised it again.

THUNK.

Carefully, gently, he laid the shovel against the side of the pit. He sent out a tentative tendril of magic, looking for any other remaining booby trap spells he might’ve missed.

It had taken a week. A whole week of digging. A whole week of carefully unraveling Odin’s and Frigga’s spells. It was one of the most difficult magical and physical feats he’d ever accomplished at the same time. A moment ago, he’d been so weary he thought he might sink into the hole and sleep, just as Thor had told him to.

Now his blood was pumping through his veins like a charging Auðumbla Bull.

With trembling hands, he reached down to pull his prize from the earth.

It was smaller than he thought it would be.

Just a small box.

Chapter Text

ᚫ

Askeladd, the raven, and the horse who was once a wolf arrived at the mountain pass where the other princes had gone missing. Askeladd recognized his brothers at once - they’d been turned to stone, along with what he assumed were their new brides. He wept to see them so.

“Oh, my brothers! I have failed you, and my new sisters. I have failed our father, who surely will not survive news of your fate.”

“Who goes there?” shouted the troll. “Is it another prince for my collection?”

There wasn’t time to run, so Askeladd put the raven atop his head and pulled the wings down on either side. The troll emerged from a cave and regarded him with suspicion.

“What are you?”

Askeladd was suddenly grateful that he was still in his youth and possessed a high voice. “I am the Princess…Askelass. My sisters married these stony gentlemen here, but they also asked for my hand, to be wed to their younger brother.”

“What’s that thing on your head?”

Askelass pouted. “My raven hair is famous throughout the land. Though I suppose it’s not at its best, after a long journey on the road.”

The raven, to his credit, did not comment.

“Say, Sir Troll, how did you manage to defeat so many princes? You must be very powerful.”

“Yes, I am,” preened the troll. “I took my heart out of my body and hid it away. Now no one can harm me.”

“No one at all?!” cooed Askelass. “Surely there must be something!”

The troll cast a suspicious eye upon the raven-haired girl. “I should turn you to stone and go back to my slumber,” he grumbled.

“You can’t do that!” Askelass squawked. “Then you will have seven princes and eight princesses! It simply will not do. Everyone who comes by will ask ‘Where’s the eighth prince?’ They’ll think you’re lazy, or that he got away. It’s sloppy.”

The troll had to admit it would destroy the symmetry he’d become fond of in his ornaments. “It’s your fault, you came by yourself, without your prince,” he grumbled. “I cannot simply let you go.”

“Why not wait until my prince comes to rescue me? Then you can turn us both to stone and have a complete set.”

The troll sniffed. “And what do I do with you in the interim? Princesses aren’t good for much but dancing and dresses.”

“And listening,” Askelass fluttered her eyelashes. “I’m a terribly good listener, almost talk as little as a statue already. I could listen to you talk for ages.”

The troll considered it. “If you can also clean and cook, you might be pleasant company after all. Just until your prince comes.”

ᚫ

Chapter Text

THOR

Never before had a sunrise made Thor’s heart sink. He hadn’t slept. A whole night rolling around in bed - and in a bed the size of his, that was quite an accomplishment.

Several times, he’d bolted to the door, determined to go to the Raven Tower and send another message to the Sisters of Idunn.

Would it be like this every night until they finally came for Odin? Could he withstand the slowly amassing doubt in his mind, night after night?

Father was still waiting to see him. If he’d been better rested, perhaps he would have had the energy to put it off again. Instead, he walked the long way from his wing to the old one, feeling as if his head were drifting a full pace back from his weary body.

Would today be a good day? Or a bad one?

That was always the question. Since the night in the woods, they’d all been bad days. Now, though…they were numbered days.

The Einherjar parted to let him pass. Thor went through the door without knocking. To his surprise, his father was not still in his bedroom, but eating a very early breakfast out on the main balcony. Upon noticing Thor, he beamed.

It was still a little startling to see his father smile like that.

“My son! You’re here to rescue me! Thank goodness.”

Thor approached, hand automatically sliding to Mjölnir. “Rescue you? From what?”

"These lunatic women who insist they live here now.” Odin threw a nasty look behind him at the Sisters. “What will your mother think when she gets back and sees them? You’ll have to tell her that I had nothing to do with it, no, not at all. Freya’s enough for me, always has been.”

Thor frowned. “Freya?”

“Don’t you know her name? Silly boy, she isn’t called ‘Mama’ by everyone, you know,” Odin chortled, biting into a fry cake.

“You mean Frigga,” Thor said flatly, settling into a chair beside Odin.

“That’s what I said,” Odin growled. “Don’t echo me, boy, it's tiresome.”

Thor sucked in his lips for a quick, odd smile. “What did you need to see me for, Father?”

“Get rid of these spare shadows of mine, and I shall tell you.”

Thor looked askance at the two Sisters. They bowed slightly, then retreated to the far end of the room. They were now out of earshot, but not out of sight - and likely not out of reach either, should Odin decide to make a surprise run for it. Odin eyeballed them reproachfully, clearly wishing they’d depart entirely, but did not argue.

With the smallest of sighs through his nose, Odin folded his hands in front of him and stared out at the warming dawn.

“You’re planning on sending me away.”

Thor seized up, like a horse balking at a sudden, unforeseen drop.

Odin glanced at him sideways, eyes dark and hooded. He held Thor there like a snake mesmerizing its prey, until his beard twitched and the spell was broken.

“That is the right thing to do. When do I leave?”

It took Thor a solid second before he managed to reply “…Three days.”

“I see. They need time to finish building my new cage, don’t they?” Odin chuckled dryly. “I hope they have not underestimated me.”

“…You wish…to go?” Thor said slowly.

“Vanaheim is as pleasant a place to live out the rest of my days as any.” Odin shrugged. “I ask only one thing once I am there.”

“Anything, Father.”

“Do not visit me. Not you, nor Magni or my other grandchildren. And not Loki.”

It took much to make the god of thunder feel thunderstruck, but once more Odin had left Thor speechless. “…Why?” he managed, after some time had passed and Odin had offered no more in the way of explanation.

“I am myself today. Or at least, as much myself as I was able to find,” Odin said quietly. “After being put in that box…I never will be again. This much I still know for certain.” His hands tightened around each other. “I would like to be remembered as I am now.”

The sudden urge to shout at Odin nearly overcame Thor. His throat bobbed up and down twice before he managed to swallow it.

Odin sighed. “I know that is asking much of you, my son. It is like scheduling the day of my death. And that is not all I need to ask of you today.”

Thor could only nod. He didn’t trust his mouth enough to open it.

“After my death, none from Asgard shall be allowed to see my body. I would normally disperse myself, but if I am unable, I would ask that you allow the Sisters to bury me.”

Thor didn’t know what to make of that one. Did he mean that he did not want a grand funeral or celebration of life in Asgard? Why would he not want the customary mourning of the dead that would have allowed Thor to embrace his father one last time? It should be Thor’s duty as All-Father to send his body to Valhalla.

“Do you remember the vows you took, the day you were crowned king?” Odin asked.

“Perfectly. And I have upheld all of them.”

Odin affixed Thor with his eye, just as he had all those years ago. “Did you guard the Nine Realms?”

“I have, and now guard three more.” Thor couldn’t help but smirk a little in pride.

“Did you preserve the peace?

“I preserved it where it was, and made it where it wasn’t.”

“And have you cast aside all selfish ambition, and pledged yourself only to the good of the Realms?”

Thor looked out over the balcony, towards Heimdall’s observatory. “I have had to make…great personal sacrifices, to protect Asgard and the Realms. As I have grown the Realms, I have lost parts of myself.”

Odin bent his head slightly. He understood. Of course he did. Only another king really could. Once he was gone, Thor would have no one to nod at him like that.

“I would ask that you think of these vows every day, my son. I would also have you swear to two more today.” Odin straightened, as if he were once more All-Father and seated in the Hliðskjálf throne. “Thor Odinson. If you become aware of a wrong you have committed, will you strive to correct it and make amends?”

“What wrong have I -“

“Do you swear?”

“I swear,” Thor said, firmly.

“Do you swear to protect your family from harm, and, to the best of your abilities, guide them towards happiness?”

“…I will always protect my family, Father. You need not ask me to swear that. I already have, to myself, long ago.”

“Swear it anyway.”

“I swear,” Thor said without hesitation.

“When I have left, I ask that you think of that vow. Assure your children that I am at peace. Tell your wife that she still has my blessing.”

Thor nodded stiffly.

“Your brother will need you. See to it that he does not linger in grief too long.”

Odin’s wrists were perfectly healed. Even the cut on his head had faded, thanks to the care of the Sisters. Thor wondered if Odin remembered the wounds or how he’d gotten them at all.

“I do not know that it is possible to make Loki happy,” Thor observed. “But I will certainly try to keep him from wallowing, as I’ve always done. As for keeping him from harm, well - he does have a talent for making enemies. Never fear, though - haven’t I always vanquished those who would pick on my little brother? Even if they had good reason to.”

Odin tapped his spoon against his plate rhythmically, though he seemed not to notice. “There are things other than enemies that might harm him.”

Thor waited for his father to continue, but after a long silence Odin changed course completely. “Do you have any regrets about your kingship, my son?”

Thor tried to think of something he could say that sounded both bad and good enough. No doubt Father was having his own regrets, now that he was leaving forever, and wished to bestow some advice.

“I have acted too rashly, on occasion,” Thor admitted. “It has cost lives that cannot be bought back. Other times, I did not act swiftly enough, and lost even more. Asgardian lives should not be currency, and yet I often feel war strategies see them that way.”

“You sound like Tyr,” Odin said flatly. The tempo of his tapping changed, becoming faster. “And what of lives not Asgardian?”

“Not Asgardian?” Thor echoed. What lives other than Asgardian would be weighing on Father’s mind? “You mean the humans? We are very careful to protect Midgard, as always. They are keepers of the heart of Yggdrasil, after all, though they still know it not. I have not had occasion to meet any in quite some time.”

“Human lives are fleeting; it is best to not get to know any personally. It is good that you have nonetheless cared for them from afar,” Odin agreed.

“Soon it will not only be them under our protection,” Thor enthused, eager to impress. “Once we have secured the Queeg moon, we will finally be in the ideal strategic position to take on the Kree and free many other peoples. Asgard is a beacon of hope in dark places, just as you always wanted it to be.”

“Were Nine Realms not enough trouble to manage?” Odin wondered. “Isn’t Twelve too much, even for a young man?” His spoon tapped faster and faster on the plate, almost becoming a hum.

Irritation flickered across Thor’s face. “There are countless realms that need Asgard’s help. I will not sit on my laurels because I fear the administrative paperwork.”

Odin paused his tapping, having finally noticed he was doing it. He laid the spoon down carefully. “Do you regret how you managed Jötunheim?”

“Jötunheim? That was one of our greatest successes. We halted a voracious appetite that would have devoured world after world. Something even you didn’t manage to -“ Thor stopped himself, a little too late. He continued after a slow breath. “There are some who didn’t care for how I handled it. Frey was invaluable to the war effort, of course, but he begged often for us to come to the same arrangement we’d had before. The one the giants broke. And after we did what was necessary, there were some on the Council and many of the common folk in Asgard who thought we didn’t go far enough.” He held his head up, proud. “Everyone always thinks they could do better as king than the king, and second guess the decisions they like, never knowing all the smaller ones along the way. But I know in my heart and mind that I did the right thing. I protected Asgard, Vanaheim and Midgard, and I did so with valour. We were heroes that day.”

Odin stood from his chair. “I see.” He walked to the edge of the balcony, putting his back to Thor.

So, Odin wanted Thor to regret something about Jötunheim. Maybe he should have humoured him and tried to feign a general remorse, but Thor wasn’t capable of little deceptions to make Odin happy, like Loki was wont to do. He would be honest with Odin, and give him some true reality to stand on. He could do that and still be kind.

“What is it you regret that haunts you, Father?” Thor asked Odin’s back. “If it is within my means, I will right it ten times over.”

“I’m not sure how the arithmetic on that would work out,” Odin murmured. His hand started drumming on the balcony, tapping his thumb for every fourth beat and alternating between his pointer and middle fingers for the other three.

“Is it the vows? Do you feel you broke one?” Thor prodded.

“I never took those vows,” Odin said harshly.

That surprised Thor. “Aren’t they tradition?”

“Traditions must start somewhere. If you have your successor utter them, then I suppose they would be. You could even add the ones you swore today, if you like.” Odin lifted his head, eye wide as it drank in the dark purple and pink sky above them. “The wisdom I used to craft those vows was earned over many centuries of regrets.”

“It was not in vain. I have kept them,” Thor insisted. “What do you regret?"

“Never regret itself,” Odin stated, as if that were plain.

Thor had had enough. “What threatens my brother? Why will you not tell me?”

Finally, Odin detached his gaze from the heavens and looked again at Thor. “After this day, no one is to be allowed to touch me. Before my departure to Vanaheim, bring Loki here. He must cast a geas of silence upon me. He is the only mage strong enough to make it permanent, I think.”

Thor barked a laugh. “I ask you to tell me something, and you tell me to bring you Loki so you can never say a word to anyone ever again? Why would you do something so horrible to yourself?”

“These days, my son, the only two things of which I am likely to speak are complete nonsense or secrets that could shake the very foundations of Asgard.”

A hot sensation was rising in Thor’s face. “Why do you not trust me to keep them?”

“I carry the burdens of a millennia on my back. I would never wish to weigh a man at the beginning of his journey with that,” Odin retorted.

“Then how am I to learn?!” Thor shouted, unable to hold it back any longer.

“I was under the impression that I had put you on a path to discover all you needed to know. Clearly I was wrong.”

Thor chuckled bitterly. “So am I one of your regrets?”

Odin turned his head slightly, considering his son. “Yes,” he said.

That word plunged into Thor like a Jotunn’s ice dagger.

“I am everything you taught me to be,” Thor declared brusquely, unable to suppress a quiver in his voice.

The old man shrugged, an unexpectedly youthful gesture that didn’t look right on his gaunt frame. “If I was everything my father taught me to be, the universe would be a much darker place.”

“Grandfather Bor was a hero,” Thor said.

Odin gave him a sly look from the corner of his eye. “Is that what I taught you?”

“YES!” Thor slammed his hand on the table and stood up too, towering over Odin. “Bor was a hero! He defeated the Dark Elves and avenged what they’d done! You were a hero! You saved Asgard from doom and put the giants of ice and fire in their places! You battled against monsters and demons and always came out victorious! And I am a hero, like my father and his father before! Why should we regret our greatness?!”

“I suppose the books do say that, don’t they?” Odin mused, utterly unimpressed with Thor’s outburst.

Books. The image of it put a thought in Thor’s mind, and now he was too incensed to do anything but let it immediately rampage out of his mouth. “It was Loki, wasn’t it? He turned you against me. All those nights I was out there protecting your legacy, he was pouring poison in your ear. He was always jealous of us. He wants to break us apart to-“

“He did no such thing,” Odin said calmly. “I know that if you’d had the time, you would have aided me just the same. I do not doubt your love for me, child.”

“I am beginning to doubt yours for me. Do you prefer Loki now? Is that it? Do you not regret how he turned out?” Thor sneered.

“As a matter of fact, of the two of you, Loki is the greater disappointment,” Odin remarked blithely.

“So, you…what?”

“I am not angry at either of you for that. I am angry at myself. It is apparent to me now that I am the source of it, as you have just now again proven.”

“Is that why you’re so eager to pack your bags and go to Vanaheim, then? You want to be rid of your unworthy children?”

“Unworthy,” Odin said slowly, as if tasting it. “That is the better word. You are both unworthy. Unworthy of your positions, unworthy of your gifts, unworthy of the titles you give yourselves. My influence has corrupted you, whether by blood or proximity. Your only hope is to cast me away, along with everything of yourself you have made in my image.”

Thor took a step towards Odin, a bubble of harsh words pushing his teeth apart. At the last second, he pulled his head to the side and looked away. You’re doing it again, chided Thor’s brain, which had finally flushed enough heated blood out of itself to start working again. He’s an old, sick man. This is no different than the Vault. Do you want to put more unnecessary skylights into the palace?

“Perhaps you didn’t get enough sleep, Father. I should go and return later when you are more yourself.”

Thor turned to gesture at the Sisters. They were standing side by side, fingers plugged into their ears. They also appeared to be - humming? What an odd bit of courtesy. Upon seeing Thor’s expression, Sister Rokia unplugged her ears and scurried over first, while the dark-haired one slunk behind her, eyeing Odin warily.

“I am clear of mind, for the moment,” Odin said concisely. “Perhaps clearer than I’ve ever been in my life. You will do as I have instructed. I trust that much of you.”

Sister Rokia gently took Odin’s arm, but he snatched it back. He looked at Thor. “No contact with me. Order that.”

“…Do as my father wishes, unless unfeasible.” Thor brushed his hands over his clothes and made his way towards the door. Before he reached it, he paused. “I was planning to have a family dinner the night before your departure. As a goodbye.”

“I cannot guarantee my condition at such a time,” Odin said bluntly. “But it seems a good opportunity to have Loki cast the geas. Other than that, I would have him forbidden from seeing or speaking to me. You as well. I would like to appreciate my last moments in my home at peace.”

“That is cruel, Father. Why would you ask such a thing?”

“I demand it. Go now, and tell him that these are my orders.”

For all the hurt Odin had personally bestowed upon Thor today, Thor’s heart ached most for Loki. To hear such things would destroy him. Thor would never repeat them. Thor would guard them to himself, to settle like stones in his soul.

“Hmm. You know, Father, you may have two sons and seven grandchildren, but Loki and I only have one father. You could have always had more children, but we had no alternative to you.”

Before Odin could respond, Thor left. Today, he was getting the last word.

ODIN

Odin exhaled softly, the sound lost to the slamming of the golden door as Thor left.

That should do it.

His shoulders unbunched and his hands dropped to his sides. He went quietly with the Sisters as they guided him back to his bedroom.

The rest was up to Huginn. And Askeladd.

LOKI

The box was lighter than he’d expected.

Shouldn’t secrets be heavy?

After an awkward crawl up the steep bank of dirt, he placed it down gently in a patch of blue flowers and collapsed, staring up at the sky.

The crescent moon was sinking. It was only a few hours until sunrise, but for now the light of Loki’s false green fire and the luminescent shrubs was all that kept the darkness at bay.

He lolled his head to the side to stare at the box.

It was a handsome thing. Made of gold, with a pattern of chrysanthemums and an eagle in the centre, mid-flight. Though Loki had painstakingly dismantled all the spells in the earth that had been protecting its location, he could sense more within and upon it. Most were maintenance spells, to keep out the water and crawling things, even to dispel the dirt itself, which left it perfect and gleaming even though it had only just been removed from the ground.

Loki reached out and touched it.

The box was warm, as if it had been left sitting out in the sun. A spell reached into Loki’s hand, not dangerous, only inquisitive.

“A blodlås,” Loki sighed, sitting up slowly. As if he hadn’t already sacrificed enough sweat and effort to get to the thing, now it actually wanted a taste of his blood. It should accept either the blood of Frigga or Odin. Luckily for Loki, he had both. He pressed his right thumb into his mouth, ignoring the earthy flavour. He bit down, hard, until the taste of iron became overwhelming. He turned and spat the excess out into the grass and pressed his bloody thumb against the lock.

The box shuddered - then fell still.

A strange reaction. Was it not enough blood? He considered calling forth a dagger; perhaps in its long abandonment, the box had grown thirsty.

...Yet that should hardly be necessary. The spell was well-cast, but not unusual - it should allow those of the bloodline to pass.

Loki considered the box, turning it side to side. The source of the spell’s power was protected inside the box, and couldn’t be unwoven like those in the earth. If he did not have the key, he would have to pick it. Blood magic was about magic before it was about blood. Hypothetically, if Loki could match the signature of either parent’s magic, he could force the spell to trigger and unlock.

Such a thing would normally be ludicrous to attempt - each magical signature was so specific to the soul of the caster that normally not even identical twins raised side by side should be able to do it. And yet, even now, Loki could feel the spell responding to him, like a confused dog recognizing the scent of its master on the hand of a stranger.

Perhaps with access to Odin’s memories, he had something of Odin’s magic running through his veins alongside his own. Would it be enough?

Loki placed his bloody hand to the box once more and pushed his raw magic directly into the spell.

The box started to rattle again, more and more violently. Nausea struck Loki as if he’d just swallowed spoiled milk - no doubt he was resonating with the spell, which was reacting to Loki’s magic as if it were a contagion it was being forced to consume. His own magic was inexorably mixed with his father’s, and with both now flowing through a spell meant to welcome one and reject the other, it was imploding.

“Open,” he hissed at it. “Damn you, open. Open. OPEN!”

Even though his magelight was brightest above his hand, his flesh seemed to be made of shadow. He pushed again and the shadow crept higher, even as more of his father’s spell tried to worm its way back into his flesh like water rushing to fill a vacuum. He let it all flow past, right into the box.

The lock sparked; flashed - this intruder - this friend was Odin-Not-Odin-Odin-Not-Odin-Odin-ODIN-not-ODIN-ODIN!

Finally, it recognized him as who he wasn’t. The lock clicked and slid open.

Loki withdrew his arm, suddenly very cold. He felt - thinner, somehow. As if parts of him had been torn away. He looked at his hand again. It seemed perfectly normal, though it felt skinned raw. He laid it on his lap gingerly, and with the other - opened the box.

Inside was a woven blanket. Hand-made, likely at a loom. And not terribly well. Every few inches a few threads were spilling loose. A trademark he remembered from his mother’s early attempts, back when she was a rank beginner. His own blanket had been made much more skillfully. He pulled it out in huge handfuls, willing his magelight to be brighter. It depicted a warm summer scene, long wheat blowing the wind beneath a high yellow sun. In every thread there was magic; his mother’s magic. Spells not of retribution and pain, like those that had hidden it, but spells of protection, of love and nurturing.

His hands bunched the material up as they balled into fists. Who had she made this for? Who else outside their family had commanded her attention and care?

Yet to find this small remnant of his mother at all - some new piece of her - he could not begrudge that. He placed the blanket in his lap, where at once the ancient spells set to keep him warm. It was as if her ghost had stepped in to embrace him.

He rubbed his face with a muddy sleeve and pushed on. The cloth had been covering many smaller objects. None appeared to be a damning secret. There were carved wooden animals, with soft sanded edges and angry, diamond-shaped eyes that marked them as Odin’s work. Loki piled them into his lap.

Beneath those was a layer of dried flower petals. When Loki touched them, they crumbled into dust - all but a lonely star-shaped blossom. A Solensteg, no doubt - a rose known for its sweetness, as well as one used as a mild narcotic to treat pain in children and small animals. Loki placed it atop the blue flowers next to the box.

There was more beneath that layer - pieces of jewelry, a book of fairy tales, a small golden lute and a stone carved with runes that created an illusory recording of a traditional Vanaheim Spring-Dance. He remembered being taken to see such dances with his mother in Vanaheim’s capital. The women would dress in branches, leaves and flowers and welcome the warmth back into the world, while the men would dance with fiery swords, slicing the air to banish the cold of winter.

All went into the bundle on his lap until the box was nearly empty. There remained but one item - a bundle, wrapped in a plain white cloth, with a silver tag pinning the top closed.

By now, Loki knew what it was. He didn’t need to unwrap it like some ghastly yuletide gift. He knew - and yet he couldn’t stop himself. He reached in and lifted it into his arms. There were runes embedded in the silver tag. It was a date he knew very well. With delicate fingers, he pulled the tag free and unfolded the cloth.

He’d almost expected to see a skull. But of course Odin would never allow something so mundane as decomposition to come to one of his own.

The babe’s eyes were open and bright as the noon-day sun. They looked straight in Loki’s - and right on through.

It was so small, so unformed - yet Loki could see something of Frigga in the shape of its nostrils, the curve of Odin's high forehead, the set of Thor’s square chin.

There was also a sprinkling of tiny red dots at the tips of its balled fingers and the edges of its lips, and its hair was as white as someone who’d lived a million years. They were the only signs of sickness to mar its beauty.

“Hullo, Baldur,” he said to it. “We meet at last.”

Without thinking, Loki found himself rocking the child, as he had Thor’s children when each had been born and passed to him. He’d never had a gift for song, but nonetheless, a hum thrummed in his throat, soft and familiar, though he could not name it. For a long while, he didn’t allow himself to think. He clung to his ignorance, letting his exhaustion cloud his mind and smother every feeling other than a strange calm.

When the thoughts did come, he entertained them as if they were philosophical theories.

Were you my twin?

We share the same birthday.

Did I live, and you die?

Are we brothers? Or are you…

Loki stared into the pale face. The babe looked like Frigga. He looked like Odin. He looked like Thor. He was nearly a doppelgänger of Magni. Yet there was no shadow of Loki here.

Thor had seven children. There were no shadows there, either.

Loki put his hand on the lid of the golden box and pushed it shut. The blodlås sparked, reseting, and the lock clicked closed again. He gently shuffled the babe into one arm, freeing the other to summon a dagger in a flash of light.

It was surely a monstrous thing, to pierce a dead child so lovingly preserved.

With the tip of the knife, Loki unravelled the cloth around the base of the babe’s feet. Once the sole of its tiny foot was visible, he drew an X into it and placed the flat of the blade beneath it to catch a single, fat drop that sluggishly dripped free.

He wiped the offering on the lock.

It hummed, clicked, and opened. Without a fuss.

Gently, Loki wrapped Baldur up in his shroud and returned him to the box.

Next he returned every other object, exactly where he remembered it being, until he was folding the blanket atop it all. He shut the lid for a second time.

The chest was somehow heavier on the trip back into the hole than it had been coming out, even though he’d added nothing to it. Once it was back in the cavity, Loki took up his shovel once more and set to work on the loose soil. It melted back into the hole with ease.

By the time the sun was rising the ground was flat again. A quick spell created the illusion of grass to spill over the tilled soil, erasing the disturbance as if it had never been. The spade he threw into the deeper foliage.

He paused to stare at the trees, still guarding their secret. He had half-expected them to burst into flames once the truth had become clear. Instead, all they had lost was a few leaves. There was no difference at all.

Once Loki had left, it would be like no-one had ever come here at all. Like it was still forgotten.

Chapter Text

ᚫ

Askeladd had been living with the troll for a long time, and had learned many things about him.

His name was Bragi. He liked his meals so hot it would peel the skin off the inside of a normal man’s mouth. He was careful to clean the moss off of the statues every day, the better to display them. And he began each morning by blowing on an obnoxious horn, before the sun had even risen.

“Why must you blow that horn so early?” grumbled Askeladd, still in character as Askelass, and the raven still in character as her raven-hair.

“Because I’m a magnificent musician,” Bragi huffed. “Go make breakfast.”

Askeladd had learned many things in his time with the troll. How to make breakfast was one of them. How to save his brothers and their wives was not.

So, over their eggs and roasted robins, Askelass asked Bragi where he kept his heart.

“I keep it under the stone slab near the front door of the cave.” Bragi said, not paying much attention.

When the troll had gone into the woods, Askeladd and the raven went to look under the slab. It was not there.

“He isn’t as dumb as he looks,” Askeladd admitted to the raven.

They went out into the fields and collected bunches of flowers. He set up a dozen bouquets over the slab and waited for the troll to return.

“What are all these doing here?” Bragi asked in consternation upon his return.

“Why, after you told me your heart was under that slab, I just felt I had to,” Askelass confessed.

“OH HO HO,” laughed the troll. “You really believed I kept my heart in a silly place like that?”

“How could I not believe you? You have never lied to me before.”

“Ah…” Bragi looked ever so slightly embarrassed.

“I see. I simply wasn’t clever enough to understand what you meant. The slab is a clue to where it really is, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes. If you must know, I - I keep it in…a cupboard. In the kitchen. Somewhere.”

When the troll went out the next day, the raven and the prince searched all the cupboards in the cave, and only found a collection of items the troll had collected from trespassers. So once again, Askeladd went to the fields and picked all the flowers he could find, sewed them into garlands, and strewed all the cupboards with them.

“What’s the meaning of this…this olfactory assault?!” Bragi bellowed upon returning.

“I’ve grown so fond of you, Bragi. When you told me your heart was in one of these cupboards, I couldn’t bear it going unmarked.”

“How can you be so foolish as to believe I’d keep it in there?”

“Because you told me so, and you are my dearest friend.”

“Such talk will do you no good. I’ve never had friends.”

“Surely you must have had someone. And now, you have me. Why will you not tell me where your heart is?”

But the troll would speak of it no more.

One morning, the troll did not play his usual cacophony upon his horn. Instead, he awoke Askeladd with a knock on the door, giving him barely enough time to don the raven as his hair, before grabbing his hand and dragging him to the hill nearby.

“Listen to this,” the troll declared, and at once set into a strange musical piece. It was full of bellows and wails and long, held notes. There was hardly a tune and rhythm was purely theoretical. When it was over, Bragi stared at Askelass expectantly.

“Ah…very nice,” the prince in disguise as a princess said.

“For the deaf, maybe,” muttered the raven, forcing Askeladd to clamp his hand over the bird’s beak.

“You don’t…don’t feel anything?” Bragi asked.

Askelass felt very strange about the whole thing. “What was I supposed to feel?”

The troll threw down his horn and stomped off into the woods. Askeladd picked up the horn and hid it away in his clothing, hopeful that the troll would now never be able to play it again.

Bragi did not return for breakfast, or lunch. Askeladd was about to use the troll’s absence to ransack the cave looking for the heart when Bragi banged open the door and slumped into his usual seat.

“It was supposed to make you feel happy, and a little sad, and then you would want to bang your chest and shout, and then happy but a little sad again,” the troll said. “I have not felt the urge to play it for years, until I met you. I wrote it for someone who’s name I cannot recall...”

Though Askeladd was lying by the nature of his very disguise, he could not keep his opinions anything but frank. “I did not feel any of those things.”

Bragi harrumphed. “I suppose some people just don’t have an ear for music.”

“On the contrary. I have heard all the great bards in the land sing. They come to perform for my father and br- sisters, all the time.”

“I’m the greatest musician in the land!” the troll protested. “What have they got that I don’t?!”

“Well…their hearts,” Askelass said. “How can you expect to make great music when you’ve taken your heart out and hidden it away?”

The troll had no answer for that.

As Askeladd was cooking dinner, the troll suddenly said “You are right, Princess. I cannot be a great musician without it. I used to be - but then came a time when I decided I would be better off without a heart, for then no one could hurt me. I lost the music in my soul that day.”

“Surely if you took your heart out, you could put it back in?”

“If I used my horn, I could. It is called the Gjallarhorn. I used it to take my heart out in the first place, and only it can draw my heart back into me.”

The troll felt in his pocket for the horn. Askeladd tensed, suddenly fearful that he would find it missing and fly into a rage.

Bragi’s hand fell away and he merely slumped. “But I am happier without my heart.”

“I have been here many long weeks, dear Bragi, but I have never seen you happy,” Askeladd noted.

The next morning, after a restless sleep, the troll told Askeladd where his heart was.

“Far, far away from here is a lake. On that lake there is a church. In that church, there is a well. Deep inside the well is a duck, guarding a nest. In the nest is an egg. Inside the egg beats my heart.”

“Why would you put it in such a place?” Askelass asked sweetly.

“It is where it belongs,” the troll said cryptically. “And no-one but I can retrieve it. Or perhaps…not even I, anymore.”

“Would you like me to go and bring it back to you?”

“You plan on killing me, don’t you?” accused Bragi. “You never cared about me.”

“Of course not!” Askelass protested. "If you like, I will only go to lay flowers upon it -“

“If you do find my heart and stab it dead, know this - your sisters and their husbands shall remain forever stone, for magic isn’t undone with the death of the caster. Stay here with me for the rest of your life, and upon your dying day I will release them to see you one last time.”

Askeladd dropped his smile. “You truly are a heartless wretch,” he said, then put his hands on either side of his raven-hair and threw the bird directly into the troll’s face.

While Bragi and raven hissed and spat, Askeladd ran out the door and into the field, where the horse that was once a wolf was waiting. Askeladd mounted him and paused only long enough for the raven to escape and rejoin them before charging off into the wilderness.

ᚫ

Chapter Text

THOR

He was beginning to think Loki wasn’t coming. They had finished the first course and the main meal was well underway, yet the seat across from Odin and next to Magni remained empty. There was something ominous about the absence - it was as if Loki had died and they were in denial, playing host to a ghost and looking the other way when the servants cleared away the uneaten food.

For all Thor knew, Loki had died - he himself hadn’t seen him since the strange encounter in the Gardens, and no-one else had reported so much of a glimpse of him since. He would have thought his brother had returned to Alfheim if not for reports that the Kitchens were still sending him food in his rooms.

It left Thor feeling a curious mix of worried and relieved. Making arrangements for Odin’s secret departure had been easier. It was nice to believe that Loki may yet still be resting and, with a little sleep, could yet overcome whatever madness had seized him.

Perhaps it was naive to believe that Loki was a problem that could solve itself, but Thor did not lack for problems at the moment. Just this morning, there were reports that there’d been a breakout from a POW camp on Queeg. Not to mention Freya’s overly-pampered pet cat had broken into the Kitchens’ larder and eaten all the best meat, so tonight they were forced to have eelfish, which evidently the cat disliked as much as Thor did. It was, however, a Loki favourite.

Thor was wondering if he should send another note to Loki when the door to Odin’s chambers blew open with a bang and his black-clad bat of a brother swept in. The servants hurried to refresh Loki’s place, but he waved them away.

“Take the night off,” he said pleasantly. “This family gathering should be…well. Just the family.”

The servants looked at Thor. He nodded slightly. They bowed, disappearing with the trained ease of the unnoticeable.

Loki’s smile seemed to vanish right alongside them. He settled into place with hardly a sound, and between his pale visage and his dark attire it was almost like he had died and returned to haunt their dinner table after all.

“It’s good you could join us, Uncle,” Magni piped up. “Afi’s missed you!”

Thor and Loki looked over at Odin. The previous All-Father was smiling at nothing as he tapped his water glass with a spoon without discernible tune or rhythm. After a long while, he seemed to notice the weight of their stares and looked up.

“Oh, hello. Are you here for the carnival too? I hear they’ve got acrobatic squibbons. They make a soup out of the ones that fall, you know."

As Sister Rokia had told Thor this morning - today was not a good day.

The Sisters were currently at the other end of the palace, being given a tour by Thor’s most discreet Royal Guards. They had to be gone - one look at them and Loki might figure it all out before Thor could tell him properly.

Should he tell him now? Or wait until dessert? Or right before the evening ended?

Thor didn’t usually practice what he was going to say to others. He would just say it how it was and if it wasn’t received well, who was going to hold that against the God of Thunder? But today he’d tried. He’d even written something down on a piece of paper. Then he’d thrown it away when he realized he had to squint to read his own handwriting.

“I’ve never been to a carnival, actually,” Loki replied to Odin, cradling his chin in his hands and staring at Odin intently. “Usually we just have actors and performers come here for stage plays. Never anything as gauche as a carnival. Maybe we're afraid the local population would notice the resemblance to their royal family.” Loki laughed at his joke as if it was funny.

Something was off about Loki. Not the same thing that had been off before - he was now well put-together, cogent. Almost normal. Yet he was missing his typical languidness. He was stiff, all jutting angles.

Does he already know and is just waiting to find the moment to let me have it?

“I would like to see a carnival,” Magni piped up.

“Maybe you will see one in your travels for coming-of-age,” Thor said, eager for a diversion. “Have you decided where you’re going yet?”

Magni looked down at his plate, as if hoping there was enough food left to stuff his face with and avoid answering. That annoyed Thor. If the boy hadn’t decided, then he should say as much.

The boy played with a thin bit of salad while saying “I, uh, wanted to ask Uncle about his quest. Before I decided. Since I can’t very well slay the Midgard Serpent again, as you did, Father.”

Loki was still staring at Odin intently, hardly seeming to notice Magni’s question. His expression disturbed Thor. Was he angry? Did he want to hurt Father again?

No, Thor had to stop thinking like that. That wasn’t true. It was his own guilt, twisting the truth before his eyes. Odin’s cruel honesty had stripped that away and made it all plain. He was not a child, jealous and competing for affection. They were brothers, in this mess together.

Thor answered for his silent brother. “Loki never went on a Coming-of-Age quest. Finish your plate.”

Magni brightened. “Really? That’s an option? What did you do instead, Uncle?”

Loki seemed to snap back into himself. He shook his head slightly and finally detached his gaze from Odin, who was now stirring his goblet of mead with his knife.

“Quest? Oh, yes. There were plans, at various points. Something always came up, though, and by the time your father was crowned, it had simply never happened. At a certain point, the optics of a long-grown man going on such a thing is more shameful than having never gone at all.”

“What were your plans?” Magni pressed.

Loki waved a hand distractedly. “They hardly matter anymore. There was need in Asgard, and I was here to meet it. That should be what the quest is about - protecting Asgard and her people, not self-indulgent glory.”

Thor tilted his head slightly, trying to gage if Loki was ribbing him good-naturedly, or if he was scorning him in front of his son. “There is a personal element to every Coming-of-Age Quest. It is about discovering the kind of man you are. That is not self-indulgent."

“How do I do that?” Magni asked.

“That is for you to decide,” Thor said. “You’ve got to chart your own course, find your own path, become your own man. You cannot borrow your Uncle’s, or mine. One day, you will have to stand on your own, and we will not be here to guide you.”

The little prince looked at Odin. “I know,” he muttered in a quavering voice. “That’s obvious. I mean, Afi is almost gone -“

“Odin is not dying just yet,” Loki said fiercely, as if he wouldn’t let Father die without his express permission.

“But he is leaving. I know you and Father know what’s best, but…”

Thor and Loki both froze.

Ah. Well. Here we are, then.

“What do you mean, leaving?” Loki said, voice slightly higher than usual.

Magni looked between Thor and Loki, confused. “Afi is going to live with the Sisters of Idunn, in Vanaheim. To keep him safe. I thought - I thought you knew.”

“And why wouldn’t you think that? It is only natural that Odin’s family know what it is to become of him. I am being told now, and it’s not like outsiders knew before me. Right, Brother?”

Thor felt Loki’s strange gaze pierce him, even as he refused to meet it. “General Tyr and Heimdall. And…a select few Einherjar.”

Loki’s knife shrieked across his plate as he suddenly tore into his previously untouched dinner. He did not eat a single bite, only cut everything upon it into smaller and smaller pieces as he spoke. “Ah. I didn’t know General Tyr was some long-lost cousin. Heimdall is related to no-one on Asgard as far as I know, but perhaps he’s something like a family pet. But whose children are the Einherjar? You have an impressive brood, Thor, but surely I would’ve noticed if several of the brats all grew to six feet and started clanking around in armour - “

“You go too far, Loki -“ growled Thor. “Apologize.”

Loki snorted. “To whom? Heimdall? Oh, but of course he heard me. I can think of worse things to call that compulsive eavesdropper. I hope your eyes dry out, Watchman.”

“Apologize to my son,” Thor said coldly.

The boy in question interceded diplomatically. “You can’t deny that Modi has almost caused a few wars over his practical jokes, and Raili has a real problem with fire and setting people on it. ‘Brat’ hardly does them justice,” Magni smiled sheepishly. "And I certainly have my moments of childishness, too.”

“Hmm. Nonetheless, I do apologize.” Loki said, even as he stared at Thor. “I shouldn’t have involved you in a dispute that concerns me and your father.”

Thor shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“So. When are they taking your grandfather away, Magni?” Loki continued. “I assume it can’t be long, for Thor to feel safe in revealing his plans. He’ll have arranged everything so that it’s inevitable, and I can do nothing but know.”

Magni bit the inside of his cheek. No doubt he was twisting his thumbs under the table again.

Thor put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Tomorrow. At dawn.”

This seemed to genuinely shock Loki. His throat bobbed as if he were choking on his dinner. “Tomorrow?” he repeated quietly.

At dawn.” Thor stabbed his own piece of eelfish and ate it, swallowing before its sweet-sour flavour could make him gag. This was going about as badly as he’d feared.

Loki sniggered, putting a hand over his eyes. “Well, I’ll admit I did think you’d give me more than hours notice. Congratulations, you’ve managed to disappoint my low expectations. I don’t know why I ever doubted your cowardice.” His eyes fixed on Odin. “And how are you feeling about your banishment, Father?”

“It’s not banishment,” Thor protested.

“Isn’t it? Isn’t banishment what we do when someone becomes…troublesome? It’s a punishment, usually, to be sent away to live with strangers.”

Thor washed down the eelfish with a hearty swig of ale. Thankfully the servants had left a rather large pitcher of the stuff on the table. No doubt someone on the wait staff was prescient about the sort of supplies needed for a long-put-off family meal. Once this was over, Thor would give him a raise.

“We aren’t having this conversation again, Loki. It’s been decided.”

“Decided by whom? I certainly wasn’t consulted -“

“By the King.”

“You keep having to mention that. One wonders why people need reminding.”

“It isn’t ‘people'. It’s just you, Loki.”

A dangerous quirk turned up the corner of Loki’s thin lips, even as his eyes narrowed. A marksman spotting an opening. “Really? I’m not the only person who doesn’t listen to your orders. Where is your lovely wife, if this is actually a family meal? Where are your other children? Oh, that’s right - perpetually on Alfheim, despite those giant quarters you had built for them all here. The Lady Reidunn can’t be bothered to be seen in Asgard for anything less than a formal event. Is that why you’re so keen to get poor Magni out the door? She’d have to show her face here to see him off, at least. Then you can try and beg her to stay, at least long enough to keep up the image of a happy marriage -”

Thor slammed his fists on the table, causing every plate and piece of cutlery to jump several inches in the air.

Silence reigned. Magni was frozen in his chair. Odin frowned slightly, fork prodding at the empty space on his plate where a potato had been moments before. Loki alone seemed unperturbed, eyes hooded and cold. Yet if Thor paid attention, he could see his chest rising and falling too quickly, his nostrils flaring.

Thor spoke in a chipper voice entirely out of place with his hunched-over frame and still-clenched fists. “Dessert is late. Go to the kitchens, Magni, and see what’s taking so long.”

Magni nodded and rose with a loud scrape of his chair. Thor waited until the door clicked shut before speaking in a low rumble.

“You want someone to fight. I understand that; I deserve your ire. But don’t you dare poison the ear of my son by talking about his family like that.”

“Your family,” Loki said in a sing-song voice that nonetheless trembled at the edges. “Is in shambles whether or not I say anything about it.”

“You are a part of my family, Loki.”

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

Odin interrupted, waving a handful of cutlery he’d collected from the ground. “Stop fighting, there’s enough here for everyone!"

Thor forced himself to take a deep breath. He accepted a soup spoon from his father. A dull distortion of his face looked back at him, hidden behind pieces of dried appetizer.

“It was wrong for me to make this decision without you. I know what Father means to you. But this was inevitable, Loki. We can’t contain him any longer.”

Thor expected Loki to argue, to bargain, to threaten and mock and cajole. Really, to grieve. He readied himself for it. He could be the rock upon which Loki raged. He would let Loki blame him for everything, if that would lift something off his little brother’s shoulders.

“Must it be tomorrow?” Loki asked quietly. “I need to speak with him. Please. Delay his move until I’ve had the chance.”

Thor glanced at Odin, who was now stealing food off of Loki’s plate with exaggerated sneakiness. Like a guilty child. Sweet, really. Harmless. For now.

If Loki did have a chance to speak with Father as I did - if Father spoke to him as he did to me...

“The arrangements have been made,” Thor said softly. “The time for conversation is over, in more ways than one.”

“I will follow him to Vanaheim if I must,” Loki growled.

“You will not. Odin has ordered that he is to receive no visitors once he is with the Sisters.”

“Then I will disobey him. He is not running away. Not now.”

Thor reached out and put a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder. “He is going to his rest, Loki. You need to let him go.”

“We’re not done yet. He needs to tell me - Thor, Please.”

The desperation in his brother’s voice took Thor aback. “I…I’m sorry, Loki.”

Loki shook his head and flexed his shoulders, throwing off Thor’s hand. “Don’t say that. Not when you do nothing to help me.”

“That is not all,” Thor said sombrely. “Father has ordered...asked that tonight, you cast a Silencing Spell upon him. A geas that he cannot easily break. He said only you were powerful enough to do it.”

Loki was laughing before Thor had even finished.

“I can’t believe this…you’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

Loki wasn’t talking to Thor. He spat every word at Odin.

Odin stared blankly at his second son, seemingly understanding nothing.

Loki continued, his volume slowly rising. “Is this demented state even real? Or are you faking it so that even now you can escape answering me?”

“Calm down, Brother -“

Loki ignored him, instead still addressing Odin. “Talk to me. Talk to me, damn you.“

The old man put on a petulant expression. “I don’t speak to strangers.”

His chair screeched as Loki stood up with force and attempted to stride to the other side of the table. Thor was on him before he’d made it two steps.

“Stop this madness, Loki -“

Loki writhed in Thor’s grip. “I will if he does!”

“He can't help it, Loki-“

“Then neither can I!”

Thor held on to Loki until his brother lost the energy to struggle. It wasn’t that long. Clearly he had not gotten as much sleep as Thor had told him to.

“I know about Baldur,” Loki spat at Odin. “Don’t you have anything to say about that?”

Odin giggled. “What a funny name. Balder than whom?”

Loki’s face spasmed. “You know what it means. Now you know that I know.”

Odin puffed out his cheeks. “If you know, then why ask me? I don’t know anything, really.”

Thor could feel his brother's heartbeat thudding frantically against Thor’s own chest.

“You know the truth. Tell me the truth!” Loki demanded.

“He doesn’t know what you’re talking about,” Thor protested.

“Yes, he does! Baldur! BALDUR! BALDUR!!”

Odin hid a laugh behind his hands. “Balderdash! Bald-faced lie!” he called out in high-pitch.

“It is not nonsense! It means everything to you!”

Odin stuck out his tongue. “Does not,”

Loki grinned triumphantly and pointed with his one free hand. “Then why are you crying, All-Father?”

Momentarily confused, Odin patted his cheeks. His hands came away sparkling with liquid.

Thor fought the urge to reach for him. “Father? Are you alright?”

Odin shook the tears from his hand. “You’re so funny I cried,” he told Loki gormlessly. “What a silly man you are.”

Thor compressed Loki a little harder to quell his sudden spasm. “He’s too far gone, Brother. Whatever it is you need to hear - Father cannot answer.”

“Why won’t you tell me…” Loki mumbled, going limp. “There was so long before you went mad. Why did you wait? Why are you hiding from me?”

“Who is Baldur?” Thor inquired of the crumpled bat in his arms.

Loki snickered darkly to himself. “He is the reason we’ve never seen eye-to-eye. He’s why you’ve never liked me.”

“Then he does not exist, because none of what you said is true, Loki. I love you dearly, even when you are acting madder than Father is.”

“I never said Baldur exists. And I did not say you didn’t love me, Thor - only that you do not like me. You love me out of obligation, because you fancy yourself a good man and a good brother. But you do not like me.”

Thor made a mocking face Loki probably could not see from below. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I like you!”

Loki renewed his attempts to escape Thor’s grip. “Really? What is it that you like about me, Oh King?”

“At the moment, you are making it difficult to recall,” Thor groaned, fumbling to restrain his brother. “I would have said your good sense, but that is absent of late.”

“My good sense has been useful to you, when you’ve deigned to listen to it,” Loki snapped. “You like it when I’m of use to you. Just as Odin does.”

“Of course I do. I also love you when you are a horrid pain in both of my butt cheeks. Such as now.”

An edge of hysteria slipped back into Loki’s voice. “And when I am of no use to you? What then? What will you do with me?”

Thor didn’t mean to say it. It was just that he’d been thinking it, and thoughts seldom lingered in his mind for long before making a rush for his mouth.

“Loki…do you think there’s a chance that…Odin’s sickness…might have passed to you?”

Loki flinched. “What? What are you talking about?”

“You have been very strange lately. Not acting like yourself. It isn’t like your usual moods - this is - different. You’re different. You’re…a bit like Father was. At the beginning.”

Thor felt the low, thrumming laugh build in Loki’s chest before it burst from his mouth. When he finished, he managed to say, in between guffaws, “That’s not possible, Thor.”

“And I think it is. Should we not…approach someone to be sure? The Sisters of Idunn, maybe. You’re still young, not like Father - if we diagnose early, maybe there can be time to formulate a cure - “

“I do not need curing, I am not sick -“

“Then just what is it that’s the matter with you?!”

Thor had started shouting again. He wanted to kick himself. Why oh why did Loki make it so difficult to be calm?

Loki had gone completely still. “Whatever is the matter with me, it is not sickness. You will not fix me by locking me away in-in-in some madhouse like Helligdom, where no-one ever visits.”

“I would visit,” Thor said, unthinkingly.

A bright light came over Loki, utterly blinding - a false-fire that covered his entire body. Thor was forced to close his eyes and turn away, giving Loki the opportunity to escape.

“So you admit you plan on locking me up,” Loki panted, his pupils contracted into pinpricks. “You want to get rid of me, now that you don’t need me to look after Odin.”

“I merely meant I would visit you, if ever you were -“

“You would not say so unless you have thought it a real possibility. That’s how your mind works, Thor, it is a simple enough mechanism for me to understand. You want me gone. You would even entertain a madhouse?!”

“That is not true -“

“No, you’re right. You have one last task for me.” Loki marched over to Odin. “One more service for Odin’s sake. I suppose if he will not answer me, then I should be the one to silence him forever.”

Thor balked. “Wait - right now?”

“Is there any reason to delay?”

Thor wracked his brains and came up with no reason. He’d only a deep foreboding that he could not put into words.

Loki glanced over at the old man still sitting pretty at the table. “How about it, All-Father? Do you have any last words?”

Odin’s teeth gleamed in an empty grin. “Is my dessert still coming?”

“History is spoken!” Loki declared. “As good as anything, really.”

His hands crackled with green magic as he joined his fingers together in a shape not unlike a keyhole. Loki sucked in his lower lip as if there was something more he wanted to say. He opened his mouth, looked square at Odin - and spoke only the spell.

“I take from you your breath and your tongue

No more may be spoken; no more may be sung.

Let it be known that this be Odin’s choice

That I, Loki... cast away your voice.”

With a sharp, cutting motion, Loki flicked his hands apart. A bright line of magic struck Odin’s throat, and for a horrible moment an afterimage burned in Thor’s mind of his Father with a burning cut across his neck. Odin reared back, grabbed at the point of impact, and coughed. Or - at least it looked like a cough. There wasn’t so much as a wheeze. Odin turned to Loki and Thor quizzically, still holding his throat. His lips moved, asking Thor a question.

Thor couldn’t answer. Odin, already distanced from him by madness, was now cut off by complete silence.

Another small piece of his father had died, right in front of him.

“It is done.” Loki stood. “You may do what you like with him now.”

Just like that, his brother left. He didn’t look behind him, didn’t even glance at Odin, who was still gasping for air like a fish thrown ashore.

Chapter Text

ᚫ

Away they went, travelling over mountains and fields and valleys. They came across many lakes and churches, but none such as the troll had described.

So Askeladd took out the Gjallarhorn and blew upon it, playing a version of the song the troll had once played for him.

From far away, something answered, singing back to him.

They followed it until they came upon a lake with crystal blue waters and a church in the centre. They swam to it and emerged, dripping wet, upon the shores of the tiny island.

“What a tall church,” Askeladd remarked. “It is twice the size any man would need.”

“That is because it was built by a troll,” said a child-like voice from within.

The once-wolf, the raven, and the prince pulled open the massive door and went in search of the voice. The church was empty, aside from a well in its centre, out of which grew a massive tree that broke through the very roof. Askeladd leaned over the edge and shouted “Who goes there?”

“Come down and face me if you want the egg,” said a different voice, this one old and broken.

Askeladd was not normally the sort to leap into danger, but he remembered that the troll had said that only a duck guarded the nest. He approached the well and hacked off a large root, giving him room to squirm inside and fall to the bottom.

There, barely visible in the dim light, was a giant nest made out of the tree’s roots. Upon the nest was not a duck, but a drake. Not in the sense that it was only the gender of the duck of which the troll had mistaken, however - this was a green-scaled, slit-eyed, many-toothed dragon, sitting coiled around a giant, blood-red egg. It had three heads, two of which watched him, and one which watched his companions above.

Askeladd treaded water and, without missing a beat, demanded the egg.

The head with the old voice flicked a forked tongue at the prince. “This egg and the heart within it are mine; it was the price of the troll’s indestructibility, and now it is my treasure.”

“Why is it treasure?”

“Because I could see by its contents that one day it would draw you to me, Prince Askeladd. It is your heart I have hungered for most in the world, and now you have brought it right to me."

“Why do you want my heart?” Askeladd wondered. “What’s so special about it?”

The third head spoke, this time with a woman’s voice. “Because it is my destiny to eat every heart in the world but yours. Yours I am not allowed to have, so I crave it most.”

Askeladd felt a cold dread as he gazed upon the dragon. “Why have you not yet consumed the world, then?”

“I am destined to, when the time is right. I have always eaten the world, and then the world after that.”

“What time is right for you to eat the world?”

“When it is time for the next one to be born.”

Askeladd suddenly sensed that this was no ordinary beast, nor ordinary encounter.

The drake laughed and brought out a second egg, an empty one with the top taken off. “If you have any sense, you will get into this egg before I can eat you up. If you stay inside, you will be safe from me and can emerge into the world after I have left it."

“I will not! I mean to save my brothers and my father, and they will need a world to live in.”

The dragon leaned all its heads down towards Askeladd. “Then you doom this world, and the next.”

“What are you?” he asked the creature, and feared the answer.

“I am hungry,” was all it said.

The drake attacked. Askeladd dived underwater and tried to shed all of his encumbering clothes and belongings, the better to swim to safety. As he did so, the golden horn caught the light. At the sight of its glimmering, the drake froze, totally still.

Askeladd surfaced, horn in hand. The drake looked at him, expectantly. So Askeladd put the horn to his lips and played. At first it was terrible - a wet, dead sound that nearly sent the drake in for a strike - but as he continued, the music strengthened. He thought of his father, dying of grief in his castle. He thought of his brothers, frozen in time, unaware of life passing them by. He thought of his own sadness and fear and self-doubt, and turned it all into music.

The drake watched, mesmerized, as Askeladd slowly drew his heart out of his body until he held it in his hand. Before the drake’s heads could strike and devour it whole, he called out to the raven and flung it out of the well.

The raven swooped down and caught it, hovering in the circle of light where once the roots of the tree had been.

The drake gnashed its three sets of teeth. Without a care in the world for what was left of Askeladd, it stood up from its nest, unfurled mighty wings, and flew out of the well to chase the raven, who artfully sped away.

Askeladd approached the nest and the egg within. At his touch, the egg hatched, and within the golden yolk Askeladd found the troll’s heart. It beat with perfect rhythm. He picked it up and was immediately transported away from the darkness of the well, into another time entirely.

He was Bragi, standing in the middle of the lake, no church in sight. Someone held his troll hand - a child, with long dark hair. There was nothing more precious in the world.

A horn blew. An army appeared, headed by a great and terrible king. They ran. Arrows flew, biting, ripping, tearing -

The hand slipped from his, greased with something wet.

At once, Askeladd understood why the church had been built.

The grief soaked into everything, a weight so great Askeladd thought he would suffocate beneath it, though it was not his own. With that grief came an anger, to take from others and he had been taken from, to take the children of those who had stolen his child.

He would rip out his heart, and then that of the king by turning his sons to stone. He would keep them as trophies, as grave markers to his own child, for as long as -

A black wing knocked the troll’s heart from Askeladd’s hands, jolting him free. The raven landed on Askeladd’s shoulders, still carrying his heart in his beak. He gave it back to Askeladd and said,

“Be careful what hearts you allow into your body, Prince. You may lose your own way and walk another’s.”

Askeladd tried to remember the spell for turning men to stone, and how to reverse it - but now that he was himself again, he could recall nothing.

“If I take up that heart, I will become Bragi,” Askeladd realized. “But I will also have his knowledge, his memory. I can free my brothers from his spell.”

The raven was not convinced. “If you become Bragi, then who will be Askeladd?”

Askeladd looked at the raven shrewdly. “Why not you, my feathered companion? Would you keep my heart safe for me?”

The raven looked at him solemnly. “I have sworn to save your life, as you did mine. Even if it means losing my way, I will see to it that you walk yours.”

So the raven devoured Askeladd’s heart, every last bite.

ᚫ

Chapter Text

LOKI

After returning from the Garden, Loki collapsed into bed, still wearing his muddied clothes. He’d slept a whole day like that, his mind mercifully blank. When he’d awoken, he was a different sort of tired. Technically well enough to stand and get on with his day - but lacking any desire to actually leave his bed.

So he’d slept some more.

Apparently word had gotten out that he was ‘no longer in Alfheim’, so the kitchens sent small flocks of ravens bearing baskets of food three times a day, as was usually the arrangement when he did not request servant delivery. He ate enough to sustain himself, though everything tasted of ashes.

Sometimes he’d try to access Odin’s memories. He sat in the dark, alternating between concentration and deliberate blankness. Nothing worked. He could not find the threads again, though he could feel the weight of them inside his head.

One evening, the kitchen ravens arrived with a basket that contained only a card - a note reminding him of the supper in Odin’s rooms.

Loki had completely forgotten about it.

He decided not to go. Then got dressed for it. Then went back to bed. Then changed into non-rumpled clothing. And went back to bed immediately afterwards.

He tried to look into Odin’s memories again. Failed.

Thor would be there. Likely Magni too. The servants he might be able to dismiss, if he could do it before Thor thought to protest.

As things were, this might be his only chance to speak to Odin.

ᚲ

Loki flung open the door to his rooms with a bang, though he scarcely heard it over the pounding of blood in his head.

For the first time in days, he didn’t want to go back to bed. He paced the dark room, ranting under his breath.

“He even had me do it - tried to flatter me, saying ‘only I could be so powerful’ - more convincing drivel is mucked out of Sleipnir’s stable every night.”

“And Loki only ever speak sweetness and snowblossoms.”

Loki snapped his fingers and summoned a green handful of fire to illuminate the room. Two dark eyes reflected it back at him in miniature, perched upon his desk.

“What are you doing here, Huginn?” Loki demanded.

“Huginn bring a gift to Loki. From Odin.”

Loki moved the fireball to see that beneath the raven was an enormous book, bound in crimson leather.

“Apparently Odin’s plot for me is not yet at an end,” Loki noted bitterly. “What is this meant to be?”

“How is Loki’s stolen memories? Any luck in his travels through Odin head?”

With a flick of his wrist, Loki shooed the raven off the book and read the title: The Tales of Askeladd, in very faint gold leaf. It was a much older copy than he’d ever seen.

“Harder than Loki thought, isn’t it?” Huginn jibed. “Harder than he thought to be Odin.”

“And you know just how hard it is, right, bird?”

“Yes. Huginn is Odin.”

“You are not. You are just a…receptacle. For bits of his mind he’d rather not have.” Loki rubbed his aching forehead. It was so full. And yet he could access none of it. Another box to which no one had seen fit to give him a key. "I suppose that’s all that’s left of his mind these days…the bits he threw away.”

Huginn considered this. “Not untrue. Huginn is the Odin that Odin is currently not. But Huginn know everything that Odin know. These days - Huginn know more.”

“Do you?” Loki challenged, an edge in his voice. “Then perhaps you know all about Baldur. And just who I really am. Hmm?”

The raven didn’t blink. “Yes.”

Somehow, Loki wasn’t expecting that. “Then tell me!” he said, unable to suppress a quiver.

Huginn wandered over to the lunch basket Loki had ignored entirely today. “Loki not listen to Huginn before, why would Huginn assume Loki want to hear raven speak now?”

“I have no interest in what you have to say, bird - I want to know what Odin should have told me.”

The corvid had zeroed in on the bread and cheese, stuffing his beak with large, hungry gulps, his feathery back to Loki.

“Where did he get me from?”

Huginn dipped his beak into a half-filled goblet.

“Did he simply walk into the birthing ward that night and pluck a babe from the arms of its new mother? Before Baldur had even gone cold?”

Huginn burped, though he at least had the decency to try and cover it with a wing.

Loki began to pace again. “Why did he do it?” He was speaking more to himself now than the bird, asking himself the questions he’d steered his mind away from for three whole days. “Was it because of the war? Was he worried that if word got out that the king’s son had died, the troops would think their side was cursed? Was it to keep their morale up?”

The raven preened himself, as if Loki weren’t even there.

“Did he buy me? Perhaps from some common strumpet eager to be rid of a customer’s spawn?”

“No,” Huginn said sharply. 

“Was I a foundling, left on the steps of the palace as some sort of offering? That would appeal to Odin’s ego, I’m sure.” A sacrifice, like in days of yore, when a Midgardian goat herder would abandon a kid on the mountainside to appease Odin and his wolves.

A small note of hope entered his voice. “Did he do it for Frigga? Was I meant to make her happy?”

He flexed his hand, remembering the feel of her dress slipping out of it. How had he forgotten? Frigga hadn’t even bothered to pretend back then. When Odin had left, as he always did, and he’d had no one but her to turn to - she’d turned away.

She didn’t want me. She wanted Baldur.

At some point she must’ve decided to pretend to love him as a son. To help her forget Baldur? No…knowing her, it was to keep up appearances. Maybe even for Thor’s sake.

“It all makes sense now. Why he favoured Thor all these years.” Loki meant to say it with venom. It came out blasé, as if he were merely mentioning the weather. “Thor is blood of his blood. Named similar to Odin’s father, even. An unbroken line.”

Huginn wiped his beak on the napkin with a rasping noise.

“I was a fool to have never guessed. You must have laughed at me every day, bird, looking down from Odin’s shoulder at that idiotic boy who never even noticed he didn’t resemble them, didn’t have their gifts, wasn’t special like them.”

“Loki is special,” Huginn interrupted.

“What? Because of this?” Loki threw the glowing green fireball against the wall, where it dissipated into nothing and plunged the room back into darkness. “So I can do a little magic. Anyone with my education should be able to manage that. If I’d been raised by goat herders, I would not have been given the resources to learn. I would be just another unremarkable shepherd.”

Huginn sighed. “Please turn on lights.”

“Why? I think I like the dark,” Loki taunted.

“Can Loki read in dark?”

“I don’t want to read that damned book.”

“Huginn thought Loki say he want to hear Odin speak.”

“I thought you were Odin,” Loki mocked.

“…Fine. It true, Huginn not Odin, not all of him. Just pieces and bits that fell off. But this book…this book was written by Odin, when he had all his pieces.”

That genuinely surprised Loki. “Father wrote the ‘Tales of Askeladd’? Why did he never say that, in all the times it was read to us?”

Huginn coughed. “Odin…rewrite stories for children. Old stories different. Personal. Too much of Odin own story inside. Easier to just let stories be only stories.”

Loki gestured to the spell that governed the torches in the room, setting them ablaze. “You said this was a gift from Odin. If that’s true, then why did he want me to read this, and why now?”

The raven pushed the cover of the book open and started awkwardly rifling through the pages. “When Loki small, he like Askeladd best out of all stories. Odin never forget that. He knew Loki understand what others miss. Only Loki could be trusted.”

“He told you that?” Loki had meant to say it sarcastically, but his tone feinted upwards at the end, betraying a faint hope.

The book’s pages fell quiet as Huginn arrived upon the page he was searching for. He stamped his scaly foot on the title.

It was Askeladd and the Heartless Troll. There was an illustration opposite it, depicting the troll with a hole through his chest and his heart in his hand. He was terribly ugly, grinning in triumph as blood leaked out through his fingers and formed a pool around his feet.

“I begin to see why he and Frigga preferred a different copy,” Loki mused, though of course their own books had been full of violence and mayhem in their own right. Just not the ones Frigga would prefer to read. That was more for Odin recounting his own war stories, in a hushed whisper, when he thought she wasn’t near.

A small smile attacked the corner of Loki’s mouth. Upon catching it, he killed it with a swift scowl.

He picked up the book and began to read. It was very similar to the version he remembered - until a certain point. For a moment, Loki forgot himself entirely. He sped through the pages, turning them moments before he’d even finished reading their final words.

“This is wrong,” he blurted out upon finishing. “It doesn’t end this way - it can’t end this way. Askeladd is supposed to win, he’s supposed to go home with brothers, supposed to live happily ever after. Not…not THAT! There’s got to be a page missing at the end -”

The raven regarded Loki with slight amusement. “Loki remind Huginn of when Loki was child. So betrayed.” Huginn tapped a toe on the book. “Askeladd is not happy hero. In every story, he fail. Over and over.”

“No - Askeladd is supposed to win because he’s clever. That’s what makes him special.”

“Your Askeladd. Not this one.”

Loki couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Even my bedtime stories were lies and fabrications. Did Odin ever tell me anything true?”

“There is no such thing as a true story,” Huginn said, and when he did, it wasn’t in his raven’s croak, but an eerie, inhuman imitation of Odin’s voice.

“Then I hope that means this tale is also a lie. Askeladd would never…he could not…why would Odin want me to read this tale? Surely he doesn’t hope I will imitate the choices of its counterfeit Askeladd!”

“Clever Loki, there is no such thing as a true story, but good stories have truth in them. Loki wanted to hear his father speak - here are his words.”

Loki’s finger circled a handwritten ᛟ near the end of the tale. “I wanted answers. This…work of fiction…is not what I had in mind.”

“And Odin has lost his mind. Loki must find it to learn his answers.”

Loki chuckled dryly. “If only that were possible.”

“It is. Has Loki not been paying attention? What was lost can be found. What is broken can be mended. If only Loki have right tool for job.”

With a snort, Loki flicked back through the pages to an illustration of the golden horn. “You mean this? Is this a real thing, that exists, out there in the universe? A horn that can put a heart back into its body? I will not chase after fairy tales when what I want is facts.”

“Gjallarhorn is real. Huginn exists because of it.”

Loki scoffed. “Are you saying my father cut out his heart and gave it to ravens? And that’s why he’s gone mad?”

“Very short version of story, but…yes. In a sense. Huginn and Muninn carried part of Odin inside. With Muninn death, Huginn must carry both Thought and Memory. Some…go missing. Thought and Memory slip through Huginn talons and fly away into the world. Impossible to find.”

“And this Gjallarhorn - it could put Odin together again?”

“Yes. As Odin once was.”

Loki sat down. He had only been standing, it shouldn’t have been a physically taxing thing, yet he found himself breathing heavily and trembling. “Why,” he said deliberately, “would I help Odin put himself together again after all he’s done to me?”

Huginn shrugged his wings. “Then don’t do it for him.”

“Do it for me? And what good would this horn bring me?”

“With Horn, Loki can take Odin memory out of his head and put back where belongs. Loki told Huginn of…madness, yes? In the woods. Caused by memory. Loki losing control of himself, losing it to Odin heart.”

“And if I put it back in Odin, he’ll never tell me anything.”

“With horn, Loki can compel him. He will command Odin heart, any heart he please. Including his own.”

Long, pale fingers drummed on the illustration of the Gjallarhorn. “Why have I never heard of such a thing, if it is so powerful?”

Huginn scoffed. “Legends always told of great weapons, big hammers and swords and death-bringing stones. No-one tell story of horns with power over hearts. Not to Asgard taste.”

Loki raised an eyebrow.

“And…Legend was that Horn destroyed.”

“You would have me chase after a fairy-tale horn that, if it existed, no longer does?”

Huginn shuffled nervously. “…It still exist. Odin was one who found. Odin lie, say it destroyed. He never want his heart put back in body.”

“What changed his mind?”

Huginn flew to Loki’s shoulder, perching as comfortably as if it was Odin’s. The tip of his beak entered Loki’s ear and he whispered “Odin not change mind. He hope to send Loki on wild goose chase, to keep busy. But Huginn know truth. Huginn want to be free. Huginn help Loki help Odin, which help Huginn.”

Loki raised an eyebrow. “Why should I trust you, when you just betrayed your master?”

The bird puffed up. “Huginn has mind of his own! Huginn want to become wholly himself again.” Huginn stepped to Loki’s other shoulder. “And Loki should be Lokiself!”

“Hmm.” Loki knew better than to expect it to be that easy. "Where is the Horn, then?"

“Ah…Huginn…not have that memory. But! He do know where to start looking.”

Loki scoffed and shook his head. “Leave me be, bird. I will not be suckered into some...belated Coming-of-Age Quest.”

Huginn clung tighter to Loki’s shoulder. “Yes, that right - Loki never did leave home, never did grow up. Still tiny child who never came of age.”

“I came of age just fine, right here!”

“So Loki knows who Loki is? What kind of man?” goaded Huginn. “How can he, when Odin lie to him? When he does not know anything about himself?”

Loki tried to grab the raven, but Huginn was too quick, dancing his way onto Loki’s back and head. “Or maybe Loki does know himself, and he knows he is coward, too afraid to leave, too afraid to learn truth. Too afraid to ‘find himself’ and not like what he sees!”

“Be silent!” Loki cursed, but Huginn only laughed, and to Loki’s enragement it sounded like a tinny recreation of Odin’s.

“Hahahaha. Like how Loki silence Odin today? Still follow Father orders, even when he say Odin not his Father in his mind.”

“And how would following your orders be any different?”

“We ravens should stick together. Besides, if Loki stay here, what is for him, anyway? Thor will stick him in madhouse. At first he may visit, but being King is so busy busy busy - soon Loki forgotten in Helligdom by the sea, surrounded by madmen…just…like…him!”

Finally, Loki’s hand grasped feathery flesh. He threw the bird as hard as he could.

Huginn hit the top of the fireplace with an explosion of plumage and a sickening crunch.

Loki breathed hard, staring at the suddenly small black body. It didn’t so much as twitch. He stumbled over to it.

“What have I done?” he whispered, reaching out to touch the raven’s still chest. It was warm - but he could detect no heartbeat.

A series of pinpricks rippled over his flesh. Surprised, he withdrew his hand - and something came away with it. Stretching between him and Huginn’s chest were long, golden strings, like melted cheese. He scrambled back, shaking his hand violently, trying to get free -

“There is something that might save him,” said a female voice, lyrical and soft. “It’s called the Gjallarhorn."

“Where can I find it?”

Loki looked around the room wildly, trying to find the source of the voices -

“Please, Father - stop it, just stop it -“

“This is the only way, Odin. You need to understand your place in the universe - and theirs.”

The golden threads were eating into Loki, not like strings, but like parasitic worms, invading his tissue and devouring a path to his very brain -

“Gjallarhorn? Yes, I’ve heard of it - but that information won’t come cheap.”

“What do you want for it?”

"What are you willing to do?”

Terrible fear overwhelmed Loki, a mix of his own and a stranger’s.

“Please. Let me out of here. I’ll do anything, anything!”

“Sing, little birdie, since that’s all you’re good for. Sing, sing, sing -“

“Help me,” Loki begged, but no one was in here but Huginn, and Huginn was dead -

“It will devour everything. Everything but you.”

“I want to go home -”

“Your home is doomed. You, yourself, cannot stay -”

Claws reached out and grabbed at the threads, bringing them to the raven’s beak - he snapped down upon them, cutting them in two.

“You took too long to come home, Od.”

The worms finished crawling into Loki’s hand as he scrabbled at them.

Huginn sat up, slowly. More feathers shook loose from his wings as he attempted, badly, to fly. Loki turned his attention back to the bird, just in time to see the lost feathers on the ground dissipate into smoke.

“What are you?” Loki said, voice shaking.

Huginn rasped a chuckle. “Not a raven anymore. Just like Loki won’t be Loki, soon enough.”

The bird righted himself, cricked his broken neck back into position, and as if on command, the broken shafts of his still-attached feathers straightened out.

"Whatever I am, Loki is too. We are in the same boat now. Without the Horn - we will become Odin.”

Loki flexed his hand. He felt…heavier.

“What do we have to do?” he asked quietly.

“Better question - where do we have to go, and what to pack?”

Loki scratched at his hand distractedly. “You mean - leave? When?”

“Why not now?”

“Tonight?”

“Or tomorrow. After seeing Odin off to Vanaheim.”

“No! I…I don’t need to see that.” Loki shuddered. “This is just all so...

Another distorted voice echoed from the raven’s throat. "It’s perfectly acceptable for Coming-of-Age questers to sneak out in the night, even a King’s son."

“Just because Odin did it himself is no reason for me to follow in his footsteps. And I am not a child. I have responsibilities - duties - that I just can’t walk away from.”

“That so? Whatever has Asgard done without Loki for past two weeks, while Loki dug holes and slept in bed?”

It was true; no-one had asked for him, no-one had insisted on his opinion or advice. They’d all turned away and found another warm body to fill his role - or maybe they’d never needed his role to begin with. Thor himself no longer looked to Loki for problem-solving, but saw him as another problem to be solved.

Why not just solve the problem of Loki for him? Just…leave.

“Thor…would be upset.”

“Thor thinking of putting Loki into madhouse."

Were those truly Loki’s options? Be sent to the Sisters of Idunn to be poked and prodded at, and eventually, Helligdom? Or go on a hare-brained quest through the universe for a fairytale horn that may or may not have been destroyed, with only a barmy raven for directions and support?

Loki could return with a legendary horn in his hands, something different to the weapons of Mjölnir and Gungnir. A horn that could heal, rather than wage war. A horn that could restore Odin and compel him to answer Loki. A horn that could set the world as right as it could be.

He looked outside the window, at the perfect view of Asgard he’d beheld for centuries upon centuries.

“Maybe it is time for a change of scenery.”

Chapter Text

ᚫ

The horse that was once a wolf dropped a rope down to Askeladd. Together, he and the raven escaped the well. As they rode, the raven sat astride Askeladd’s shoulders, keeping Askeladd's own heart close to him, while Askeladd carried the troll’s heart in a bag. The horse bore them back over the mountains, fields and valleys until they’d once again arrived near the home of Bragi the Troll and the statues of Askeladd’s brothers. The troll was not home - likely, he was hunting in the woods.

Askeladd unwrapped the troll’s heart and ate it whole.

At once, he became not himself. He grew several feet, his hair became wild and untamed, and the terrible grief poured through his soul. But the raven stayed perched on his shoulder, reminding him of who he truly was, and what he needed to do.

He recalled the spell for stone-changing. He laid his hands on his stone brothers and sisters-in-law and at once they were flesh again. Upon being freed they rejoiced, wept, held each other in their arms. Until they saw Askeladd.

None of them recognized their youngest brother in his new monstrous form. All drew their weapons and swore revenge upon the troll for their imprisonment. The raven took flight, but stayed near, so that Askeladd did not forget himself.

Unwilling to fight them off, Askeladd was speared once, twice, thrice, seven times by each brother, right through his stolen heart. A terrible scream was heard in the woods, and then a tremendous crash that shook the birds from their trees.

The troll was dead.

A great weight was lifted from Askeladd as the heart of Bragi died within him, becoming little more than ashes in his chest. Once it was gone, he returned to his usual appearance, though still with a hole where his own heart should be.

His brothers were so busy congratulating themselves that they did not notice. Instead they turned for home, singing of their great victory.

Once he found his voice again, Askeladd called out to the raven to return his heart to him.

The raven landed on a nearby tree, high above Askeladd.

“I have saved your life today by keeping your heart safe,” the raven said. “In fact, I have made you immortal. As long as I keep your heart, you will be forever safe from harm.”

Askeladd became suspicious. “Are you trying to keep my heart from me?”

“I only wish to protect you,” the raven said. “There’s still a drake about who would eat your heart. Wouldn’t it be better if it stayed with me?”

Upon hearing the raven’s words, something cold and hungry was awoken within Askeladd. He reached down for a stone on the ground, picked it up, and without another thought, threw it at the raven with all his might.

The raven fell from the branches of the tree. Askeladd seized him and ate him whole.

ᚫ

Chapter Text

LOKI

The raven and the prince set out together as one. They moved through the shadows of the palace as if this were a weekly outing, rather than perhaps the stupidest thing Loki would ever do in his life.

Though Loki had cast a spell of invisibility over himself, he'd still put on a long, black cloak with a hood, one that Huginn blended into very well when he stood on Loki’s shoulder.

“You look like Odin, when we three ravens go to adventure,” the raven had commented.

Huginn had meant it as a compliment, yet Loki’s stomach twisted at the reminder. Whenever he’d happened to see Odin dressed like this, it never meant anything good for him. It meant Odin was leaving, often without even saying goodbye. That only made the resemblance to Loki’s own clandestine exit more apparent.

So he’d taken the time to scribble a note and leave it on his desk. It wasn’t much, but at least Thor wouldn’t think Loki had been kidnapped by faeries or eaten by a hungry banderbjørn. It was certainly more than Odin had ever left Thor and Loki when he’d gotten ‘itchy feet’.

When they got to the harbour and the royal dock, Huginn made himself useful by distracting the guard. It was as easy as flying directly into the Einherji’s face and squawking out loud, long curse words. The raven appeared to have enjoyed the whole thing, because Loki had more than enough time to steal a skiff and make it a quarter of the way over the bay before Huginn bothered to return to Loki’s shoulder.

They came ashore on the same beach that Thor and Loki had begun their search for Odin on.

“We start with portal to Muddlanowares,” the raven advised as Loki began their quiet, eerie hike. “From there, can find Ferryman Karen. She take us to Trunk of Yggdrasil. From there, find Giant Cosmic Squirrel, jump on tail, hold on tight, and ride to heart of tree. Then see Norns.”

“So, they really do exist,” Loki muttered, feeling a familiar tree for the mark he’d left all those years ago to guide the Frost Giants into Asgard. “Are they how Odin found it before?”

“Yes. Odin did not know where in universe Horn was, so ask directions from the beings who know everything. He had to die to find out, but it all work out.”

“So the Norns know where everything - wait, what? Odin died?”

“He got better.”

“How do you get better from being dead?”

“Odin very smart.”

“Smart people die and stay dead all the time!”

“Not smart enough to have ravens.”

“You brought him back, then?”

“If we not die, Odin not truly die. We…fate linked. Life flow between Odin and birds, just like memories and thoughts. We one system. To kill Odin, must kill ravens first.”

Loki wondered why he’d never wondered more about the peculiar relationship Odin had with his ravens. They’d been a constant in life, accepted and never questioned. They simply seemed like a better version of what everyone else had, much like everything a king owned. Lesser nobility used ravens for carrying messages and delivering small items, while Odin’s ravens could literally speak his mind and travel to other realms in the blink of an eye. But to Loki, they’d only been pets, something to stuff full of corn and encourage to say naughty words.

Now it seemed that whatever queer sort of being Huginn was, Loki now shared his burdens. As well as the actual burden of Huginn.

“Could you please switch to my other shoulder, the right one is going numb,” Loki requested. He could see why Odin had preferred having two ravens to balance out.

Huginn obliged and Loki scanned the woods again. So far, there was no sign of the spectre that had ensorcelled Odin. Loki could only hope that, whatever it was, it had no particular interest in Odin and would not follow him to Vanaheim.

“Spectre is familiar to Huginn,” the raven creaked thoughtfully.

“I don’t know what to ask first; what you think it is, or how you read my mind?”

“Loki and Huginn share minds now. One system, or wasn’t he listening? As for spectre…Huginn does not know what is, only has his own little thoughts.”

“Why can’t I read your thoughts if I’m in the ’system’?”

“Loki is no good at listening, that why.”

Loki was about to argue with the bird when a golden flash of light blinded him, sending him stumbling. Huginn squawked as he fell against a tree, trembling.

“Keep up, slow-poke!” called a phantom voice Loki was beginning to recognize.

“Are you sure we share the same mother? Or were you birthed by a mountain goat?” groaned a youth with waist-length black hair, pulling himself up a steep ravine just below Od.

“Where shall we look for the Serpent first?” the younger boy bubbled, running ahead again as soon as Cul straightened up. “Oh, please say we can visit Neo-Venezia during its Carnival of Lights, or also maybe go to Sadaporo Fen in time for the Cloud-Sculpting Ceremony, and of course we should see the Great Star-Lily, a blossom made from nebulas and holder of the universe’s greatest beauty!”

Cul sighed. “None of those sound like promising places to find the Midgard Serpent, Od.”

“Well, we’d loop around to Midgard eventually, of course. If we have to. It’s not a terribly interesting place though, is it?”

“Od…maybe we should stop and think about this again.”

Od looked back at his brother, perplexed. “Why? It is all decided.”

Cul was rubbing the back of his neck ruefully. “I have been thinking more about Mother. She’s already lost one child, and I am going into danger. Shouldn’t she be able to keep one safe, at her side?”

Like a warm summer pool that a jötunn had unexpectedly stepped foot in, Od’s voice hardened and chilled. “Do not hide behind Mother’s skirts. If you have doubts about my coming along, then address them yourself.”

“Fine,” Cul snapped. “I don’t think you should come. I am not going to carnivals and wonders, Od - I am going into danger.”

“There will be a lot less danger if I am there to protect you,” Od protested.

Cul laughed. “Adorable jest, Brother, but when I am battling the largest serpent in creation, it won’t be so funny.”

Od recoiled, hurt. “I was being serious.”

“You have never been serious about anything in your life,” Cul puffed.

“And you are too serious about everything. That’s why you’ve always needed me.”

After first pulling his hair aside, Cul sat on a stump with a weary sigh. “This quest is supposed to be where I learn to find those qualities in myself that I have always borrowed from others.”

The younger prince scoffed. “What is wrong with relying on others? You and I, we’re a team. Why shouldn’t we stay that way, doing what the others can’t? We are stronger for it.”

“Maybe we are, but I am weaker for it,” Cul said.

Through a break in the foliage above, Od could see the stars. He stared up into them and pointed.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” he said quietly. “I’ve always wanted to see each and every one of them up close.” He looked again at Cul. “But what is the point of doing that alone? Wonders should be shared. As should dangers.”

Od pulled Cul off the stump and back on to the path.

“Come on - we’re nearly at the portal.”

A sharp pain in Loki’s shoulders broke him free from Odin’s memory. Huginn relaxed his talons upon hearing Loki’s yelp.

“Loki still have no control over memories,” the raven said superciliously. “He must focus on his own heart, or he will be lost.”

“Thank you,” Loki muttered, and staggered back onto the path.

What the memory of the younger Odin had said was right - they were nearly at the portal. When they arrived, Loki stared down into it, admiring the distant glow and faint spectrums it cast up from the crevice it was hidden in.

“So. This is it, then.” Loki took one last look behind him, back at Asgard. From here, he had a magnificent view of the palace, gleaming even in the dark of night, and of the Bifröst Bridge, rainbow lights shimmering all the way down to its end point at Heimdall’s Observatory. He was cloaked from the Gatekeeper’s gaze, as usual, but he couldn’t help a little wave in his direction.

“So long,” he muttered.

He turned back to the portal. Standing in front of it was -

Himself.

Huginn hissed.

Loki drew his daggers from thin air.

The Other-Loki quirked a small smile.

He was not dressed as Loki was. He wore finery that even Loki didn’t bother with outside of formal occasions. It was made from brilliant gold and the finest, verdant velvet. His beard and moustache were thicker, his hair sleeker and well-behaved, and the horned helm he wore large and intimidating without crossing the line into compensation.

But his eyes - his eyes were dead and black.

“What are you?” Loki asked the spectre.

“It is…like us,” Huginn whispered.

“What are you talking about,” Loki muttered to the bird as he took a step back and searched the environment for advantages.

“I am Thought, and you carry Memory. It is that which is both and neither.”

“Don’t speak in riddles. Is it dangerous? Why does it look like me?”

“It look like Loki to Loki? Huginn see something else...”

“This thing tried to take Odin. Is it here for us now?”

Other-Loki turned his head to follow Loki as he circled. Without warning, he shimmered, and the regal reflection transformed into the very likeness of Cul. It frowned at Loki, shimmered again, and changed back.

“It seems confused. It doesn’t know if I’m me or Odin. How do we kill -“

The spectre leapt across the gap and seized Loki, knocking him to the ground. It did not feel like flesh, it had no weight at all - but it burned to the touch. Cul’s face filled Loki’s vision as he struggled, and once more, without warning, golden light blinded him and sent him spinning into Odin’s memory -

“So this is it, then,” Cul breathed, staring into the portal.

“Say goodbye!” Od waved at the direction of the palace in the distance. It was impossible to see it from here - its dark stone blended into the night perfectly.

Cul nodded and bent his knees in anticipation of a jump. “Alright. Then let’s -“

His eyes fastened on something behind Od.

“Let’s GO!” Od finished, attempting to jump himself.

Cul grabbed him. “No, stop - what is that?”

Od turned, annoyed that Cul had found yet another reason to delay their departure. Then he frowned.

“Is that…fire?”

A small, flickering orange spot had appeared in the shapeless hulk that was Asgard’s faint silhouette. As the brothers watched, several more ignited - and grew.

“Did they discover us gone and are lighting the torches to search?”

The trees around them suddenly hummed and shuddered. The brothers looked up to see the stars above ripple and shift.

A cloaked ship. It whipped past them, headed straight for Asgard.

“An attack,” Cul whispered. “On Asgard herself! It’s the Dark Elves!”

Od’s breath caught in his throat. “Brother - we need to hide.”

“You’re joking. We’ve got to fight!” Cul started down the mountain, away from the portal.

Od seized the back of his shirt. “No! Cul, don’t you realize - if they’re here, they’re either desperate, stupid, or they’ve planned this for months. What does Asgard have that they need so badly that they’d invade the heart of our power?”

“Our family. They’re here to kill Father, to destroy us -“

“Yes, they are. And how convenient that we should be nowhere near where they expect us to be! They will be looking for us, Cul - it is our duty to stay hidden until they are forced to retreat!”

“I’ll be the one to force them to retreat,” Cul said darkly, drawing his ax.

Od laughed mockingly. “You? You’re still a child!”

Cul grabbed Od’s arm, trying to free himself from his little brother. “Forget the Serpent - I will bring Father the heads of a hundred elves to compensate for it. I will become a man this very day!”

“You’ll become a manly corpse!” Od scorned, his voice breaking on the last word.

“Better that than Asgard having a coward for a king!”

“If you die, and I inherit the damned chair, then she will!”

A massive fire ignited in Asgard. Even clear across the water, they heard the sound of stone crumbling, a thousand voices rising in terror.

Taking advantage of Od’s momentary distraction, Cul shoved his brother to the ground, freeing himself.

“Fine. Stay here, then, where it’s safe. I can amass my own army, anyway - maybe when you see a finch fighting with more valour than you could muster, you’ll change your mind.”

Cul cupped his hands to his mouth and called in a language not Allspeak or Às. All around them, the woods suddenly came to life with birdcalls, though it was still the middle of the night. The croaks of ravens, the ugliest of songbirds, competed with the eerie calls of swifts and jaegers. Branches bent under the weight of their numbers as they encircled a triumphant Cul.

“For Asgard!” he shouted, raising his ax and catching the moonlight with a flash.

Loki choked on a mouthful of dark feathers, reeling back into himself again. Huginn had plowed straight through the spectre and into Loki, sheering off a small sliver of its silver constitution that the raven swallowed hungrily before landing again on Loki’s shoulder.

The spectre reformed again on the other side of the portal, once more as the eerily perfect Loki with black eyes. A symbol on the Other-Loki’s helm drew his eye - ᛟ, an Othala, engraved on the forehead, between the two horns.

It meant inheritance. It conferred that the wearer was chosen, worthy. It was also the rune that began Odin’s name.

What on Midgard could that be? Loki wondered despite himself.

The spectre flashed an irritatingly familiar smirk. “It’s what you’d put on your crown, if you’d been chosen to be king instead of Thor."

Huginn extended his full wingspan and flapped, threateningly. “Huginn will eat the rest of you.”

The spectre drew a long sword from his side and pointed it at the bird. “How are you still alive, after what happened?” it questioned.

Loki couldn’t help but admire the sword the alternate-him wielded. It looked ancient and storied - something special. A little like Mjölnir, maybe.

“Focus,” Huginn snapped at him.

Loki raised his daggers, unconvinced they were any good against their phantom-like foe.

Other-Loki extended his sword towards Loki. As it approached, it transformed, becoming a long, wooden stick. The change spread through the rest of spectre, altering its hands to be calloused and worn and its shining armour into simple, stained cloth and a vest of coarse hair. Its face remained Loki’s face, though it was now tanned and smeared with mud, while the smile now featured a rotten, painful looking tooth.

“Is…is that me as a goat-herd?” Loki asked in consternation. Was it some ill attempt at mockery by the thing?

“I am a thought of a memory that never was. That we should meet tonight means you stand on a precipice - the crossroads of what is and what could have been.”

“Huginn - what is it talking about?”

The raven studied the phantom-Loki, but offered no comment.

Other-Loki used his crook to make an odd sort of salute. “It was nice to meet you, Brothers. Till we meet again and become whole once more…”

The spectre’s smile dimmed - and so did the rest of him, fading away into nothing.

Loki swivelled on his heel, anticipating an attack from behind - but there was nothing except the gleam of golden, shining Asgard. It was so very different from the one in Odin’s childhood memories - made of gold, and not of stone. And also, not on fire. He straightened up and pocketed his daggers with a flourish.

He turned towards Huginn, narrowly avoiding bumping his nose into the raven’s downy chest. “You’re going to have to explain a lot more about what that thing was -“

A humming filled the air, brushing over Loki’s skin and raising the hair on the back of his neck. Bird and prince looked up. The starry sky rippled.

For a moment, Loki was sure he was back in Odin’s memories, lost in the same memory he’d just involuntarily visited.

But this was different. It was nearly dawn, not dead of night. The ship above was not Dark Elf. He even recognized the strange, electrical current that always seemed to surround this particular race’s technology.

“Queega,” he breathed.

Two more ships passed overhead, moving fast. They were not aimed at Asgard, not aimed at the land at all - instead, they were headed straight for the Bifröst, at the end of the bridge.

“They aim to remove our means of transportation,” Loki realized.

“It is dawn,” Huginn rasped.

“A perfect time to attack,” Loki agreed.

“Dawn when Odin is to be leaving Asgard. On Bifröst.”

The glittering bridge was far away - too far away. Loki scanned it wildly, willing himself to suddenly grow the eyes of a falcon.

“Loki - every moment of essence. If we to go on quest - we must go now.”

The portal sputtered behind them, chewing and spitting - hungry for a passenger.

“Thor can protect Odin body. But we alone can save Odin mind - and Loki and Huginn mind, as well. If we stay, there chance we lose all three minds.”

The bridge shimmered and gleamed with its refracted rainbow lights. Loki at last detected a faint shadow upon it - right near the centre. That had to be the party escorting Odin to Vanaheim.

“Loki - what is choice? What we do? Loki?”

Chapter Text

ODIN

Odin had to be dragged, kicking and silently screaming, from sleep. He was passed from one set of hands to another as he was bathed, dressed, encouraged to eat, and finally, shuffled out the door.

The windows were all still dark and the palace deserted as he was hustled through it in secrecy and quiet, accompanied only by two women in white and several plainclothes guards - though in Asgard, plainclothes still included a full breastplate and various weapons in aesthetically pleasing places. It was their step, more than anything, that gave them away as soldiers.

Several times, Odin attempted to ask where they were going, but each time he tried the words stuck in his throat. Trying to force them past his teeth would result in, at best, a repetitive ‘ah-ah’ of air, as if he were stuttering to think of anything to say.

They exited the palace via a small serving door. Outside was a group of men and horses. The largest man, blonde and bearded, turned towards Odin, holding the reins of a great charger.

At last, a face Odin recognized. He rushed forward with a smile. The man called to him in greeting and held open his arms.

Odin snatched the reins of the horse the man had been holding and immediately pressed his nose to Sleipnir’s. The horse blew a happy wet snort into his face as Odin held his cheek and stroked it.

The man seemed a bit put out, but nonetheless provided a step so Odin could clamber onto the creature’s back. Once balanced in the saddle, Odin continued to dote on the animal, murmuring silently into his ears and patting his neck.

Instinctively, Sleipnir understood where they were going and set off at a trot, soon competing with the blonde man’s horse to lead the train.

The rainbow of the morning sky matched the pulsing lights of the Bifröst Bridge underfoot. At the end of the road, one of Asgard’s suns was already rising behind the Observatory, making it appear as a dark pupil against the pink iris of the dawn. Appropriate, for the abode of Heimdall.

Odin wondered if the Gatekeeper could help him escape his prison of silence. The man had ways to see beyond the exterior - he could tell this band of men what Odin was suffering from, get them to help him.

“Is everything alright, Father?” asked the man in the lead.

Odin nodded before even considering the question.

“Father, I…I am…I hope...” The man stumbled through various starts and stops to a potential sentence before settling on. “Asgard is very beautiful this morning.”

It was. Odin turned to look at his Asgard, the one he’d built up out of gold after the destruction of the stone. The one he’d kept safe for thousands of years, and made into a beacon of light and hope for worlds beyond his own. The palace slowly shrank into the distance as they rode further and further down the bridge. Though he didn’t know why, he tensed in his saddle, suddenly unwilling to go a step further.

Sensing his distress, Sleipnir came to a halt and whickered. An Einherji tried to grab the reins and haul them onward, but the charger jerked away, nearly pulling the soldier from his own horse.

No…this wasn’t just in response to Odin’s own distress. There was something else. Something wrong.

Sleipnir whinnied loudly, rearing up impressively on his four hind legs and kicking the others wildly. The blonde man quickly turned his brave mount to block his path.

“Father, it’s alright. We are just going to the Bifröst. Everything is…”

At first it seemed like the dawn had eclipsed the Observatory. The pink had become golden, a great ball of light blotting out the pointed beak and ball of Heimdall’s vantage point. But it was too big, too close to be a sun -

The fireball struck the Observatory with an almighty explosion of rainbow shards, severing it from the bridge. The whole golden ball and its bird-like beak swivelled on its axis and fell into the abyss off the edge of the waterfall.

Horses screamed. Sleipnir began to run, but next instant a second fireball struck the other side of the bridge and carved through it. An unlucky soldier and his horse tumbled from the edge into the sea far below.

Odin was marooned on an island of fragile crystal, miles from cover.

On the other side of the gap, the blonde man pulled out a hammer and raised it into the air. A circle of lightning surrounded them, a tight circle, expanding outwards. A flash of fire, a ripple in the air - an alien craft appeared, keeling to one side as its engine burned.

“Father! Are you alright?!” shouted the blonde man, winding up his hammer as he prepared to fly over.

A flash of green fell from the sky and pinned the Asgardian to the ground with a grunt.

“SSss-kkkrghk!” spat the alien from the slit in its forehead.

“My mother’s dead, you thoughtless cretin!” The Asgardian roared, smashing his hammer against it and sending it flying over the edge of the bridge. “And she’d never consider it!” he added.

More alien reptiles fell from the sky, landing with thunderous tremors all around Odin. They were eight feet tall at the smallest, green, and most strikingly, wore halos made of crackling electricity.

Sleipnir bucked, hitting two of the aliens in the chest and sending them into the churning ocean below. He snorted in satisfaction, stamping his hooves as a challenge to the rest of the attackers.

A flash of silver caught Odin’s eye. One of the lizards held a familiar weapon, though he could not quite place where he’d seen it before. The scaly creature fired it dead-centre at Sleipnir. The quick-thinking horse, realizing there was no room to dodge the large blast, bucked Odin off with a ferocious bray.

As Odin collided with the glass bridge, the neigh became a scream. A slimy, net-like substance was spreading over the stallion, using strange little nodes to shock him repeatedly. Odin tried to crawl back to his horse, though with no thoughts as to how he might free him.

A woman in white seized his arm and dragged him away, even as he kicked futilely and reached out for the spasming Sleipnir -

“I’m sorry, Dear,” gasped the formerly-smiling Sister. “You can’t help him. Now, stay down!”

The second woman stepped into his field of view, drawing two hilts from her belt and igniting them with a burst of carmine magic to form long, glowing blades. She danced with them, leaving ribbons of light in her wake, as if painting in the air. Lizards smashed against the light trails as if they were solid glass. One slipped through, raising a weapon to her back -

The Sister holding Odin raised her own arm and fired a golden bolt of energy right through the lizard’s nub of an apparent head. It fell at their feet, twitching and smoking, its vertical mouth splitting to voice a final death rattle.

“Finish the shield, Sister Embla!” the woman shouted, blasting another lizard who’d been attempting to crawl underneath the red ribbons.

Sister Embla ran in a circle about them, twin blades flashing. The ribbons suddenly straightened and merged, as if she were a seamstress tightening her thread. A translucent red dome formed around them, blotting out the sound of battle, but not the sight of it.

One, two, three Einherjar were skewered on an electric spear, then swung into the ocean, their own blood greasing their slide off the weapon and into the water. Sleipnir could no longer move at all, the constricting net about him choking off every single leg. The blonde man alone seemed resistant to the electrical attacks, beating in skull after skull with his hammer as wave after wave of lizards attempted to drown him in their scaly flesh.

Odin covered his head, trying to drown out the noise.

It was like then. Back when Asgard was breached for the first time in its history…

The memory boiled up in his brain, pushing its way into his reality. He tried to call for Muninn, to save himself from the pain -

ᛟ

A screaming Einherji crumpled into a miniature black hole. A dog dragged his bloody leg, whining and nosing at a master without a head. An Asgardian woman lay dead on the cobblestone, her lower half entirely gone. A tiny child with dull white eyes held her, and both were trampled underfoot as the other Asgardians fled.

Od was frozen, pressed against a wall, his heart pounding.

The noise - the smell - the sight - the sounds - they pinned him there as a boot pinned an ant.

This was not like the stories Father and the soldiers had told. This was not like the pictures on the wall.

The dark elves were advancing through the city, towards the palace. Chances were they were already inside its very walls.

Where was Cul? Had Od arrived too late to save him?

Everyone was retreating towards the palace, but the Elves were already among the townsfolk.

The water from the castle’s moat flew into the air, creating a shield of liquid around the entire fortress.

That would be Mother, Od thought to himself. He should go to her. He tore his back from the wall and tripped forward.

The townspeople ran through the water, unharmed. The elves weren’t quite so lucky. Wherever they touched the barrier, it began to boil. One elf staggered back, his skin a blistered red and already peeling. The very air was agony to him and he screamed to tell all about it.

A terrible roar cut through the din. The prince looked up. There, astride a tower of stone, was his father.

Od’s heart leapt.

Bor stepped off the stone and plunged towards the ground, fist drawing back. He punched the ground just as he landed, destroying everything around it and sending a shockwave rippling towards an approaching battalion of elves. Some flew into the air, striking buildings. Others were sucked into the earth. Dull pops sounded off underground as Bor clenched his fist and crushed them.

“Father! Above you!” Od shouted as a cloaked elven skiff started firing.

Bor spun Gungnir in his hands and fired back an enormous pulse of golden light. The ship exploded.

“ODIN?!” Bor boomed, but there was something Od had never heard in his voice before. “You’re supposed to be sealed in the Vault! Get there, now!”

“Not without Cul!” Od replied stubbornly.

Bor fired twice more, bringing down two more ships. “Cul can handle himself, he has his powers - GAH! Take that, you sun-starved drittsek-koff, KOFF -” Bor fell to knees, wheezing, the elf he’d just shot still writhing on the ground with a smoking stomach wound.

Od ran over the broken ground to grab Bor’s shoulder. “Father! Are you alright?”

Bor bucked off his son’s hand and stood again, shaking. “I do not want your help, child!” Gungnir fired another shot into the gurgling elf’s head, mercy killing it. A long, red beard tickled Od’s face as his father leaned down and grabbed his shoulder. “I just want you safe!”

“All-Father!” cried an Asgardian woman, clutching two children by the wrist. “Help! Please!”

Bor looked Od in the eye. “Our people need us. Take my men and lead those who cannot fight to the Vault and seal it, with you inside. If you see your brother, send him to me - we can hold them off together.”

So, Father trusted Cul to fight alongside him, but not Od. Bor considered his second son an expert in running away and hiding, so why not put him in charge of that?

Od opened his mouth to protest - and out of nowhere, an elf who’d feigned his death suddenly leapt to his feet, brandishing a knife at Od’s neck. With a shriek, the boy fell back, narrowly avoiding its tip. Bor stomped, turning the ground beneath the elf to quicksand, sinking the attacker up to his neck. The All-Father made a squeezing motion with his fist and the dirt constricted.

The prisoner was crushed to death with such force that his eyeballs flew out of skull, spattering Od in blood.

Od touched his face and looked at his fingers.

How funny that the elves bled black instead of red.

“MOVE, boy!” his father roared.

Od staggered upright and looked, glazed, at the woman, her children, and some scattered Einherjar that had come running to join their king. They stared at him.

“F-follow me,” the young prince mumbled.

They looked at each other, uncertain and fearful.

Od paused; shook himself; lit a bright golden flame in his hand. He raised it over his head and declared “Women and children, TO ME!”

ᛟ

Sister Embla’s hands were beginning to shake from the strain of maintaining the red shields. More and more lizards were pressing up against it, shocking it with their own electricity and various silver weapons. Cracks appeared, then healed again as the dour Sister pumped more energy into it.

“Sister Rokia,” she choked. “I…I…need…”

“Help,” Sister Rokia finished for her. She looked down at Odin. “I can trust you to stay here, right, Dear?”

Odin didn’t so much as twitch.

Rokia bolted to Sister Embla’s side. She braced one arm with the other and pressed a flat palm against the red shield. Bright, golden bullets flew out from her hand and mowed down a wave of the reptiles, stacking their bodies as a barrier for the next. As the last hit the bridge, Rokia let loose a terrible cry. At first, Odin thought she’d somehow been injured - but saw no blood on her, only a river of tears streaming down her face.

“I-I took a vow…” Sister Rokia stuttered, staring at her hand.

Sister Embla spared her own hand to grab her companion’s shoulder. “Sometimes to save life, we must take it. Your soul is still pure. Please, Sister - I need you!”

Sister Rokia gulped for air. Nodded. Stood. Took position once more. Put on her wide, terrifying smile. And Fired. Fired. Fired.

Another line of aliens fell to the ground.

The two women reminded Odin of someone.

ᛟ

“Women and children, infirm and elderly, to me!” Od cried, hand flaming in false fire. They flocked to his signal as he ran.

The soldier’s spears flashed as they picked off elves running to and fro. They’d gone through the water barrier, but it seemed Mother’s protection had gone up too late to stop the elves already inside the barrier. It was still chaos, even as they neared the palace.

A child with long plaits ran out of an alley, pursued by a grey-skinned, grinning elf. He fired a shot before Od’s soldiers could.

Od couldn’t look away. The boy would surely -

A blast of dark fire met the bullet at a right angle, throwing it off-course. The child stumbled, fell - into the arms of a woman with long, dark hair. Another woman, this one so blonde her hair was nearly white, appeared from around a corner, hand still smoking from the fire she’d cast. She fired again, burning the elf before it could fire again.

Witches! Odin wanted to shout for joy.

“Are you Prince Odin?” asked the dark-haired one as she soothed the child.

It was hardly the time or place, but Od blushed slightly. “Yes. I am taking the infirm, the women, and the children to the Vault for protection."

“Good. We have some of those,” the white-blonde woman said. She gestured, and a trickle of people came out from behind the corner she’d appeared from. There was a mix of everything Od had mentioned - old men with beards that nearly touched the ground, children barely walking, an old veteran wheeling himself in a cart, women round with child hobbling on bloated purple ankles.

Od swallowed his nervousness. Their speed was going to drop like a rock. “The more the merrier! One of you should go to the front, the other at the back. Anything you can do to ease our passage - do it.”

The dark-haired witch released the child into the pack of people and joined Od at the front of the procession. She, too, lit a beacon, though hers was not fire, but a brilliant cold diamond with a light encased inside.

Together they yelled, “Women and children, infirm and elderly, to us!”

As bedraggled Asgardians flocked to them, he asked for her name.

She hesitated for a moment before she said “Radey.”

ᛟ

Movement. Odin felt it, through the ground. Something nearby was shifting.

He looked around. The only things inside the shield were himself, the Sisters, and the two alien reptile bodies Sister Rokia had struck with her golden light before Embla had closed the shield.

One of the bodies stood up.

The golden rod lodged in its head pulsed. It reached up, pulled it out, and held it in a three-fingered hand. Weighing it.

Odin tried to shout a warning.

Nothing came out.

He tried to run towards the Sisters.

The lizard was faster.

Sister Rokia never even had a chance to turn around.

The lizard stabbed her once, twice, thrice, and again in the back. She gasped. It charged up its halo and fired.

The smiling sister’s head crumbled into black dust.

Sister Embla howled. She managed to draw her hilt, but before she could form her red blade, the alien seized her head and beat it against her shield. Spiderweb cracks expanded from the impact. Again and again he smashed her against it, until the entire thing shattered.

The lizards poured in, sparking and hissing - an unstoppable tide of scales and silver guns. They swarmed towards Odin, screeching with glee -

CRACK ~ BOOM!

Sound and light and a gust of wind rippled outward from a blazing figure who’d sunk his hammer into the torso of the lizard holding Odin. The figure faded into the brawny, blonde-haired man.

“I’m sorry, Father, but I’m going to have to break the no-touching rule,” he said as he caught Odin.

Odin clung to him, his heartbeat slowing slightly. He felt as he had when-

ᛟ

The birds swept through the alleys like dark water, blanketing enemy elves and tearing their eyeballs out before taking flight once more.

“Cul!” Od called, elated.

The feathers cleared, and there stood his big brother, scratched and worse for wear - but whole.

Od ran to him and hugged him fiercely. The chaos seemed to melt away for a moment.

“Have you seen Father?” Cul questioned.

“Yes. Just outside the shield. He...” Small hands tightened on his brother’s blood stained tunic. “- he said that if I saw you, to tell you...that you should help me. Help me get these people into the Vault.”

Cul smiled. “Of course, Brother. I can join Father after you and they are safe.”

ᛟ

The blonde man threw his hammer, dragging them both into the sky.

Odin looked down. The milling lizards and soldiers dropped away, becoming small. Unrecognizable.

They soared back towards Asgard. Back to safety.

ᛟ

The witches were invaluable. By putting their fire and cold powers together, they could create a mist that disguised their party's movement. They descended into the bowels of the castle, even below the prisons, before finally coming to the Vault doors.

Cul sent his birds in first, to make sure it was safe. They reported it was so - all that was inside were spare food rations, in case there was a siege. The people filed in, grateful. The witches beamed at each other.

“You’re quite the leader,” Radey told him, shyly pushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

An odd confluence of emotions roiled in Od’s chest. Unable to sort them into words, he only nodded. Over her shoulder, he saw Cul directing people into the Vault, thanking and reassuring each of them with a kindness and grace Od couldn’t find within himself. It was taking everything he had to just lean against the door and keep it open.

“Will we be safe here?” Radey asked.

“Once we close the doors, it will trigger a message to my mother, Queen Bestla,” Od assured. “She will extend her magic down here and barricade the door, just like she’s created the bubble around the capital. It will not open until she wills it. That will be long after the fighting is done.”

The girl frowned slightly. “But her magic isn’t like a witch's, is it? It can’t last indefinitely. If something were to happen to her, it would fail, wouldn't it? ”

“My mother is an Elemental, like my father. It is a rare and powerful gift. I assure you, she will keep us safe.”

The witch looked him up and down, curious. “Is that what you are? An Elemental?”

It seemed like there were apparently some left in Asgard who did not know of the third child’s shame. Od was loath to correct it, but had no energy to lie. “It’s what my brother is, and sister was. Jury is still out on me, I’m afraid.”

He considered telling the witch that he was training in her arts. Maybe she’d find it fascinating, instead of embarrassing. Maybe she’d even volunteer to teach him some, after this was all over. Most likely, she’d laugh. To think the child of two powerful Elementals was reduced to learning girl’s craft, just to avoid being totally inadequate.

He cracked a weak grin. “My top half is stringy, but my legs are some of the most muscular in Asgard. I am excellent at the fighting art of…running away.”

Radey smiled at him. “Still, it is good to think we will have two Princes of Asgard in there, to protect us.”

The crowd of people was thinning. Cul patted one last old man on the back and started towards them.

Od had only a minute before he’d be in hearing range. He looked at the witch appraisingly. She seemed to like him. Did she like him enough to listen to him over her better judgement?

“If we want it to be two princes, I’m going to need your help, Radey…”

ᛟ

They were flying, barreling forward. And then, without warning, they were snapping back.

The blonde man grunted in unexpected pain, voice strangling. A red-hot lasso was wrapped around his neck. It hissed and tightened, wrangling them backwards across the sky, towards an alien craft with expectant looking lizards on a walkway.

The man tried to limply throw his hammer at them, but only succeeded in dropping it like a stone. At least it allowed him one hand to pull weakly at the constricting rope.

His other arm, the one holding Odin, loosened.

Odin tried to hold on tighter, to seize handfuls of the man’s red cape, though he knew his aching knuckles could not possibly support all his weight -

The man’s eyes rolled backwards into his head. His arm relinquished Odin to the air.

Odin fell.

ᛟ

“Where did you see Father, Od? I should be joining him.”

Od stepped directly in front of his brother, right in front of the Vault front doors. Only a trickle of the feeble were left. Soon they’d have to close the doors and seal them.

“Yes, Father - I did see him, that I did, that I did. Oh, where was it? There was such chaos and carnage…I don’t know that I can quite recall -“

“If that’s so, I will have the birds continue to scout for him. Stay safe in the Vault, Little Brother -“ Cul began to turn.

Od held out a hand. “WAIT! I - I do remember. It was near the steeple.”

“The steeple? Which steeple?”

Radey had slipped behind Cul, awaiting the signal.

“The steeple just outside the - the main road. By the butcher’s shop.”

An old raven, perched on Cul’s shoulder, was staring at Radey. Od saw a suspicion occur in its tiny, beady eyes.

Od blinked twice.

Radey ran at Cul, ramming him in the back. Od nimbly stepped out of the way, extending a foot. His brother tumbled over in deliciously coordinated fashion, such as he had many times before, when Gefjun was the one doing the push. He even tumbled down the stairs, narrowly avoiding the culverts of water that lined the inside of the Vault. His birds followed him in a twittering, consternated cloud.

“Close the doors!” ordered Od as he followed his brother inside.

The Einherjar on the outside of the Vault obeyed without question, heaving the doors to the Vault shut in only moments. The moment the latch clicked, the running water that encircled the Vault in little tributaries rose into the air, like reverse rain. It pooled over the ceiling, the doors, even thinly upon the floor. Od caught a drop on its way up and cradled it, smiling to feel the warmth of his mother’s magic within. Somewhere, high up in the palace, she now knew her boys were safe. It was just a shame she couldn’t see them, or that she could appreciate the lengths Od had to go to to assure it.

ᛟ

A boat appeared out of nowhere, directly beneath Odin. Within feet of smashing into it, he slowed, as if the air had turned into molasses. A fierce FUT-FUT-FUT sound banged into his ears. He turned his head to see a large, black raven fiercely beating his wings, slowing Odin’s descent by grasping his shoulders in his talons.

“See? Can so work.”

The raven dropped him onto the front seat. The horned-helmed man driving the boat shouted an order at the bird, then sped upwards, towards the blonde man being reeled in by the lizards.

The horned man threw a fistful of false-fire at the lizards, blinding them and temporarily sending them into a panic. While they milled around, Huginn flew to their winch and disengaged it with an aggressive pecking attack to its console. Once the wire cooled, the blonde-haired man was able to snap it in two with his bare hands. He dropped into the boat, just as the skiff drew up to him. The raven rejoined them, landing upon the helmsman’s shoulder before the boat sped off again.

“I’ve had to catch your mistakes before, but this is the first time I’ve caught you, Thor,” the horned man drawled over the wind.

The blonde man - Thor - guffawed. “It’s true, you are the expert in having to catch up to me.”

The horned man angled their boat to avoid a shot from another ship, but lost the thread of his banter. “Well, I…can catch…catch a -“

Thor held out his hand, summoning his hammer back into it. “It’s fine, Brother. Though your wit may be a little slower than usual, your timing with the boat was perfect. Take Father back to the palace, and I’ll finish cleaning up the Queega.”

The ship that had nearly abducted him was far in the distance, but that didn’t throw off Thor’s aim. His mighty hammer knocked several lizards from their perch and sent them to their inevitable deaths in the sea below before returning to his meaty palm with a slap. Thor grinned and began to whirl it, preparing to take off himself.

The horned man held out a cautioning hand. “Wait, Thor - something isn’t right about this. How did they know Odin was leaving this morning?”

Thor paused. “You suspect a traitor?”

“Yes, I do. We should retreat to the palace and direct the fighting from a safe distance, then ferret out the -“

“You do that if you like, Loki. But I have men down there - friends - that I cannot abandon like a coward.”

“It is not cowardly to protect the king of the realm -"

“They invaded my realm. My home.” Thor drummed his hammer up and down on his thigh, eyes burning. "If you hunger for retribution as I do, Loki, hide Father in his rooms and then rejoin me at my side. We can finish off these invaders together!”

“Thor, please -“

“My safety is not your responsibility, Loki - Father’s is. Now, GO!”

Thor leapt from the boat, blowing them downwards a few feet with the pushback from his take-off. The horned man - the one Thor had called Loki - swore a few more times, then jammed the accelerator on the skiff to maximum. They hurtled towards the palace, the bridge still below, though now they moved too quickly for Odin to glimpse its carnage.

ᛟ

“What the HEL, Od?!” Cul spat, getting to his feet.

Od shrugged, leaning against a large torch and slowly sliding to its bottom. “I did what I had to.”

“I’m meant to be out there, fighting with Father! Not cowering in here with the women!”

“And the children. Which you and I are,” Od muttered. He examined his hand again. The black elf blood was still there. It was on his face, too, dried and flaking. It itched.

“I was not going to be a child after today!” Cul raged.

“There was a significant chance that you weren’t going to be WARM after today!” Od shouted back.

Radey approached him and kneeled down by Od’s side. “I…I did the right thing,” she muttered. It was unsure, but not quite a question.

“Of course you did,” Od replied, rubbing at the blood on his face. “He might not appreciate it right now, but you helped save the future king.”

“I’m doing the right thing,” the witch said again, even quieter. “I am, I am…”

Od looked up at her. “Are you alright?”

ᛟ

The raven had crept over to Odin. Black, beady eyes studied him closely.

“Lo~oki,” the bird croaked. “Something wrong with Odin. He is - seeing bad memory. Red Memory.”

Loki glanced back at Odin. “What?”

“Red Memory. Dangerous memory. Odin - give bad memory to Huginn now, like always, yes?”

The raven hopped on Odin’s shoulder, his beak pecking hungrily at Odin’s scalp. Odin panicked and flailed at him.

Loki turned to look at them. “Huginn, leave him alone - he doesn’t understand -“

A Queega ship flew directly in front of the boat and unleashed a massive, burning laser. Too late, Loki looked back to see -

SSKKKKSSWHHH!

At the last second, Loki had tried to turn them, but only succeeded in keeping the laser from burning them all to death. The boat itself was sliced in half as easily as if it had been warm butter.

As the separate pieces fell, Loki leapt from one to the other, tackling the old man mid-air as the raven squawked. Odin was tucked inside a fierce hug as Loki braced for impact -

They hit the bridge with a crunch and rolled. When they slowed to a stop, Loki unfurled with a groan and a gasp, though he maintained a hold on Odin’s wrist, so tight it hurt.

Loki grimaced, but had eyes only for Odin. “Are you alright?”

ᛟ

Od frowned at Radey and asked again. “Are you alright, Miss?”

Suddenly, Radey fell forward, steadying herself by catching Od’s arm.

It was unusual for Od to be touched by someone not in his family or a close servant. It gave him a queer feeling. A funny sort of cold that emanated out from her fingers, spreading all over his body. Was this what his brother had called adolescent fervour? Od didn’t really care for it. It kind of hurt, actually.

He looked down.

Ice was spreading from Radey’s bruised-looking hands, encasing his chest, spreading over his legs, binding him to the floor.

He cried out the name on instinct, though he had never before seen one outside of a fairytale book.

“FROST GIANT!”

ᛟ

Odin stared at the hand clenched around his wrist.

Terror washed through the old man, as sharp as it had when he was a boy.

Loki’s fingers were staining, as if dipped in blue ink.

Chapter Text

ODIN

“FROST GIANT!”

At the sound of Od’s cry, Cul paused in his angry pacing.

His jaw dropped. Od was sealed to the floor, his body encased in ice half a foot thick, aside from his head. Cul looked at Radey, whose arms were now entirely blue, and raised his axe. Before he could come to his little brother’s aid, his birds screeched an alert. He ducked just in time, rolling to his left and narrowly avoiding a blast of dark fire. Behind him stood the white-haired witch, palm still smouldering. She withdrew her hand and aimed a kick at his back, which he caught on his axe handle. In the same motion, he spun her about, knocking her to the ground. Confusion flickered in his eyes, but he did not hesitate to raise his axe into a beheading position -

Out of nowhere, one of the invalids they’d been escorting - a man so ancient he looked like he’d been around when stars were invented - threw himself between the witch and Cul. He caught the axe on his wooden crutch with a clang.

A clang?

That wasn’t right.

The witch sprang to her feet, lobbing another handful of fire at Cul, but before she could fire again, the old raven swooped in, knocking her sideways. With terrible precisision, the corvid went straight for her eye, gouging and digging as she fired wildly into the incensed flock as they surrounded her.

Meanwhile, the old man beat Cul backwards, his cane seemingly an impossible match for the ancient axe. Behind the elder prince, a scullery maid suddenly made her move, growing a massive blade of ice over her entire arm.

Od shouted a warning - but it was not Cul who heeded it. The old man saw the scullery maid, turned his cane into a hook, and pulled Cul’s foot out from under him. The prince was sent sprawling just as the blade cut the air where his organs had been a moment earlier.

“Are you stupid?” the old man boomed, in a voice that was not old at all. “You could have killed him!”

Cul recovered and stood, raising his axe once more.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

The white-haired witch succeeded in blasting away the old raven, injuring its wing and sending the rest cawing to the rafters. Blood was dripping all over her face.

Black blood.

The old man looked at her and winced. “It seems the time for revelations is at hand.”

A shimmer of light passed over the old man and the white witch, like ripping paper off a present. Standing in the place of unremarkable Asgardians were now two dark elves, complete with black eyes, braided hair and pointy ears.

The scullery maid did more than shimmer. She bulged, as if breaking out of the confines of her guise, scaling upwards towards the ceiling, revealing herself as actually seven, ten, twelve feet tall.

Od flicked his eyes back to his witch. The blue had spread further, staining her face the colour of a stormy ocean. Her eyes blinked shut brown and opened the deepest shade of scarlet. She grew, though not so much as the other giant, becoming only a little taller than the tallest Asgardian Einherjar, though her proportions were all wrong for an adult.

A child.

But still a -

ᛟ

Frost Giant.

Odin was in the clutches of a Frost Giant.

“Father,” it panted, seemingly unaware that Odin now knew the truth. “I’m going to turn us invisible so we can hide until the battle is over. Just stay calm and stay close to me, alright?”

Without looking at it, the jötunn withdrew its hand from Odin’s, preparing to cast a spell. Once contact with Odin ceased, the blue ebbed away, returning to Ás illusion once more.

It was going to cast magic. It would freeze Odin to the bridge, pin him down - or perhaps it planned to steal him away, just as they had before -

But Odin wasn’t pinned down now. He wasn’t frozen, in fear or ice.

The jötunn-in-disguise was still distracted by the battlefield, looking everywhere but at Odin. Underestimating him. That was always the giants’ fatal flaw.

It never saw Odin’s fist coming.

With a satisfying crunch, the jötunn-in-Ás-flesh was thrown backwards, and Odin slipped free. Without wasting a moment, he ran.

ᛟ

“I will kill you all,” Cul promised, raising his ax. “I’m more than enough to take you out.”

“Will you?” the formerly-old-Asgardian-man-now-strapping-dark-elf said. “Because you have a lot more here to take out than we do.”

The Asgardians had gathered in the middle of the room, frightened and wide-eyed. But now, amongst them, various members shimmered and bulged, shimmered and bulged. Cries of fear rang out, children started sobbing, oaths and profanity mixed into screams of panic.

Cul and Od stared in horror as the remaining true Asgardians were encircled by giants on one side and elves on the other.

A cold dot touched Od’s forehead. It was the jötunn-witch’s finger, pressed to his head like a weapon.

“And don’t forget,” Radey said in a shaking voice. “I have your brother, too.”

Cul’s eyes darted to Od’s, then the Asgardian people’s. People he knew. People he had only moments ago comforted.

His axe fell to the floor.

“And your birds. Kill them,” commanded the dark elf witch, holding a cloth to her bleeding socket of an eye.

Cul’s nostrils flared. “I will not.”

The dark elf nodded to one of her soldiers. He had a gun trained on an old woman, her hair done up like one of the fanciest ladies of Asgard, despite her poor dress.

She splattered the same as a high lady of Asgard would’ve, at least.

Cul stepped forward, a roar beginning in his chest -

Another shot. More screams.

The elf-witch leaned in. “Kill. Your. Birds.”

Cul’s face scrunched up. He screamed, tears flooding his visage. He raised his hands -

The birds took flight and pointed their beaks directly at the floor. They plunged straight down, at nearly a perfect one hundred and eighty degree angle. The sounds of their necks breaking was like a grotesque patter of rain. Cul buried his face in his hands so he did not have to bear the sight of them.

Od couldn’t look away. They floated in the inch-deep water, blood seeping out from their twisted necks.

Ravens bled red. Same as Asgardians.

ᛟ

“O~ODIN!” cawed Huginn, frantically beating his wings to keep pace with his master as Odin dodged between soldiers and Queega. “Odin, you is seeing bad memory, RED memory! Must give to raven - Muninn dead, it must be Huginn now -“

Odin covered his ears and shook his head, still running.

“Stupid Odin, Huginn and Odin can hear each other’s thoughts!” Huginn cried exasperatedly. “Odin must give Huginn Red Memory now, or else Odin lost! He must not remember or he will not be-!”

The bridge shook. A wall of scaly flesh appeared in front of Odin, too late for him to avoid it. He collided with a Queeg nearly twice as large as the foot soldiers, as well a different hue - a dark, purplish crimson. Its halo crackled in delight as it seized Odin by the arm, lifting him aloft.

“Skkrrgghh-stttk,” it hissed in triumph. “Srrxxx-gglltt-kkkkk?"

It was not the easiest language for the All-Speak to translate, but Odin understood the gist.

So, this is the tiny old king they were trying to hide away. You don’t seem so dangerous to me. Are you?

Odin flailed his arms, but the wristbands the Sisters had put upon him prevented him from summoning so much as the illusion of a teapot to aid him.

The red lizard made a sound equivalent to laughter and threw the old man over one shoulder. “Zzzrrtrrl! Kakkk-sssrrrzzz.”

You will make a fine ransom.

ᛟ

The male elf - a commander of some sort, Od was realizing - gestured to a few of his men. They approached Cul with manacles, engraved with elven runes.

His brother held out his hands and allowed them to restrain him. There was even one for his neck. They had to part his curtain of black hair to reach it.

It sickened Od to see them touch it.

He tried to wiggle free, but the ice would not so much as let him twitch a finger. The only thing he could move was his head. And his mouth.

“What a terrible plan,” Od said into the silence. “How are you planning on escaping this room, exactly? Bestla won’t open the doors until we’ve won the battle, at which point the Einherjar will pour in here. Surrender to us now, and we’ll show you mercy.”

The elves and the giants laughed. How alike they were in the cruel tones of their laughter, if not at all in appearance. Od wondered how deep that similarity really went, though.

“You can at least tell me how you two races have come together in this. I was under the impression that there was no love lost between elves and giants.”

A Frost Giant male, twice as thick as the female and with a large scar running down his belly, chuckled. “And now it tries to turn us against each other. This one has been told too many bedtime stories. He thinks himself Askeladd!”

The giantess grunted. “All you need know is that elves and giants can parlay, when it suits them. Giants are smart enough to know that if Asgard defeats Svartalfheim, she will turn her eyes back to her ancestral enemy, Jötunheim. Both elves and giants would benefit from a little…leverage.”

Od leaned his head back and snickered. “Ah, I see. How perfect. Two sons of Bor and Bestla - one for the elves, and one for the giants. A fair and equal prize to split. One small problem, though -“ A rippled of magic passed over Od’s face, transforming it into that of the servant boy, Darri. “-you’ve actually only got one. Oh, how will you share?”

The elves and giants looked from Darri’s face to each other’s.

“How…” the giantess gaped. “You’re not…Prince Odin?”

The elves moved quickly, pushing Cul behind them.

“There will be no ‘sharing’,” declared the elf general. “The deal was we get the first-born, you get the spare. It’s our troops dying out there, us at war. We need the elder.”

“We’re the ones who got you in here in the first place,” snarled the scarred giant. “We won’t leave empty-handed!”

And just like that, they were at each other’s throats.

There was something to bedtime stories after all.

“Wait,” said Radey. She looked at Darri, scarlet eyes calculating. “How do we know you’re not Prince Odin disguising himself as someone else?”

Cul barked a laugh. “My brother? Learn the witching arts? It would be a terrible shame on our family. We are Elementals, in tune with the forces of nature itself - we have no need for lowly women’s craft.”

The giants murmured amongst themselves, agreeing that they’d heard such was the case.

Cul continued. “This servant boy is called Darri. He has often doubled for my brother. He’s gotten so good at it, even I can’t tell. The illusion is cast by one of our finest witches. My true brother will be safe somewhere else, no doubt. Did you really think Asgard would put all her eggs in one basket?”

A giant brandished an icy weapon at Cul. “Tell us where. Now!”

The elves moved to defend Cul, but the giantess held out her hand. “We’ll leave enough of him for you to take hostage just fine,” she snarled. “But we’ve a right to our prize as well. We’ll make him talk.”

“I know where he is!” Od said quickly.

Black and red eyes turned back to him. Now to keep them there.

“I - I can lead you to him,” Od continued.

“No!” Cul cried out.

To the elves and giants, it no doubt sounded like Cul was anguished by the betrayal of Darri and the endangerment of his brother. Od knew what Cul really meant, of course - but he could see no other way out of this.

“…How easily you betray your liege,” tutted the elf-commander. “Why should we trust you?”

“Because I - I hate him. Odin is an ass. He’s always acting out, or-or not doing his schoolwork. But did you know that they’re not allowed to punish a prince?” He laughed bitterly, screwing up Darri’s face into one of pure rage and loathing. “So they whip me, in his stead. That’s what these sorts of people do - punish a serving boy for a prince’s crimes. To keep his skin as pure as snow.”

“You seemed eager to protect Prince Cul,” said Radey suspiciously.

“Cul is…kind to me. He’s kind to all Asgardians. He’s nothing like the spoiled, lazy second son, I promise you.” He looked up at Cul, hoping his brother understood him.

“Darri - don’t you dare lead them to Od,” Cul warned. “If you love me, Darri, don’t put him at risk.”

Darri looked the chief giantess in the eye. “I’ll take you to where they’re hiding him. I promise.”

ᛟ

A flash of black feathers tackled the crimson Queeg, aiming for the tiny white eyes that lined its vertical mouth.

The lizard wasn’t even a little phased. It batted the bird away with one hand, and with the other raised its silver gun. An electric net exploded from the barrel and wrapped around the raven before he could regain control. Just like Sleipnir, the bird collapsed to the bridge, shrieking in agony - and this time Odin could feel it in his brain - a shared pain, a shared terror.

ODIN - Huginn thought to him, somewhere in-between the torturous spasms as the organic net constricted and closed around him. ODIN - Remember, Loki is - AGHH - Must - ARRRRHH - Protect - HHHARRRHH - Red Memory, Red Memory - Mustn’t keep following, or Odin will remember - AAAAAAGGHH!!

Huginn’s thoughts fell silent. The bird had been knocked unconscious.

ᛟ

The giantess hissed out a breath. “It seems we have no choice.”

The elf commander spat on the floor, but seemed to agree. “As a show of good faith, I will send ten of my forces with you. But we cannot risk the asset we already have. We will retreat to Svartalfheim with him in hand.”

The giants muttered, clearly angry that they’d gotten the raw end of the deal, but they seemed satisfied when the elf commander selected his toughest-looking soldiers to join them.

“The shield will open any second now,” hissed the Dark Elf witch.

“That shield will never fall, so long as my mother lives,” snorted Cul. “And you will never -“

A drop of rain struck Cul’s face.

Od looked up.

The water bubble, his mother’s shield, a symbol of her love and enormous power - had a hole. At the very top.

Water splashed down, in trickles at first, and then in showers.

Everyone was soaked.

Od’s hair was plastered to his face. His eye sockets filled with rain.

But he could not feel even a hint of his mother’s magic in it.

Od didn’t understand. The only way his mother would release that spell would be if she willed it. Unless…

Elemental magic was not like witch’s magic. It died with the caster.

The Dark Elf witch turned to her commander. “If we have to buy time to chase down the second prince, we can’t afford any running mouths.”

The commander furrowed his brows. Closed his eyes. Nodded.

The giantess looked to her giant and did the same.

It happened quickly.

The guns flashed. Transparent swords and knives plunged down.

There was a terrible cry, but it faded fast, even from the echoey walls of the Vault.

Old men. Women. Children. The invalid.

All dead. Butchered.

Their blood filled the water that now pooled a foot deep in the room. It lapped against Od’s icy prison, inches away from his face.

The giants and elves sloshed their way to the giant stone doors and heaved them open. The soup of birds, blood and bodies spilled out of the room, flooding into the hallway. The orange ocean and all its macabre debris drifted past Od.

Every face was staring at him.

Cul was hustled past him.

Later, Od would spend a lot of time trying to remember the exact look in his brother’s eyes. Even longer trying to figure out what it meant.

When Cul was out of sight, Radey leaned over and brushed her hand over the ice pining the boy to the floor. It crumbled away, leaving white chunks of snow floating in the rusty flood. When he still didn’t move, she seized his arm and pulled him to his feet.

“No funny business, servant boy, or I’ll freeze your arm off,” she hissed.

The giantess leader glared down at him. “Where is the real prince hidden?”

“The…The Gardens,” mumbled Darri, his tongue heavy and oddly shaped in his mouth. He pulled Radey down the left hallway. The giants and small team of loaned elves followed.

Vaguely, Od noted that his boots left behind orange footprints.

ᛟ

There were no living soldiers left in this section of the bridge anymore. It was all bodies, the blood so thick Odin could no longer see the rainbow light of the bridge as he was carried by the crimson Queeg.

A large ship docked next to the bridge. With a mechanical whirring, a gangway folded out, and with it came a fresh rush of Queega. They welcomed their leader back with a cacophony of crackling, raising their silver guns in the air.

His lizard captor hoisted Odin into the air again, pumping him up and down like a war trophy as the horde crackled louder, their electric halos brightening until they were nearly blinding.

What did Odin have to defeat them? Not his magic, locked away by his manacles. Not his might, trapped as he was in this feeble, elderly form. Not his mind, ravaged and flashing between past and present.

All he had was their mercy.

Chapter Text

ODIN

ᛟ

“This is The Gardens?” asked a tall, thin giant. “What happened to the plants?”

Od - still disguised as Darri - looked blankly over the blighted earth that had once housed the most magnificent garden in all of Ásheim.

“The king’s daughter died. That’s what happened,” he said, voice carefully drained of emotion.

“Why would he hide his son here?” Radey asked suspiciously, her grip tightening on Darri’s arm.

Darri pointed to the one obviously living thing in sight - a giant, golden tree standing in the centre of the garden. “That is the Mighty Asgard Oak. It is the representation of Bor family’s connection to Yggdrasil. All of Asgard draws her power from that tree. There is no safer place on the planet than within its branches."

One of the elves cocked his head. “I have heard such rumours. It is said Bor cannot be killed as long as that tree lives.”

“It would explain how that coughing wreck has dragged on so long,” growled the giantess chieftain. She prodded roughly at Darri to continue guiding them, knocking the wind out of him.

The going was not a straight line. The ground had been ruptured in many places, with jagged bits of rock sticking dozens of feet into the air like miniature mountains. In the disturbed earth, only pricklies or weeds grew, and even those were struggling. They did come upon a cluster of Bor’s medicinal bright-bulb plants, their fruits giving off an eerie greenish light that marked their path through the devastation. Growing side-by-side with the bulbs were patches of little blue flowers, seemingly the only splash of colour in the grey dirt.

The elves and giants trampled through, and in their wake left even those few blooms crushed and forlorn, little more than a slightly darker stain on the dark earth. To Od’s satisfaction, however, they released a noxious smell that at least made his captors wrinkle their noses. One elf even sneezed so hard he covered his hand in snot.

The giants laughed. “What’s the matter, pointy ears?” they ribbed their companion. “Can’t handle a little pollen?”

One of the elves tried to fire back at the giants, but interrupted herself with a hacking, heaving cough.

The giants laughed harder.

Another elf doubled over, heaving. The giantess chieftain jokingly patted him on the back.

He vomited up blood, splattering the ground.

Another elf keeled over, clawing at her throat.

Two more rubbed at their eyes, trying to stop the flow of black suddenly seeping from the ducts.

Little red spots were appearing around the elves' lips, their fingertips.

The giants stopped laughing.

“What…is this…” the giantess chieftain murmured, red eyes widening.

The largest elf, built with rippling muscles each as large as Od’s head, collapsed at Darri’s feet. With the last of his strength, he pulled the boy right out of the frost giant witch’s grip, managing to gasp “Help…” before his breath rattled to a sudden silence.

ᛟ

In the midst of their celebration, two Queega unexpectedly grabbed at their nearly non-existent throats and keeled over. The red Queeg holding Odin aloft threw his prize back on his shoulder and barked out a warning.

Another two Queeg hit the bridge, clawing at their chests. Long cuts had appeared there, seeping out a purplish blood.

The lizards panicked, firing wildly. They accidentally killed two of their own, tripping and falling over themselves as they attempted to escape the invisible force attacking them.

The red lizard retreated up the gangplank, barking orders at his troops to seal the way behind him with their bodies. He would make good his escape and keep their war prize.

The lizards surged to do his bidding - then yelped and flung themselves backwards as a massive green fire exploded outwards. In the seconds before they could figure out that it had been only light, no heat, someone ran up the cleared gangplank and buried a long knife in the side of the red lizard. He screeched, wildly firing bolts of electricity from his halo, scorching the very air - and was stabbed again in his other side. The red lizard’s grasp on Odin loosened.

Cold hands seized Odin’s arm and ripped him away from the alien. Once in their grasp, the invisibility illusion covered Odin as well, blinking him out of existence.

ᛟ

The silence lasted only for a moment before the panic set in. The giants scattered, running in all directions, stirring up more faint, greenish miasma from the Turglian Rotbreaths. Od slipped a finger around the long knife the dead elf had by his side, casting a simple invisibility charm over it as he straightened up and held it loosely.

“You’ve led us into a trap,” snarled the giantess chieftain, reaching out to grab the boy.

“I didn’t know!” Darri squawked, narrowly dodging her freezing fingers by diving into the blossoms and kicking up more miasma. He felt ever so slightly light-headed, but no more. The giants reeled backwards, warding off the smoke.

Darri ran.

“Get him!” yelled the chieftain.

The tall, thin giant grabbed her wrist. “Perhaps it’s better to retreat. He is only a servant. We are lucky that this poison only affected the elves.”

The giants began to calm. A few even mocked the corpses of the elves, for being so weak.

Darri was out of sight, hidden behind a boulder. He could wait. Render himself invisible and let them all run back to their frozen holes.

His feet squelched in his blood-soaked boots as he shrunk in on himself.

The faces. The faces drifting by in the contaminated water. Wide, empty eyes.

His mother’s water falling like rain.

The elves, dying to flowers.

Something was in Od’s chest. A point, piercing his heart. Simultaneously hot and cold, spreading tendrils through his body and mind. His terror did not abate, and he continued to quake and shudder, but the numbness made it feel more distant, as if it belonged to someone sitting next to him.

He could sit here, and they would leave. The monsters would slink back to their lair and wait to try again. Or...

He stood up and walked into the open.

“Leaving so soon?” he crowed, putting his hands on his hips, partly to steady them.

The giants turned to look at him, their red eyes glowing faintly in the overcast gloom.

“Surely you won’t give up when you’re in reach of your prize,” Darri cooed. “Tell you what - let’s play a little game.” He pointed to the Golden Asgard Oak. “If I make it to that tree, then I’m safe. But if you catch me -” with a flash of gold light, Od dropped Darri’s guise, becoming himself once more “- then I’m yours to do with as you wish.”

The giants stared at him. “We…we had him? We had him all along?”

Od grinned cheekily. “Yes, you did. It is true that witchcraft is disdained by proper men in Asgard - but then again, I’m not a man, nor very proper. Although it did take a shockingly stupid bunch of rubes to not realize the possibility, so I must thank you for your part in the charade.”

The chieftain roared in anger, forming a spear of ice from the air. She jabbed it in Od’s direction. “GET HIM!”

Od wiggled his fingers in a little wave - then ran.

ᛟ

“I’m sorry, Father, but I can’t let you get away again,” grunted Odin’s invisible captor. The cold hands fiddled blindly with Odin’s golden cuffs, engaging their locking mechanism. They snapped together automatically, pinning Odin’s arms together.

“No more punching me,” Loki said grimly. “Now, we just stay hidden until Thor can clear these monsters out of Asgard.”

Odin looked around. Though they were still invisible, Loki had barricaded them on the other side of a dead mare, her rider pierced with the same spear that had ended her life. The lizards were swarming the bridge segment, searching for them.

Without warning, the horse corpse rocked. Dark green claws sank into its meat, inches away from Odin’s face. A Queeg was standing atop it, circling its head. Its halo flashed, seemingly reacting to something.

Slowly, the lizard looked down.

Loki’s grip on Odin tightened.

The creature’s halo distorted, forming a point aimed right at them.

ᛟ

Od’s heart was like a rabbit’s, beating so fast it was almost a hum. He ran like a rabbit too, zigzagging over the broken terrain as the heavy footfalls of his hunters pursued. He zagged left just in time to escape a giant’s icy projectile, then right, narrowly avoiding a huge spike of ice that grew from the ground.

Ahead, the golden oak gleamed - still so far away, beyond a massive ring of yellow roses.

He heard a whistle in the air behind him. He zigged.

He should have zagged.

The pain was like none he’d ever experienced before. His side burned, as if aflame in a single, concentrated line.

He clasped a hand to it and lurched on, forcing himself to put the pain away, as if it could be shoved in a drawer and forgotten momentarily.

“We’ve got you now, little princeling,” sniggered the chieftain.

Od dragged himself onwards, gritting his teeth. His pace was so slow now - but he was close, so close, to the roses.

“Stop moving, or I’ll aim for something vital this time,” quavered the little Frost Giant witch, pointing her finger at him.

Od froze, only inches away from the roses.

The tall, thin giant approached him, unhooking restraints from his leather belt. “Looks like you lose the game, Odin Borson. Put these on.”

Od took his hand away from his side. It was slick with his blood, but not as much as he feared. Whether she’d been honest about her aim or not, Radey’s wound was superficial. He held out his hands to be chained. The giant reached out to take them.

Od kicked his legs against the ground, hard, throwing himself backwards into the rose patch. They crumpled all around him, leaving him in a hole with long green sides and a yellow rim.

The giant clucked exasperatedly. “Really. How childish.”

He stepped into the roses. At his cold touch, they immediately began to wilt and die, shedding petals like it was fall.

The giant only needed the one step to reach Od, who was only a foot inside the perimeter. With one hand, he reached down to seize Od’s arm, meaning to drag him out.

Od released the invisibility spell disguising the blade he’d stolen and slashed wildly, nicking the giant’s leg. The giant reared back with a ’tch' of pain, acting as if Od had merely given him a paper-cut.

It was still enough for Od to spring to his feet and start running again.

“If you thought these flowers would hurt us like the little blue ones did the elves, rest assured we can kill them all easily,” the giantess chief goaded.

The giants blasted their icy powers into the roses, turning them black and stripping them down to nothing. They stepped onto the blasted ground, slowly and surely following the trembling path Od was forging through them.

It only took them ten of their very large steps to catch up with him. The giantess grabbed him by his hood and shook him until he was forced to drop his weapon.

“So this is all Bor’s second offspring could manage. A few parlour tricks and some nasty flowers.”

“These are not ’nasty flowers’," Od groaned. “They’re solenstegs. Not that I expect creatures of blight like you to be able to tell apart plants of any kind. You have the exact opposite of green thumbs.”

The giantess beckoned to the tall, thin giant to give her the cuffs. “Oh? And what’s so special about solenstegs?”

Od recited as if from a book. “They use them in healing, for those who are too young to handle traditional anaesthetic. They’re perennials, so they’re also called ’Sun-never-sets’. They’re often planted on the graves of children, to give them eternal light.”

“How many children did Bor bury here to justify this field?” chortled a heavily-muscled giant, gesturing at the swath of golden blooms surrounding the Oak.

Od looked him dead in the eye. “Just one.”

The little witch’s eyes widened. Od moved his gaze over to her.

“Just my sister.”

Radey tugged on the giantess’s belt. “Una - we need to -“

The tall, thin giant yelped, springing backwards. He didn’t make it far.

Something long and black was wrapped around his injured leg. After quelling his initial panic, he seized it and froze it solid, crumbling it into sparkling dust. Two more long, black things erupted from the soil to take its place, wrapping around his torso. As the giants watched in horror, the vines appeared to sip from the small cut on the leg.

They apparently liked what they tasted. The ground rumbled, and before the giants could react, an enormous black creeper, as thick as a tree trunk, erupted from beneath them and seized the tall, thin giant. Before he could scream, it retreated, dragging him back down into the ground.

“Now this - this is a nasty flower,” Od giggled. “This is sultendeskarptromme! The Starving Snare. A rather large one was buried here to guard my sister’s grave from trespassers. It is carnivorous, but can be trained to ignore certain prey. Like any who carry the blood of Bor or Bestla. And sadly, I don’t remember seeing you at any family reunions.”

The giantess gaped at him. “You - I’ll kill you -“

The ground began to rumble again. Od’s face contorted into a mask-like grin. “If you’re quick about it."

A vine burst out of the ground at the giantess’ feet. Before she could even think of freezing Od to death, it had wrapped around her throat and twisted her head all the way around with a sickening crunch.

The vine immediately began to pull the body back towards the snare’s lair, where it would allow it to rot for months as part of its intricate digestion. Unfortunately for Od, the corpse was still holding him up by his hood, now in a death grip. He pulled his arms and legs out of his outermost layer of clothing and dropped to the ground wearing nothing more than a torn undershirt, just in time to miss being snatched by the muscled giant. Before he could try again, the blue arm was immediately set upon by another vine, which wrapped around the appendage multiple times and began to squeeze. Od grabbed the long knife he’d dropped before, then slipped between the giant’s legs and ran.

More and more tree trunk-sized vines were breaking through the ground as the giants scattered. What was once a clear view of the golden oak was now an undulating forest, growing and splintering like ink dropped into water. Even the sky was covered by its long, reaching fingers. The snare had never seen such a feast, and it would not so easily let any morsel escape.

“No! Please!” screamed the scarred giant as a vine whipped him through the air.

Od could do nothing before it beat him against the ground, smashing his bones into jelly, and then strained the remains back into its lair through a hole the size of a child’s ball.

“Get it off, GET IT OFF!” squealed another, freezing and hacking at a particularly dogged creeper, which responded by growing more and more tendrils to sew itself directly into the giant’s skin.

“Make it stop -“ begged a giant as the creepers twisted his arm beyond its natural limits. The other reached towards Od. “Please, STOP IT-AAAAA!”

Od backed away, shaking his head. “I can’t…” he whispered.

A wall of cold flesh bumped against his back. He turned to see a giant with vines growing into and out of every orifice in its body, plus a few newly made.

A noise from above. He looked up. Two competing tarry vines fought over a whimpering giant, each wrapping and tugging on separate halves of his body. They twisted and heaved and the body was torn in two, spilling gallons of viscera and fluid into the air - and onto Od.

It was everywhere, soaking into his hair, his remaining clothes, coating his arms in rivulets of blue. He choked, spitting and spraying out the foul-tasting gore that had filled his mouth, but he couldn’t get it all out, it was filling his pores, seeping into his tear ducts, staining his skin - drowning him on dry land.

ᛟ

The lizard turned its head to signal to its brethren, but before it could so much as screech, a long tear was drawn from the base of its abdomen to its tiny head. Purple ichor sprayed everywhere, briefly revealing the outline of the invisible Odin and Loki before the spell could affect the foreign substance. Even as the other Queega turned to look at their fallen brother, Loki grabbed Odin and dragged him further down the bridge.

It was no use. The halos of the Queega started to bend and point, just as the now-dead one’s had. It was if they were tuning in to Odin’s unique energy signature, present even if he were invisible to the eye.

The red Queeg stepped forward, trained his gun on their moving, invisible target - and fired.

Odin felt a queer, wet splat as the net seed struck his shoulder. At once it began to send out tendrils, shocking and growing and shocking and growing as it tried to find the ends of him, just as it had to Sleipnir and Huginn.

The red lizard leapt forward, intending to seize his prey - and was met midair by a speeding comet. No - a hammer.

Thunder met electric halo - and the thunder won, throwing the lizard back into his fellows.

The blonde man - Thor? - landed on the bridge, his red cape billowing in the wind. He was a magnificent sight.

The red lizard shouted to the ship that had been waiting to take Odin away. It began firing its devastating laser cannons at the section of bridge Thor was standing on. Lucky for Thor, he launched himself back into the air and avoided it. Unluckily for the invisible Odin and Loki, it was also the bit of bridge they were standing on, and they could not fly.

It began to crumble. Loki tried to run, but he was weighed down with Odin. The pieces were falling out from under their feet, larger and larger, the new broken edge forming ahead of them. Just as the ground beneath them collapsed, Loki leapt - reached - caught the ragged edge of the other side of the collapse. All around them, the rest of the bridge collapsed into the water.

The glass of the broken bridge edge cut into Loki’s palm, causing him to hiss in pain. Worse, he started to bleed, greasing his grip. He slipped, only barely managing to grab another jutting crystal a few inches below. In his other hand, he held one of Odin’s cuffed wrists.

Odin could pay their precarious position no mind. The net the Queeg had shot him with was spreading its curious threads around his arm, his neck. It sent out shock after shock, spasming his body even if it could not draw a scream from his silenced lips. The invisibility spell upon them both flickered - and failed.

Odin could see Loki, and Loki could see him.

Loki’s eyes - blue eyes, familiar eyes - widened. “They got you,” he cursed.

The net threw out more tendrils, grasping the edges of Odin’s face. The old man convulsed, hand loosening in Loki’s.

Loki’s grasp tightened. “Oh no you don’t,” he grunted.

The net had already grown over Odin’s and Loki’s hands, disguising both from view. Loki glanced from its point of contact on his own skin to Odin’s increasingly covered head.

“Just hold on,” he said. “Thor will kill them all sooOOOoooNnnnNnnn -” Loki gritted his teeth as the net started its electrocution on him as well.

The living mesh crawled another few inches up Loki’s arm, as well as over Odin’s neck. Odin wanted to claw and tear at it, but the cuffs hummed and crackled, blocking whatever magic he could muster.

He needed more power -

The net flung more threads over Odin’s face, covering his vision like a hand -

ᛟ

Before he could recover from the horror of being soaked in viscera, he was under attack again - this time from the snare. A creeper wrapped around his neck, puncturing him with its thorns. At the touch of his blood, the carnivore plant hesitated - loosened - and Od slashed at it with his stolen knife, severing it.

Another approached him, attempting to encircle his wrist - withdrew for a moment - then reached out again. Od struck it down and whirled about, holding his weapon before him.

The Starving Snare was after him now. No - not him. After the blood of the Frost Giants. He looked at his arms, his hands - they were slimy with it, as dark as if he’d leapt into a bath of cerulean ink.

Another branch tripped curiously at his legs.

Od took his knife and cut his undershirt off with a simple swipe, throwing it to the ground. The plant seized it and slithered back into the ground.

Od’s chest was still stained. The shirt had been soaked through.

Thinking fast, he targeted himself with his knife, slashing his belly fat, the tops of his feet, the back of his neck. Red blood flowed out, mixing with the blue - it stung, Norns, did it sting - but the snare’s hesitation increased.

Something caught the light in a gap of the undulating, black branches.

The Golden Oak.

Od wobbled forward, reaching out a hand as if he could touch it.

Just…make it…to the tree…

The air rippled, the illusion dissolving - and there stood not the tree but Radey, the Frost Giant witch. Before he could flee, she seized Od’s outstretched hand, and with her other, icicle-wielding one, slashed his arm.

He was still screaming as she wiped his blood over her face and arms. While Frost Giant blood had painted Od’s pale canvas as indigo as any giant, his blood on her blue skin looked nearly black.

“I’ve got you,” she grinned, her teeth shining in the gloom.

ᛟ

"I’ve got you, Father. Just keep holding on,” Loki said, but his voice was far from calm.

The net had covered all of Odin’s head and upper torso, pressing in tight to his skin. His hands were still cuffed, and he was still useless.

No. It would not have him. He was Odin. No-one took him - he took from others. That was the way of things.

That was what he’d do NOW.

Odin focused on the cuffs. They were hungry for magic? He’d give them some. He poured everything he had into them, fast and ferocious. They were designed for lesser witches, lesser men - they could not handle everything he had to offer.

The cuffs warmed, then sparked, then blew apart.

With one hand still in Loki’s, Odin sent the other to his face to tear at the net.

The use of his power to such a degree had weakened him. Beneath his skin now lurked that terrible hunger, all-consuming, seeking out energy of any kind to cannibalize and draw back into himself. It had torn through the cages they’d tried to put him in in Asgard - and now he set its appetites upon the net.

It tried to fight him off with an electrical charge, by squirming under fingers, by attempting to flee from him entirely. He could feel its fear, its sudden awareness of facing an enemy it had never evolved to defeat. How odd to think of this thing as a living being - how odd to think he was consuming its paltry life to conserve the life of a mighty god.

It was dying in his grasp even now, blackening and shrinking.

Ever so slightly, Odin felt a bit - sharper.

He clenched his hand. The net squealed, smoked, burned, became little more than charred noodles. He tossed them away and grabbed more handfuls of the thing, sucking away its power over and over again until he’d uncovered all of himself and the net had retreated up Loki’s arm, out of Odin’s reach, leaving only Loki’s hand clear of its webbing. Loki squirmed, panicking, as it climbed up his chest and reached for his head.

Though he had vanquished the net from himself, the hunger beneath Odin’s skin had not abated. It continued to strain, seeking energy, seeking power to cure his powerlessness -

A chill radiated down Odin’s arm.

Loki’s hand had again turned blue, etching-like markings raising on the skin.

Odin’s eye followed the spread of the colour as it disappeared beneath the sleeve, then quickly re-emerged upon the man’s neck. Loki himself did not seem to notice, still distracted with the living net spreading over his upper torso and grasping at his face.

But Odin saw it. Saw the stain spread over the face, saw the lines raise in curious patterns, saw a thin layer of rime freeze on the edges of his clothing.

Saw those blue, blue eyes metamorphose into the colour of a smouldering ember.

He did not know them.

ᛟ

He tried to pull her off hand off his arm, but Radey was too big, too strong. All he had were his illusions, and she was better at those, too.

“Sverre! Håkon! Arvid!” she called, holding up Od to ward off the creepers.

The snare wasn’t entirely having it. It fainted and dodged, still eager to see if it was allowed to have some of their blue-blood-streaked flesh. Radey was forced to beat them back as she continued to shout.

“I caught him!” she sobbed. “We can go home now! Where are you?!”

“They’re all dead.” Od blinked in dull surprise. He hadn’t chosen to say a thing. It was as if someone next to him had spoken.

Radey turned her glowing eyes upon him. They were crying.

Asgardians bled red, Frost Giants bled blue, but their tears were both just water.

“They’re dead because of you,” she said, voice quavering.

“What did you do to my mother?” Od said from beside himself again.

The snare ran out of patience. It seized them both, hauling them into the air. Radey refused to let him go, hanging on for dear life even as the plant turned them over in its clutches, like a roast on a spit. Her cold fingers burned their mark into Od’s wrists.

He’d seen a few of the giants kill with a touch like that, back in the Vault. One had reached out and seized a man by the throat, burning him with cold until his skin was blackened and charred. Was that how she would kill him?

Or she could take her icicle blade, still formed around her other hand, and gut him like a stuck pig. She could rain his blood down all over herself and wear him like a coat of paint. Maybe then she could escape this place.

The snare weaved its branches around them into a cage, seemingly deciding to wait and see if it was alright to devour them.

Radey’s hands were trembling so hard that Od trembled with her.

He stared into her angry, tearful, oddly beseeching crimson eyes - and waited for her to end it.

Chapter Text

LOKI

The living net had covered most of his body in painful, constricting fibres. Every so often it sent a shock through them, as if trying to weaken him for its next expansion.

He wished he’d studied these living nets more when he’d had the chance. What sort of effect could they have on him? How had Odin rid himself of it, but Loki could think of nothing to try?

The net shocked him again and he groaned. In the aftermath of the jolt, a strange heat began to spread over his body, emanating from the hand holding Odin. An itchy sensation came soon after, so intense Loki nearly dropped both Odin and the edge of the bridge in the insane urge to scratch at it.

Instead, he gritted his teeth and dug his nails into the broken crystal. He despised waiting for rescue, but encumbered by Odin as he was, he dared not risk anything.

As the net prepared for another charge, Loki focused his hatred on the aliens, the interlopers, the infection currently running rampant through his home. Soon, they’d be the ones burned out, and Asgard would cleanse all signs of their attack as if it had never been. They’d all be dead, and Odin and Loki would be safe in the palace eating something sweet and expensive.

The heat was becoming unbearable. Odin’s hand felt like a hot coal in his own. His body was screaming at him to release it, to let the coal fall into the cool water below.

“I’ve got you, Father,” he told Odin again, reassuring himself that he would not, could not, drop him. “I won’t let go, I promise you, not for -“

“FOR ASGARD!!”

He knew that voice. That was the General. Which meant -

Loki’s vision was criss-crossed with strands of organic, torturous fibre, but he could still see the flash of a fleet of golden boats on the horizon. More war cries joined the initial shout, and the sweet song of Asgardian weaponry tore through the air to make the even sweeter smell of carbonized alien meat.

Loki laughed in relief, right through another painful shock from the net as it began to congeal.

Tyr was never going to let him live this down. Loki could see it now - ‘Are you sure you want to reduce funds to the military, Your Highness? After all, the military sure did come in useful when you were lying tangled up like a salmon in a net - don’t you think you should support prince-saving measures?

As nimble as minnows, the Asgardian Navy wove through the enormous enemy ships and unloaded massive charges up and down their flanks, forcing them away from the bridge. The constant barrage of artillery knocked out the Queega’s cloaking, revealing the true appearance of the vehicles.

They were outstandingly ugly, which suited their occupants, Loki supposed. But more than ugly, they were patchwork, with parts Loki recognized from several different cultures and manufacturers. They were ill-formed, the sort of wrecks sold by the lowest of salesmen in the seediest bilges of the universe, and only bought by those who clung to hope more than their meagre resources. A mistake, they would usually find.

And yet - they had come close. They had struck at the heart of the Royal Family. They had nearly gotten away with perverting the sanctity of Asgard’s holy ground.

Loki could almost admire their audacity. He even felt a shred of pity, watching what had to be their last-ditch efforts fall from the sky to crash in the water below. But only a shred.

They deserved worse for their transgressions. Threatening Asgard, Odin himself when he was at his most vulnerable…he hoped that at least some of the beasts survived being scorched out of the sky long enough to enjoy a protracted drowning.

It was over in just minutes. Loki’s ears were still ringing, even as the din of battle faded into cheers of victory. He tried to call out to them, but none seemed to hear. One voice did rise about the clamour, though -

“Where is my father? Did anyone see him back in Asgard? Loki came to fetch him. Did anyone see Loki?”

“Thor!” Loki shouted, barely hearing himself over the pounding blood in his brain. “Over here, Thor!”

Thor did not come, though Loki could still hear him.

“And where is Heimdall?? How did he not see this coming? I want to speak to him at once -“

An Einherji piped up. “We’ve just returned from the remains of the Observatory, Your Grace - it seems Heimdall was attacked, possibly even before the main bombardment. He is being transported to the Healing Rooms now but…it doesn’t look good, All-Father.”

Thor screamed in helpless fury, lashing out at a chunk of wreckage. It sailed clean off the edge, whistling past Loki and Odin before landing with a colossal splash in the ocean below.

“OI!” Loki screamed out. “YOU ALMOST HIT ME!”

A pause. Pounding footsteps. The net had become so thick that Loki could barely see out of it now, but he could make out Thor’s blond halo of hair silhouetted above him. It framed a face that broke immediately into a relieved smile.

“Well, well, well, looks like it was your turn to get caught, eh, Loki?”

“Enough with laughs, Brother - this is really - utterly agonizing -“

Another head poked over the edge with Thor’s, this one with a long black beard.

“Better let me take care of this one, Your Majesty, those nets aren’t friendly to fleshy hands.”

A moment later, General Tyr’s mechanical arm seized Loki’s entirely gloved one, heaving both him and his father up in a single easy motion and depositing them on the bridge proper. Loki groaned in relief, only to be interrupted by another shock.

Tyr examined the congealing organic flesh surrounding Loki with a wry eye. “It’s pretty far along, Your Highness - I can barely see you in there.”

Loki relinquished Odin’s hand with a wet schlurping noise. That hand was also entirely gloved by the creature, apparently. “Just get me out of here. And see to Father. We’ve had…quite a time.”

“It’s strange how the net didn’t touch Father at all. It normally isn’t so picky,” Thor remarked as he helped Odin to his feet and scanned him for injury.

“He got it off himself, I don’t know how,” Loki grumbled. “Fafnir’s breath, this thing is boiling me alive.”

“Not to worry, young prince,” chuckled Tyr affectionately. “These little nasties are far from the worst thing they could have thrown at you today. Some men got a face-full of those electric bolts they shoot out of their heads. Burned so bad they're unrecognizable, although that could be because I’ve never seen them without beards before.”

Loki sighed as Tyr chortled at his own quasi-joke. “Get on with it, General.”

Tyr’s metal arm poked and prodded along the outside of the bag. “Almost there, almost there. It’s a modified sea creature from their ocean, but it still has pressure points. Just got to tickle it in the right places and get it to relax. Ah, there we go -“ The General winced as he peeled back a small section of the animal. “- Oh dear. Looks like your prettiness might be a causality after all. There’s quite the bruise under this bit. I can’t even see where it ends.”

“How bad is it?” Loki asked, trying not to sound too vain.

“Hold on, I’ve just got to loosen some of the sections around it. Then we'll see what can be salvaged for the pining maids of the court, eh?”

The net slackened, its previously shrinking gaps slowly widening again as it relinquished its hold on Loki’s form. Tyr huffed in satisfaction and with a single fluid motion peeled off the entire thing in one piece. As the bag was torn from Loki’s skin it left behind trails of goo, not unlike eggshells dripping their whites as they were pulled off a baby chick. Loki spat to clear his mouth of the stuff while blinking rapidly, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the light.

Even as things came into focus, they didn’t look quite right. Colours seemed brighter and louder, almost painfully so, but what should have been blinding was not. The light reflecting off the palace, the sun overhead - both seemed curiously dimmed, their details clearer than Loki could ever remember them being.

Strangest of all were the faces of those staring right at him. They appeared to have frozen. Tyr’s countenance furrowed in consternation, the Einherjar’s mouths were slightly agape, and even a blood-soaked Sister Embla’s perpetual glower was lightened by a single raised eyebrow. Thor’s eyes flicked up and down Loki’s exposed face, and for the first time in their shared lives, Loki could not read his expression.

Fear bloomed in his chest. “What? Did it do something to me? Am I scarred? I don’t feel - ”

Tyr moved so fast Loki wasn’t even aware of his face hitting the bridge until he’d been staring at the rainbow lights within it for a good few seconds. Tyr’s boot was on his back, and an inch from his head was a sharp, golden blade that had formed out of the man’s prosthetic.

“You can drop the act, imposter.” Tyr said coldly. “The truth is now, as they say, as plain as the nose on your face. And that certainly isn’t Loki Odinson’s nose.”

“What are you talking about - did it do something to my nose?”

Loki wanted to reach out and touch it, to feel for himself whatever it was that had shocked them all so. But he dared not so much as twitch. All he had to see himself by was their reaction. Though if it was as bad as all that…perhaps it was a mercy. “For Norn’s sake, if I am disfigured, take me to the Healers, so they can do what they can!” he beseeched.

Tyr guffawed. “There is no healer in the universe that can help you, little devil. In my experience, the only cure is a knife between the ribs. Men! Seize him and take him to the old cells.”

“The old cells - what are you talking about - Thor! Command this madman to unhand me!”

Thor raised his Odin-free hand, halting the Einherjar who’d moved to obey Tyr. He looked down at Loki, his face still utterly expressionless. “Could this be some sort of curse?”

“The Queega are a non-magical race,” Tyr said gruffly. “They can’t cast curses, or any other sort of spells. And speaking of them and their attack…how did they know at what exact instant the Royal Family was at its most vulnerable? I didn’t even tell most of the Einherjar assigned to you until I woke them in their beds this morning.”

Loki guffawed. “You think I’m a spy? For the reptiles?”

“I’m sure your kind has to take allies wherever you can find them these days,” Tyr grunted.

“What is my kind? I am your kind, plus some much more rigorous personal hygiene habits! Get your damn boot off my back and bring me a blasted mirror already!”

“A skiff was reported stolen this morning, sir,” muttered an Einherji to Tyr. “Hours before the attack.”

Thor blinked down at Loki, uneasy. “You arrived in a skiff to help me, did you not? Long before the fleet arrived.”

Tyr moved his sword point right up against Loki’s neck. “You were lying in wait, weren’t you? Waiting for the opportunity to kidnap Odin.”

“Certainly not!” Loki protested. “I rescued him from being taken by those electric skinks!”

“And clearly they didn’t expect you to double-cross them like that, did they?” Tyr hummed. “But you could never allow Odin Battle-Wolf, Odin the Victorious, Odin Giant-Slayer to fall into the hands of anyone but your people’s, could you?”

“Yes, I was trying to keep Odin in Asgardian hands. Now, let me up!”

“You don’t have Asgardian hands,” Tyr noted drily.

Loki had had enough. If Tyr wanted to risk Thor’s wrath by beheading his brother right in front of him, let him try. He pried his arm out from under his chest and held it out in front of him.

It was not the arm he remembered.

Panicked, he sat up, nicking his neck on Tyr’s blade-arm without feeling it. He held out his other arm. It was just as blue and clawed as the first.

“This isn’t me,” he blurted. “These aren’t my hands!”

Tyr gestured to Loki’s body with his sword. “Funny, because they’re attached to the rest of you, and it’s a matching set.”

Loki’s hands flew to his face, feeling it with mounting horror. The shape felt the same, but what were these lines and indentations? It was as if someone had drawn on his face with glue.

“Something has done this to me. Thor, you must help me find the cure - it must be a curse, or-or-or an illusion or something, I-I -” Loki’s voice failed him. He was suddenly aware of just how different his brother looked to him now. The shine on his armour was dimmed, the crevices of his face pronounced.

Thor was looking at him like - like how he’d looked at the Queega.

“Enough of your lies, you aren’t half as good at them as the real Loki,” Thor growled. “My real brother wouldn’t squirm and beg like a coward. For all his faults, Loki is a true Asgardian.”

“I am Asgardian! All my life, I -“

All my life.

It was a moment of terrible, perfect clarity.

It all fell into place.

The War with Jötunheim had ended on his birthday.

No - it had ended on Baldur’s birthday.

“It can’t be. It…no, that’s not…how can I be -“

Thor put Odin down on the bridge and drew Mjölnir from his belt. “If you’re an imposter, where is the real Loki? Tell me where you’ve hidden him, kaldfiend!”

Loki had been called many terrible things in his life - that was politics, after all. But that word...never that word.

“You have to believe me, Thor - I’m me! Father can explain -” Loki reached out for Odin, intending to tear the geas of silence off of him.

Thor pushed Odin behind him and pointed his hammer straight at Loki. “Don’t you come near him,” he threatened lowly.

Loki stared into Odin’s eyes, pleading. “Father, please. Tell them.”

The old man clung to Thor like a child awakened from a nightmare. His round, empty eyes were transfixed on Loki - as if he were that nightmare.

Thor nodded to Tyr, who gestured to his men. Two started forward, drawing out stun-clubs from the sheaths at their side.

“Father - please, you have to remember - ” Loki gibbered, trying to scoot away from the Einherjar. “I’m your son - tell them, Father, tell them I’m your son -”

Tyr hauled Loki up to his feet and pulled his arms behind his back with a painful wrench. A moment later, he felt a pair of anti-magic cuffs click shut around them.

The guards walked towards him, raising their clubs.

“TELL THEM!” Loki cried out.

And then it was all gone but for the cold dark.

ODIN

Od did not know how long he hung there with the Frost Giant, inches away from death. Twice his arm had started to burn, and he’d been sure she was about to kill him. But both times the burning had faded, the blackened skin only going as far as his elbow.

He hadn’t noticed she’d been injured.

A long gash by her stomach continued to seep out over the hours. Eventually, the fire of anguish and hatred in her eyes dimmed. The lids shuttered. She slumped into the snare’s embrace and moved no more.

The giant blood was drying on Od's skin. It itched terribly. He longed to scratch it.

Instead, he stayed completely still.

Occasionally the snare shifted as it grubbed about on the ground for morsels it had missed.

How greedy of it. Like a fat man licking his plate after a ten-course meal.

Eventually Od came to accept the motion, like the swaying of a ship on the ocean. His own eyes slowly closed as he drifted away from the horrors of the world around him.

When he heard his name being called, he scarcely had the energy to open them again.

“Odin! ODIN!”

That was his father’s voice.

How strange. It was never his father who came looking for him.

“ODIN!”

He tried to summon up a reply. His lips parted.

The blood. He could taste the blood on his lips.

“Where are you?!” Bor wailed.

He’d never heard his father sound like that before.

Footsteps crunched somewhere beneath him.

“SON!”

A rumble of earth. Someone rising up from the ground to stand beside him in the air. Large, hairy hands tearing apart the snare’s cage, prying him free of the grip of the Frost Giant girl and lifting him into his father’s arms. A warm, red cape was torn out from its fastenings and wrapped around him, stinging against his wounds.

He was carried out of the dark woods and to the foot of the Golden Oak.

He wondered if, somewhere in Folkvangr, Gefjun knew they were visiting her right now.

“What happened?” his father asked him. “Tell me.”

Od’s face stayed blank. His eyes stared upwards, searching for the sun.

Bor wetted the corner of his cape in his mouth and carefully cleaned the blood off of his son’s face. He worked slowly, tenderly, until the itchiness had left.

Still Od wouldn’t open his mouth.

The tired king leaned back against the tree and pressed his small boy to his chest. Like Od, he, too, was encrusted in blood of all colours. But mostly red.

Od knew whose it was without Bor telling them. He could feel the last of her water magic in it. Father must have held her like this too, when she was dying.

"Take me from this o-ode to slaughter...

Take me from Hel, though I may belong

Lead me to my sons and my daughters

Lead me home to the heart of my song…”

Od slowly reached his arms around Bor’s chest. The vibrations of his father’s singing resonated through his whole frame, making him feel warm and safe. Like seeing the dawn after waking from a nightmare.

Chapter Text

The final pages of ‘Askeladd and the Heartless Troll’, as present in the book Odin asked Huginn to deliver to Loki.

ᚫ

Askeladd had thought that eating the raven would return his heart to him. Indeed, he could again feel almost as he once had - sorrow and grief and anger and joy - but it was as if at arm’s length, like hearing music by pressing an ear to a closed door.

Nonetheless, he turned for home, eager to see his family again. As he and the shaggy horse travelled, he noticed large plumes of smoke in the distance. When he asked passersby what they were, they looked at him strangely and hurried on, though one squeaked out,

“It was a drake with three heads! It eats and eats but is never full. Its hunger has made a terrible wasteland where nothing grows and monsters roam. Soon it will cover the world!”

Askeladd wondered if that was the same drake from the well, which had wanted so badly to eat Askeladd’s own heart.

When at last he arrived home, he was dismayed to discover that the gate was shut.

“Who goes there?” demanded a guard.

“It is I, Prince Askeladd!” he called out. “Father! I have come home!”

The king appeared atop a tower and looked down upon him. Askeladd was horrified to see that he still appeared distraught - even though surely his first six sons had already returned home.

“How dare you,” the king spat. “You are not my son!”

“I am!” insisted Askeladd. “I have returned to you after saving my brothers! But Father, why do you still look so unwell?”

“My sons were all eaten by the dragon on their way home! Aside from Askeladd, whom you cannot be!”

Askeladd felt a terrible shiver run through him at the news. He expected a wave of grief to overwhelm him, but instead felt only a dull ache.

“I am Askeladd! I am your son!”

“My son had hands, not black wings like yours!”

Askeladd looked down at himself and saw that it was true. His arms had become black wings, like that of the raven.

“My son had a smile like the sun, not a sharp beak like yours!”

Askeladd touched his face and realized that it did have a beak, razor sharp and cruel.

“My son had eyes like starlight, while yours are cold and dark!”

Askeladd could not see his own eyes, but he felt this must be true, for his soul felt far away.

All the same, he called out once more to his father. “My body may have changed, but you must recognize my voice!”

The king fell silent.

“Surely you remember my voice!” Askeladd asked again.

“My son left me many years ago,” the king said. “Leave me to my grief, you heartless monster.”

And so Askeladd was banished to the Wasteland with the other twisted and unwanted creatures of the world. He had once wanted to see the world, but now everywhere he wandered looked much the same - burnt and blighted.

He saw such terrible things. Suffering and death, loneliness and despair were all around him. It should have torn him apart with its wretchedness.

But he walked on, feeling only a coldness.

For in his chest beat a raven, and not a heart.

ᚫ

End Part One : UNMADE

Chapter Text

PART TWO:

UNBOUND

ᛏ ᛞ ᚲ ᛟ ᚹ ᛘ ᛗ 

The golden oak of Asgard gleamed, its limbs stretching out like sheltering arms. Od was leaning against it, the warmth of the sun caught in its bark seeping into his back.

He was safe. Here, in the heart of his father’s kingdom, he was untouchable.

Laughter. From above.

He cracked open an eye and looked up.

There was a raven, beak agape, chuckling.

Od looked around, to see what might’ve amused the bird so. But there was only himself and the lush garden. His lip curled and he tried to ask the bird just what was so funny.

Nothing came from his lips but a faint gasp.

The raven laughed harder.

Irritated, Od looked about for something to throw at the stygian jester. A thud came from behind him. A knife had fallen from the sky and landed, blade down, in the dirt. Od pulled it free and threw it at the raven.

The rook dodged it with ease, flying to a new perch and settling on it with another “HA!”

Od blinked. The raven wasn’t alone. It had landed on something caught in the arms of the oak. He did not recognize it at first, but as he stared, bits and pieces of it began to look familiar. Here, a tangle of hair - there, an arm, broken oddly and twisted - there, a torso - but nowhere could he see a head or legs. An incomplete Asgardian, half-naked, half-armoured, now nothing more than a perch for an impertinent bird.

“HA!” shouted another voice.

Another raven, flocking to join the first. The two of them looked down on Od, then fell back, clutching at their feathered chests with their wings and gasping in mutual ridicule.

Od retrieved the knife and threw it again. Both birds flew to another bough, with another body tangled within it. A larger body, covered in lines and as blue as a periwinkle. The branch was growing right out of its neck, where its head should have been.

“HA! HA! HA!” cawed the ravens.

Again, Od retrieved the knife and threw it with all his might.

It sunk into the chest of the second raven. It fell from the tree, spasming at Od’s feet, leaking blood.

Od stared at it.

He hadn’t meant to do that.

Hadn’t he?

He looked up at the remaining raven, suddenly afraid. What would it do?

The raven unfurled its wing and pointed down at Od. And then adjusted a little to the left, pointing right at the dead bird.

“HA!” it cawed. “HA! HA! HA!”

“HA!” responded another raven, and another, and another. A flock descended out of the clear blue sky, obscuring it like dark, thick smoke. They all landed in the tree, and on the various bodies suddenly trapped within its golden twigs. There were ravens perched on Asgardians, on Elves of Dark and Light, on Giants of Ice and Fire and Stone and Storm, on Lizards of Lightning and a single orange-furred creature Od could not recognize.

“HA! HA! HAHAHAHAHAHA!” the ravens proclaimed, pointing down at their dead fellow and laughing, laughing, laughing.

Od wanted to shout at them to be silent - but his throat was tight and no words appeared in his mind.

Still laughing, they turned to the bodies in the tree and began to peck at them, stripping off pieces of cloth and metal and flesh and gulping them down.

Horror-struck, Od again seized the knife, waving it above his head as he tried to dissuade them from their grisly feast - but the ravens only continued laughing and eating, dribbling scraps down on him.

Before he could consider throwing the blade again, a body without its arms suddenly burst to life above him, fighting off the ravens with shouts and yells and wild kicks. A horribly maimed dark elf next to him awoke as well, grabbing a raven off its back and tearing it as easily as if it were an ink-soaked piece of parchment.

The ravens stopped laughing. But they did not stop eating. They attacked in earnest, parrying the weapons and flailing hands of the suddenly awake corpses, pecking at eyes and tearing off ears even as a giant stuffed a handful of them into its mouth and started chewing with a terrible crunching.

STOP, Od wanted to scream. STOP THIS MADNESS! The fight is over!

“Never,” the ravens cawed, suddenly all looking down at him as one. Then, with voices as indisputably ugly as a raven’s should be, but nonetheless lyrical, they sang:

“After the fighting is the feasting,

After the feasting is the hunger,

Hungry for a fight!

Gods, giants, elves and men

All trying to stand atop each other

All so small in raven’s sight.

This is how it goes, Little God

This is how the universe spins.

At the end of all battles,

It is always ravens who win, win, wins!!”

The ravens took flight and began to spin around the tree in dizzying synchronicity, faster and faster, until their edges blurred together. They joined into one being, a feathery beast with multiple heads and mouths, yet still ravenous. It wrapped around the tree and began to feast on the bodies again, except now all were helpless before its scale and might and appetite.

Od felt the patter of rain on his head, though he knew that above the twisting storm of feathers the sun must still be shining. He dared not touch the wetness, lest he learn the colour of it.

He wanted to tell the beast that someday he would kill it.

The ravenous creature laughed with a thousand mouths.

“You? Kill us? But you’re the one who fed us, Little God! We hail you, hero of hungry ravens! We hail the victorious Odin, who wins all battles, as ravens do! Hail! HAIL!”

The raven-beast swarmed down upon Od, making him the eye of their storm.

“HA-HAIL!” The ravens sang from every direction.

“HA-HAIL!”

“HAIL! HA-HAIL!”

Od covered his head and fell to the ground, trying to escape the cacophony, but the whirlwind of feathers and laughter only drew nearer and nearer, their wings and beaks clipping at his hands and back.

“HA! HA! HAIL! HA!”

“HAIL! HAIL! HAIL!”

They landed on his back, a weight like he’d never felt before. The air was driven from his lungs. He could not breathe.

A beak slid into his left ear. Another opened gently in his right. The raven-beast inhaled as one, and then screamed with all their might -

“HAIL TO THE RAVEN KING!”

LOKI

He awoke in darkness.

Was it the ravens? Were they still upon him?

He erupted upwards, beating blindly at nothing. He felt no feathers, no beaks, no weight.

He was alone. Wherever he was.

As the dream slipped from his mind, memories of what had happened before he’d lost consciousness took its place.

He held his hand out in front of him again. The dark was so complete that he could make out nothing of it.

For a moment, he entertained the idea that this had all been a terrible dream. If he tried hard enough he could ignore the taste of musty air. He could pretend that seeing nothing was the same thing as seeing the moonlight filtering through his windows when he woke in the night.

If he couldn’t see himself, then maybe he was still himself.

A dull ache throbbed in his back. When he reached out to touch it, he could feel rough scar tissue. In addition to…general roughness. He recoiled, but the feeling lingered in his fingers. They felt thicker - as if he were wearing heavy gloves that were somehow inside his flesh.

He resisted the urge to touch his face. Instead, he stumbled forward until he touched a wall. It was slippery and - he tapped it with a nail that he tried not to notice felt too long - it sounded like glass. When he moved his hands around, he found it was not flat in all places. It was formed out of numerous and differently-sized panes, grafted together incongruously.

What room was this? He could think of nothing like it in the dungeons. Not that he’d spent much time down there - those were duties he’d never had to perform, and the details were best not shared with royalty.

Should he try to escape? Cautiously, he reached out with his magic. Immediately he felt the press of several dozen containment spells, meant to dampen and redirect anything that was attempted in here. It was like his magic was being refracted and scattered - he could not weave it into a spell before it was torn apart.

An eerie light began to emit from beneath his palm. It spread from triangular panel to triangular panel, until the whole thing glowed with an eerie bluish light along the edges of the panels, revealing them for what they were - mirrors. His reflection was fragmented, but inescapable. No matter where he looked, the shadowy reflection looked with him, its scarlet eyes meeting his over and over. Every angle of his form was on display, from the soles of his feet (densely marked with swirls) to the top of his head (his hair dishevelled and unbraided).

“What is the meaning of this?” Loki demanded, and was treated to a thousand monstrous mouths splitting to reveal flat white teeth inside a black mouth, complete with a slightly pointed tongue. He forced his eyes to unfocus until all was a blur. “I can explain everything. Let me speak to…to…”

And just who are you going to request? Thor? You remember that look he gave you - what can you tell him that will turn that expression into one of brotherly concern again? Certainly you can’t convince General Tyr. Would you speak to the Council? Give them a show?

“…Magni. Let me speak to Prince Magni,” Loki tried. It was unlikely they would allow the heir to the kingdom to interact with a suspected traitor - but Magni alone would consider the possibility that Loki was who he claimed to be. The boy had a soft heart and was born after the war with Jötunheim. He would not carry such contempt, such fear, such anger over the numerous Asgardian deaths.

In response, more blue lights flicked on.

He was trapped in a Clavian circus act - in the maze of mirrors and the freak show, combined into one terrible performance. He was surrounded by a thousand copies of himself, each distorted, fragmented reflection, impossibly, doubling its monstrosity from the last.

As the lights slowly brightened and whitened, more details emerged from the shadows. The precise hue of his skin was somewhere between a winter’s dusk sky and the meat of sea serpents. The contrast made his scarlet eyes glow all the more wickedly. All was carved with lines, both indented and raised. Somehow these were the most dreadful thing about his changed appearance. It was like being covered in scars from battles he could not remember - evidence of a life he had not lived suddenly engraved into his very person. Before he could stop himself, he raised a hand to feel them.

The feel of his rubbery hand against the unfamiliar divots was too much. Without even thinking about it, he doubled over and retched. The smell of half-digested lemon fish filled his limited air and made him even more nauseous.

A thousand red eyes stared at him accusingly.

How could he be Jötunn? It didn’t make any sense. He wasn’t anything like those creatures.

Then congratulations are in order for Odin, aren’t they? That he managed to raise something that could at least pass for Asgardian.

It was the sound of his thoughts, somehow sharper and clearer than they’d ever been before.

Though perhaps faint praise is better called for. I don’t think Asgard was ever that convinced. Deep down, they sensed something about you was off, didn’t they?

All your forced smiles, every calculated graceful movement, every polite nothing you uttered - they sensed this creature beneath. The cruel little voice that could not be silenced, the truth of your aberration. They knew. You called it by different names - but they knew.

Loki swallowed, trying to dislodge the burning taste of bile, and tried again. “Hello? Is anyone out there? Reveal yourself!”

The shout rang against the glass, echoed, yet somehow dampened.

The room began to rumble.

Before Loki could so much as twitch, the glass roiled, fractals bursting forth like roses from the seams of the panes, splitting into new arrangements and swallowing the old. The ground and ceiling becoming as multi-faceted as a silver and sharp ocean.

Gravity seemed to come unstuck as it flipped and turned on itself, sending Loki crashing into walls and ceiling alike as they morphed.

They were mocking him with this. Attempting to use his own appearance to torment him.

He attempted another command, hoping the habit of obedience to a shouted voice might get him somewhere with his unseen gaolers. “I am Prince Loki! I am your royalty, commander of your commanders, and I demand to be released!”

The cell ceased moving, dropping Loki head-first into his reflected face. With a groan, he pushed himself up, vision swimming from the impact. The deep blue visage he was forced to confront was bleeding from its right cheek. Loki’s left cheek dribbled blue-black blood onto the pane, soon obscuring it.

So even his insides had turned rotten.

He stood up again with a snarl that was far more guttural than he could ever recall having been capable of before.

“My brother is the King! Your King! He will not look kindly on this treatment of his brother, no matter what the circumstances! His temper is legendary, as is his aim with a thunderbolt. If you do not bring me to him now, his wrath -”

The sea appeared to be getting rougher. The pieces of glass were smaller, thinner, sharper - the scratches were becoming slashes, the slashes becoming gashes. He was bleeding profusely now, and the slickness of the blue-black liquid made his sliding about on this surface of knives all the more easy.

“I am a son of Odin! If you release me I can remove the veil of silence placed upon him! He will tell you, when he is well - he knows who I am.”

He’s forgotten more about me than I ever knew.

The wave crested, carrying him with it. He was submerged in glass, burning from grazes and gashes alike. He was kept under for a minute, maybe more, then pushed to the surface.

Death from a thousand shallow cuts.

“Who are you to treat me this way?” he half-snarled, half-snivelled, a small trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth from a cut on his tongue.

The room stopped moving. There wasn’t even any inertia. One moment, it was a stormy sea. The next, it was as unmoving as the crystal mountain beneath Asgard.

Then they began to swirl in the centre of the room, withdrawing from Loki to create a perfectly smooth lake of silver. As he watched, the imprint of a palm pressed on the underside of the sheet, pushing upwards. The silver draped about it as it rose, like liquid cloth over a figure slowing clambering into the room.

Loki waited for a face to emerge from the thing. Instead, the front of its head remained smooth and void of personality. It reflected only the jötunn in front of it, making it almost appear as if someone had pasted a portrait of a blue face onto its head. Loki swallowed and took an involuntary step back, despite his desire to appear uncowed.

“Does my gaoler reveal themselves?” he asked cautiously.

The mirror-creature cocked its head to one side. "Who are you?"

Loki frowned. It had not spoken. No…no, it had, but not in words. Not in a voice. Well, a voice of a kind. The voice of his very thoughts.

“What is this?”

"Who are you?"

He gritted his teeth and summarized what he’d been saying repeatedly since waking.

“I am Loki.”

"Who is Loki?"

“He is Brother of King Thor, Son of Odin and Frigga, Prince of the Realm Eternal, Uncle of its Heir Apparent Prince Magni. He is an esteemed member of the Asgardian Council, a Sorcerer feared in all Twelve Realms, an Às of repute! He is also a little upset that you haven’t heard of him.”

The silver figure tilted its head.

“That dream was not Loki’s dream. Where did you get it?”

Loki’s eyes widened. “Dream? What dream?” Perhaps he’d spoken in his sleep -

The mirror’s arm struck like a cobra, grabbing Loki’s forehead between thumb and forefinger. He wrenched away, but as he did so, something came away from his skin - a reddish-gold thread, stretching between him and the silver hand.

It sank into the glassy flesh, lighting it from within with a golden glow.

The mirror shuddered. The panels of glass began to churn once more, but they did not harm Loki further - rather, they flipped, one after the other, reflecting small pieces of a constructed scene.

Before Loki’s eyes, the dream he’d been having minutes ago reconstructed itself around him.

The Golden Oak of Asgard rose up, reflected in a thousand shards of metal, its branches full of laughing ravens. The stone that had struck and killed the second raven lay next to its victim.

The pieces of glass flowed over Loki, encasing him - he hurriedly stumbled backwards, breaking free of its confines. It remained where he had stood, continuing to form until it had the approximate shape of a man. Its features were an ever-shifting mass of old and young, and yet Loki recognized the face at once.

“Odin,” Loki marvelled.

The Mirror nodded its blank head slowly.

The dream played out again, this time with Loki and the Mirror as spectators on the sidelines.

When the bodies on the tree began to move, the Mirror waved its golden hand and froze it.

“Look,” it directed, pointing to one body high in the tree.

Loki squinted. It was an armless Queeg, mid-thrash.

The Mirror dropped its hand to another body. It had the orange fur of a Tamareen, a species Loki had briefly encountered as part of a pirate crew that had attacked their diplomatic mission to Slann many centuries ago -

A cold hand gripped his forehead again, turning its other hand gold as well.

The scene changed.

Loki couldn’t help a small gasp. He was aboard The Tanngrisnir, the ship named for one of Thor’s beloved goats. And there was the planet Slann, just off the starboard bow, and before them the motley collection of pirates. Reflexively, he glanced to his right - and saw the blade at his throat, felt the tickle of orange fur on his ear.

“They say your people have the Space Stone,” the Tamareen spoke, surprisingly erudite. “If you want your brother to retain intact vocal chords, I’d start making arrangements to bring it here.”

“Don’t threaten me with a quiet time,” Thor replied jovially. “Oh, to be spared the cut of his sharp tongue...”

Loki looked at him. Thor, blue eyes sparkling, centuries of lines lifted from his face, his hair still shoulder-length. This was not so long after his coronation.

Around Loki, the shards of glass began to speak with his own voice.

“It is not only my tongue that can be sharp,” the Loki of the past muttered, spinning on his heel and burying a blade in the Tamareen’s side.

Loki watched as the figure of glass pushed past him. Another Loki. His younger face. Asgardian, as he’d always been.

Bar, apparently, the very beginning of his life. And wretched present.

A silver hand gestured, freezing the scene. The orange-furred alien was lying dead on the floor of the ship, Mjölnir was frozen in mid-air, and a tooth it had just knocked loose from the jaw of a Courga raider was glistening next to it.

The Mirror stared at its right hand. “Your memory,” it noted, shifting its attention to its left hand again. The scene behind them returned to that of the Oak, the orange alien still caught on the tree amidst the other bodies. “But not your dream. Yet there in the tree - that is part of your mind.”

Loki squinted at his faceless captor. “What are you? What do you want from me?”

The Mirror ignored him, instead continuing to study the coiled golden thread in its right hand.

“Contaminated,” it muttered, plucking the thread out of its glassy flesh and examining it.

Loki glared at the cloaked form. “How dare you.”

The Mirror ran a finger as thin as a needle over the golden-red thread, splitting it in two - one golden, one crimson. The Tamareen flickered in the tree above, then reformed into a hideous Mountain Giant, with eyes like pits and no light within them.

“Truth,” the Mirror stated, nearly emotionlessly, aside from a slight hint of satisfaction.

Loki’s insides felt as if they’d been transfigured into nervous snakes.

So. That’s what this thing was. The shame of Asgard's golden military. The greatest asset of its intelligence operations. Whereas soldiers trained to take the territory of their enemies, these rare freaks were used to invade their minds.

“You’re an Inquisitor, aren’t you?”

The Mirror closed its hand around the crimson thread, absorbing it into itself. Then it took the two remaining golden strands and approached Loki with them. He flinched as it reached out towards him again, but it only replaced the memories to his temple, where they vanished within his blue flesh.

“If you can see into my mind…you must know that I am who I say I am,” Loki babbled. “I am -”

“Thief,” The Inquisitor declared. “Interloper. Vitiator.”

Loki pulled back as if struck. “I am not!”

The Inquisitor extended its finger, silver running along its length to thicken it. It pointed at Loki.

“Liar,” it uttered.

“I am Loki!” snarled Loki.

“Liar,” insisted the Mirror. It gestured, and the previous, past image of Loki emerged from the fragments of glass once again. Young, fair-skinned, a faint smile on his lips and a careful watchfulness in his bright blue eyes. “This is Loki. Loki is…”

The glass-Loki spoke as Loki himself had only minutes ago. “I am Brother of King Thor, Son of Odin and Frigga, Prince of the Realm Eternal, Uncle of its Heir Apparent Prince Magni. I am an esteemed member of the Asgardian Council, a Sorcerer feared in all Twelve Realms, an Às of repute! I’m also a little upset that you haven’t heard of me.”

The blank face of the Inquisitor turned to look at the jötunn, reflecting Loki’s periwinkle visage back at him. “If that is Loki, then you cannot be him. You are not a brother of Thor, nor a son of Odin or Frigga. You are not a Prince or Council-Member. Your magic has been taken from you, and revealed that you are no Às.”

Loki lunged at the Mirror’s hand, pressing it against his temple. “Search my memories! I’ve been Loki all my life. I cannot lie to you!”

The Inquisitor’s hand tightened on Loki’s skull, as if considering tearing it open. “It is possible to lie to Inquisitors. If you believe your own lies.”

The Mirror dropped its face down to Loki’s, his distorted reflection only an inch away from the tip of his nose. “Perhaps we can be of help to each other. Together, we will learn who you are. And who you are not. If we do that…”

The pressure on Loki’s forehead loosened. The hand withdrew, taking with it a dozen threads of golden light. Fascinated, the Inquisitor plucked at one, drawing out a musical note as if it been the string of an instrument.

“…I can save you from becoming that boy in your stolen dream.”

ODIN

The weight of the ravens on his chest vanished as he awoke, gasping, swatting at nothing above him.

A nightmare. An old one. One he’d thought he’d banished into…

He looked behind him at the perches. No Muninn. No Huginn. No…

His hand clenched, searching for hers.

Frigga? he tried to call, panicked. But his throat constricted, the name strangled before it could pass his lips.

He choked, but that, too, was silent.

FRIGGA! he tried again, though not even a strangled huff could escape his mouth.

He tore the blanket off himself. She must be in the Gardens - in the special place, the secret place. He would go to her. He needed her. She must forgive him, she would forgive him, when she saw how sorry he was, how much he needed her - how ugly this need was, this terrible pain, how could he go to her when he was in pain and not when she was in pain? If she were any less good, she would surely throw him back - but no, Frigga was good, and she would forgive him, and he would choke on this silence a little longer while she cried in his arms and he would hold her, and when she was done she would reach inside his chest and unstopper his words and he would tell her how much he loved her, and she would know at once of the dream and she would pluck it from his mind and free him from its terrible weight. Yes, that is what they would do, and all would be right in the Realms again -

The door. Where was the door?

He ran from one side of the dark room to the other, but all the walls were smooth. There was no door.

He banged on the wall, his fists puny and soundless against the stone.

FRIGGA! He pounded the name over and over as he could not shout it. FRIGGA, Come back! Please! Do not leave me alone with my thoughts! I do not trust them! They will eat me alive! Speak to me, Frigga! Please!

No-one answered. How could they, when he could not so much as whisper?

He sank to the ground, hands trailing over the cold stone.

Then he heard it.

Faint, quavering - but a voice, nonetheless. Singing.

It was unlike any song he’d heard before. The melody was comprehensible, but alien, lilting up in strange places. Nevertheless, he understood its meaning - it was a question, a call. It was looking for something. Cautiously, Od lurched forward, intending to track it -

A groan. A creak.

He turned to see a large, wooden door opening. Light from the hallway leaked in, catching the curls of the enormous red beard that preceded Bor into every room.

“Another bad dream?” his father asked.

Od’s throat hitched. He nodded.

Bor held out his hand.

The little boy ran to it and clung on with both of his own. His father squeezed them so tight it hurt, but Od didn’t attempt to recoil.

“Won’t you tell me what haunts your nights?” Bor whispered. “I would lift this evil cloud from your mind.”

Dark blue flesh, suspended on black branches. Dripping. Dripping down. Dead ravens falling from the sky.

A lump snagged in the boy’s throat. Words cratered against it, but it would not budge. He hung his head in shame.

Bor frowned, noticing something on Od’s head now that it was so displayed. He ran his meaty palm through Od’s hair, pausing to grasp at a noticeably paler piece of it growing out of the unruly double crown at the top of his head. “What’s this?”

Od turned away, ashamed. He’d been contemplating dyeing it, but had been afraid he could not match the exact shade of red the rest of his hair was.

“They say a warrior with a white streak in his hair has seen the Norns but escaped his fate,” Bor said warmly, clasping Od’s shoulder again and turning his son to face him. “Being afraid is no sin, my son. Whatever haunts you -”

A lake of blood, washing by him, carrying with it accusing Asgardian eyes…

“-you have already proven capable of defeating.”

Od looked up at Bor, uncertain.

“It is no wonder you cannot bear to speak to me.” Bor got on his knees, bowing his head before his son. “I failed you,” he said roughly. “You were hunted in your own home. The bare minimum a father must provide for his child is a sanctuary. Nothing should have ever touched you. Ever.”

The boy shook his head, but Bor could not see it.

“I failed you, but you did not fail yourself. You ensnared your captors. You hunted the hunters. You won." Bor looked up at his son, eyes glistening. “You won.”

Victory, Od thought solemnly. As if it were a game.

I suppose I’ve always been good at games.

“I’ve brought you something,” Bor said awkwardly, reaching out towards something left leaning against the stone wall.

It was a bow and quiver, bristling with arrows.

“You are already talented,” Bor declared, holding them out to Od. “Together, we will realize your potential. You'll never need fear anything in these walls or outside of them, waking or asleep.”

Hesitantly, Od reached out and took the bow. It was already strung. He plucked at it lightly, like the string of his lyre.

It thrummed. A low D note.

A small smile twitched at his lips.

“That’s my boy,” crowed Bor, loudly patting Od on the back. “You will be a great hunter. First, of deer. Then of soldiers. And finally, one day - of monsters.”

Chapter Text

THOR

When the Jötunn had slumped, boneless, in the hands of the Einherjar, Thor couldn’t help a pang of concern - his form was still so much like Loki.

Everything after that was a blur. There were bodies to deal with, his dissociating father to transport back to his rooms, assuring that Magni was safe and unharmed, search details to arrange to find the real Loki - which Thor had to be pulled away from so that there could be a calling of the Council. It was as if Thor had blinked and the world had spun about him, replacing the burning bridge with long rows of concerned diplomats and lords. Thor sat at the head of it all, and as always his chair felt simultaneously too large and too small. To his right sat Magni, taking the seat that had once belonged to Loki. Loki’s new station, to the right of Magni, remained empty, as did the seat to Thor’s left, where Reidrunn was meant to sit, when she was in Asgard. Thor tried not to notice how the shade of the wood was noticeably darker than that of the other, more worn seats. At least it would not be the only empty one today. With the Bifröst so damaged, the members on the other Realms and colonies could not attend. A shame, as Lord Frey was perhaps the only one of the lot of them Thor wished to speak with.

The Asgard-bound Council members filed in, their gossip falling into silence the moment they spotted Thor glowering impatiently at the head of the table. Only Magni dared lean towards the king and whisper “Have they found Uncle Loki yet, Father?”

“…No,” muttered Thor. “But we will. I swear it.”

Magni bit his lip nervously, but his trusting blue eyes didn’t waver. He was depending on Thor to put this right. Thor was the most powerful man in Asgard, after all. A son ought to be able to trust a father such as him.

“The king requested my presence,” insisted a stout voice at the door.

Thor perked up when he saw Sister Embla, wearing a new and perfectly white uniform as well as a set of bandages, arguing with an Einherji at the door. He cleared his throat meaningfully, and the guard stepped aside.

The Sister of Idunn entered and, in direct breach of a dozen protocols Thor knew of and probably two dozen more he hoped he never had to know, she sat in the Queen’s chair. Thor shook his head meaningfully at the guards and more pompous members of the Council who seemed ready to raise a fuss.

“Thank you for coming, Sister Embla," he said meaningfully.

The Sister was nearly unrecognizable beneath her swathe of bandages. She managed a stiff nod to Thor, her gaze fixed on a small scratch on the golden table.

“How is my father?” he asked her, deliberately quietly.

Embla spoke in a low tone nearly as deep as Thor’s. “Your healers are doing their best. But I think I should remain at his side, even through my recovery. I am…concerned. He has not responded to any stimuli since the battle. I fear he is stranded within his own mind, in a time not our own. He may lash out at some half-remembered threat from his past. It is not safe for your healers to be with him alone. Not without magical protection.”

Thor nodded slowly, though to his eye Embla still appeared grievously wounded. “Asgard’s healers are not as helpless as you presume, but I appreciate your candour. If Bronwenna declares you fit, I would appreciate your return to my father’s side.”

Embla nodded again curtly. “I will ensure that he is neither harmed nor harms others.”

Thor bowed his head. “I am…also very sorry for your loss.”

The woman was glaring at that scratch in the table as if she could deepen it with the strength of her gaze alone. “…Sister Rokia was one of the best of us. I will convey your sympathies to Mother Nerian, when such travel is again possible.”

The last of the council members was filing in, but Thor thought he should press a little further. “You seemed close to her. I hope you will take the time to grieve, if you need it.”

The Sister bristled slightly. “I will, at a later time. I am needed at present and I will do my duty and Sister Rokia’s, no matter my circumstances.”

Grief on a schedule. Thor wondered how that worked. He’d never been terribly good at putting off his emotions for a more convenient time. And yet here he was, playing politics while the search for Loki went on without him.

It was time to get this over with.

Thor pulled Mjölnir from her sheathe and pounded a block of metal meant for the purpose. It sparked and banged, calling the Council into session. At once the questions began to fly.

“Is it true that Prince Loki is grievously disfigured?” Councillors Vár and Vör said in unison.

Coin Master Honir, as always, was focused on how this affected the bottom line. “The bridge is destroyed in two places - how does this affect trade? The craftsmen guilds are panicking. With Heimdall in the infirmary, who is manning the Bifröst? How soon can a replacement be trained and trade continued?”

The timid Lady Berfin, steward of Muspelheim, spoke in her typical sotto voice, barely audible above the fray. “I hear Odin may have been the aim of the attack. Is he well?”

“I hear there was a spy,” Councillor Snotra said quietly but most legibly over the babble.

At once the room silenced and looked to Thor.

“Yes. We were betrayed. It seems…it seems my brother was impersonated by a jötunn.”

A gasp rose from the table. Thor pressed on hurriedly. “The imposter was caught in the act of attempting to kidnap my father during the Bridge Battle. It seems likely that he…that this creature has some contact with the Queega, and gave them information as to our secret plans to travel to Vanaheim.”

General Tyr flexed his living metal arm, causing the hand to enlarge slightly. “When did you tell your brother of our plans?”

“Only the previous evening. At dinner.”

Tyr flexed his arm again, reforming the fist into an axe-head. “While it’s possible that your brother was kidnapped and tortured for information-”

Thor’s knuckles whitened on Mjölnir’s handle.

“-I think it unlikely that they managed such a thing, and conveyed the information and prepared the attack, in such a short amount of time. I believe your brother has not been your brother since at least that dinner. And possibly longer. Much longer. Who knows how much information the imposter learned?” Tyr paused in his maintenance to fix Thor with an intense stare. “Was there a point where Loki began acting strange? Er? Strange-er. That is to say, strange for Loki.”

Had Loki been strange at the dinner? Yes, of course he’d been. He’d been angry, angry in a way Thor had not seen from his brother in a long, long time. And yet that was hardly strange, considering what Thor had been keeping from him. Yet at the same time - the image of Loki in the dark of the woods returned to Thor’s mind, despite his weeks-long attempts to forget it. To see his brother - his controlled, put-together, deliberate brother, who would rather walk a mile with a stone in his boot rather than reveal even the outline of his foot in a sock - that brother, running barefoot and torn through the woods with a look in his eyes that could only be described as feral. That brother, who could always be relied on to do whatever was best for their father, instead forcefully pining him to the ground and snarling.

“He’s…something has been different about him. Lately.” Thor said. “I thought it all to do with the stress of our fa- the stress of negotiations with the Queeg.”

“If it goes back that far, then who knows how much information has been leaked,” Lady Snotra said ominously.

“I’m more concerned with whom it was leaked to,” Chairman Forseti pondered. “The Frost Giants have allied with the enemies of Asgard many times before, but always to their own benefit. My concern is the same as any Asgardian’s upon discovering even a single hjernespising beetle in their home. Where there is one, there is likely an infestation.”

A murmur of agreement rippled around the table. Magni swallowed nervously and looked to Thor with wide, terrified eyes.

“What is being done to rout out other potential imposters in our midst?” whispered Lady Berfin, her voice as small as her huddled form at the end of the table. Yet everyone heard her, and nodded in agreement.

“I have already begun Inquisition on our captured spy,” General Tyr declared. “Soon enough, we will know everything the jötunn knows.”

“Inquisition has been known to take days, even weeks,” pointed out Lady Snotra. “What if the creature’s conspirators make moves in the meantime? We should immediately detain all outsiders and have them undergo Inquisition as well.” She looked pointedly at Sister Embla.

“How dare you,” the Sister growled. “I spilt my blood for your golden city, and now you would put me under the spell of…of one of your monstrous mind-eaters?”

“The Inquisitors are students of the same discipline as your Order, Sister Embla,” General Tyr noted. “Your work shares the same trunk and roots.”

“They are failures of the path-” Sister Embla spat.

“As are you, warrior-mage,” General Tyr said curtly. “It was your partner, Sister Rokia, who was a healer. You, apparently, had talents favoured for combat. I commend you for finding a place for that in an Order of Healing, but I wouldn’t lecture us on what failure is."

“My Sisters heal the mind. Your Inquisitors rip it apart.”