Chapter Text
Something cold and wet hits Loki in the face, and he flinches, but can’t muster his thoughts enough to move. A crunching, crumbling sound echoes around him, like footsteps in snow, and then the sudden crack of ice.
Jotunheim, he thinks, dazedly. I… fell.
Lying on the ice like this, with the frigid wind brushing against his skin, he should feel colder. He feels… soothed, like those summers he got heat stroke and the healers resorted to ice baths to bring his temperature down.
None of the other children got heat stroke, just from enjoying the sun.
Thor never got heat stroke.
A sudden dazzle of colors makes it through his eyelids, and he blinks up at the shadow above him, backlit by the dancing light of the Bifrost reflecting off the walls of the cave.
So Thor’s… leaving? Going home? The others wouldn’t leave without him; he has to have gotten free.
Maybe he’ll summon help, come back for Loki? Loki swallows down a sound that’s half chuckle, half sob; he knows how little Thor values him these days. As the Bifrost fades, he tries to content himself with the thought that at least Thor got safely away.
Norns, his ribs hurt. It hurts to breathe.
Above him, blotting out the ever-dim light of Jotunheim, the shadow’s getting bigger—darker.
Farther up, two silhouettes peer over the edge. Sharp-edged, with horns.
Jotnar, not Aesir, and Loki suddenly realizes what the shadow is.
Sheer terror gets him on his feet again, stumbling, woozy, turning desperately to find an escape path but seeing nothing but different shades of darkness. His feet slip on the ice, and when he feels something stir the air behind him, he darts away only to slide straight into a wall of frozen rock.
Shoving off from the wall—head ringing, nose dripping blood—he whirls to face his attacker, conjuring two daggers and flinging them straight at what he guesses would be the neck. But the lumbering creature just keeps coming, reaching out a huge, meaty hand that doesn’t stop even when Loki slices at it with another dagger. He ducks under the fingers as they try to close about him, but the slippery surface offers no purchase, and then the hand’s shoving him down against the ice, crushing his breath from his body.
Pulled into the air, he can’t even cry out, too dazed, for a moment, even to struggle. His heart hammers in his chest, and he swallows the taste of his own blood as he sees the ice shelf flowing past him, as though he’s falling once again—except this time, he’s rising. When he manages to raise his head a little, he sees the other giants growing larger, their expressions hidden in the gloom.
The lumbering beast who retrieved him finally nears the surface, and lifts Loki in a dizzying swoop up to the two who wait for him—smaller giants, though still nearly twice as tall as any Aesir. Before Loki can even get his feet under him, they’ve grabbed his arms.
Though he struggles to pull away, it’s hopeless; he has no choice but to stumble along between them, seized by the unrelenting terror of his childhood nightmares.
Thor escaped, right? Loki’s ploy worked? It had to have worked.
Did the others make it back to Asgard? Or are some of them still here, already captive? (They wouldn’t be hiding; Thor’s friends are too ‘courageous’ to hide.) Is he the last to be found?
He shudders, trying not to picture his fate, trying not to recall the tales he grew up on, the horrible feasts that the frost giants partake in whenever they have access to Aesir flesh.
Even if Thor cares enough to seek help, it might already be too late.
In two quick strides, Odin is at Heimdall’s side, the light of the Bifrost fading behind him as Thor’s little gang murmurs in growing dismay.
“Can you see him?” Odin demands, low.
“Mmm,” the gatekeeper rumbles. “He has fallen far beneath the top layer. Hurt, but not severely. They are retrieving him.”
“What?!” Thor explodes. “Father, we must—”
“You must get your friends to the healers,” Odin counters over his shoulder, coldly. “Or did you not hear me the first time?”
“And leave Loki in the hands of those monsters?!”
“Since when do you even care?! ” Wheeling on Thor, Odin advances, barely mastering his fury enough to form coherent sentences. “So caught up in the lust for battle that you didn’t even notice your friends getting hurt, your brother falling through the ice. Look at the consequences of your actions, you foolish, arrogant boy!”
Thor quails, eyes wide—Odin hopes in realization that he’s crossed a line they might never recover from. But there’s no time to focus on his older son, not now. “Go,” Odin commands again. “See to your friends. See if you can make this a little better, somehow. I’ll deal with you when your brother is safely home.”
And yet, as Thor takes Fandral over his shoulder and flings himself toward the palace, leaving Sif and Hogun to see to Volstagg… Odin cannot bring himself to open the Bifrost again. Not yet.
Heimdall, the embodiment of duty and loyalty, does not question him, but merely waits for orders, his face as impassive as ever.
A shaky sigh passes Odin’s lips. “Would that I could sit on Hlidskjalf and see for myself how he handles this,” he muses. “But I shall have to see through your eyes, old friend. Laufey is too crafty to harm such a valuable bargaining chip, and…” He trails off, reluctant to give voice to his other concern.
“There is no direct evidence that Loki let the Jotnar into Asgard.”
“No… but the Jotnar are not fond of sorcery. There are not many who can walk between worlds… and I know of only one mage in all Asgard who specializes in evading your gaze.” His shoulders slump a little. “It is hard to come to any other conclusion.”
Soberly, Heimdall nods.
“I must know how far his designs extend. Until today, I had thought his tricks to be relatively harmless, and I have never seen cause to question his loyalty… to the Realm, if not to the one who holds the throne. But if he plots with the Jotnar…”
But Heimdall is shaking his head, his gaze focused far away. “He is with them now, but not willingly. And where they touch him, his skin has turned blue.”
Odin pales. “Does he know yet? Has he figured it out—or have they told him?”
“I cannot read the minds and hearts of men,” Heimdall says, slowly, “but from what I can see… he seems to be terrified.”