Chapter Text
Loki’s steps are slow and measured as he closes the distance between himself and the body writhing in agony on the other side of the street. He ignores the screeching of tires and blaring of sirens as he walks through the heavy traffic of that wretched Midgardian city, he never wanted to step foot into again. But, as he seems to be the favourite plaything for the Norns, here he is again.
The reason for Loki’s unplanned sojourn is currently trying to push herself up from the ground, but Loki knows it to be futile effort. He was aiming to kill, not disable, holding nothing back.
Loki waves a dismissive hand when the sound of a siren and screeching of tires comes from far too close, followed by a male voice demanding of him to stop and surrender. He does not turn to see the police car being lifted off the ground and slamming into the owner of the voice, his eyes fixed on his prey.
In any other situation, Loki could even find it in himself to be merciful, but as it is, there is nothing but cold, hard determination inside him now. Amora has brought this upon herself. After refusing to heed his repeated warnings to stay away from Thor, she made Loki chase her through three Realms before he finally cornered her on this damned rock. In the city which stands like a rather impressive monument to Loki’s failure and doubtful life choices.
And the Avengers. Must not forget them. Even sans Thor, they are more than capable to cause him unnecessary headache.
With another wave of his right hand, Loki mutes the sounds of New York’s traffic. With every step he takes, the weak, pitiful moans of pain coming from Amora are growing louder, but they leave him unaffected, the expected sense of triumph somehow failing to make an appearance. He merely wishes to end this long and bothersome chase, and leave this damned realm before the ghosts from his past materialize before him and Loki loses all control over an already trying situation.
Loki’s ribs and right shoulder are still mending from his encounter against Skurge a month ago on Alfheim, and his magic is all but drained in his fight against Amora. He is bruised and bleeding from several cuts and gashes, growing weaker by the second. He is vulnerable and in no condition to stand for long against the combined might of the Avengers should – when – they make an appearance.
Annoyance and a flicker of unease well up inside him and he hastens his steps, but he makes it only half of the way before he freezes in his tracks when he hears the familiar sound of pavement cracking under the impact of a body crashing against it, making his chest tighten with dread, irritation, and, absurdly, exhilaration.
He was not supposed to be here.
But of course he is here. Loki should have expected it. This is his favourite playground, after all. And Loki is trespassing. No matter how reluctantly. Or with what motives.
Even if Loki would rather swallow his own tongue than divulge the reason of his return to Midgard. The reason for hunting Amora across the realms, putting his own life at risk.
Taking a deep breath, Loki turns slowly. He needs not hurry. No matter through how many character altering transformations Thor goes through, he will always confront his enemies face to face.
The sight that greets Loki when he finally turns is painfully familiar – Thor standing straight, his shoulders tense, Mjölnir half-raised and ready to be hurled at his master’s behest, Thor’s cape billowing dramatically behind him… nothing Loki has not seen countless of times. Either standing side by side with Thor, or, like now, facing him across what should soon become a field of battle, and yet…
There is not a trace of righteous anger in Thor’s eyes, or that foolish hope he had been clinging to for far longer than anyone with half a functioning brain cell would. There is only cold and hard resolve in Thor’s expression, strengthened by the tight clench of Thor’s jaw and the crease of his brow. Something shifts in the pit of Loki’s stomach and the ripple it creates holds a strong semblance to hurt. Too strong for Loki’s peace of mind.
Gone is the foolish sentiment, brother?
“You have such a poor memory, Thor. Have you forgotten what has happened the last time you left the throne of Asgard unguarded?” Loki says, grinning when a flash of fury darkens Thor’s gaze.
But Thor’s anger goes no further. There is no howl of fury, and Mjölnir remains in Thor’s hand. For some ineffable reason, Loki feels his own anger spark at Thor’s display of control over his temper.
“Worry not, Loki. If I forget everything else, my memory of your greatest act of betrayal and deception will stay with me.” Thor says evenly, the corners of his mouth lifting in a mirthless smile. “Until the end of my days.”
Loki’s own smile falters momentarily, his throat closing as his mind conjures the image – unwanted and utterly unwelcome – of Thor’s face after his discovery of who exactly is ruling Asgard. There had been hurt there, deep and raw, also disbelief, but they receded fast, and the fury that took their place – terrifying in its intensity – made Loki truly afraid of Thor for the first time in his life.
“Ah. So this is about revenge, then?” Loki states, inclining his head to the side. “Not exactly the height of nobility, Thor.”
“Not revenge. Justice.” Thor states, still too damnably calm and controlled for Loki’s taste.
Once, it had been so easy to rouse the anger in Thor, laughably so. But it was before. Before the exile, before Midgard made a man out of Thor, snuffing out the fire that has always burned brightly just under Thor’s skin and calming his spirit. Turning him into a stranger, into a shadow of the brother Loki has known all his life, in the precise moment Loki’s own life shattered into million pieces, never to be put together again.
“Asgardian justice, Thor?” Loki asks, his voice honey sweet. Thor’s face draws into a frown, and his jaw clenches tighter, and Loki feels a surge of dark joy at that. Tempered yes, but not extinguished completely. There is still a berserker lurking in the deepest recesses of Thor’s heart. “But I am not of Asgard.”
“You know very well that Midgard stands under Asgard’s protection.”
“You mean your protection, do you not?” Loki’s says softly. Thor’s stance remains unchanged, but his control is slipping with each passing moment, his eyes narrowing into slits, the blue of his irises turning almost grey. “I cannot remember Odin expressing much concern about this backwater realm.”
“Before you made it your target, Loki, Midgard was in no need of Asgard’s interference.”
“I see that selective memory is still working marvelously for you, Thor. Need I remind you that they have made themselves a target when they started tampering with the Tesseract?”
Thor stays silent a moment, his mouth curling in distaste. Thor’s stance almost imperceptibly shifts and Loki swallows a groan of annoyance, his own body tensing in preparation of an attack. He cannot stand long against Thor, he knows it, and it feels like a slap to his face. Just once, once in his cursed existence Loki would appreciate things going his way.
As long as he still lives and breathes you will never be free of his shadow. No matter how far you go, or what you do.
“I have not come here to indulge you in your word games, Loki.” Thor states, making a step forward. “I have not the will, nor patience for them anymore.”
Loki flexes his hand, a dagger appearing in it. He really, really hopes he can muster enough magic to flee this place. But, as Thor’s expression changes to one of deadly resolve, Loki becomes aware that it will not be long before he finds out. One way or another.
“I cannot fathom why.” Loki grins with far more confidence than he feels, steeling himself for a fight in which he has even less chances than usual against Thor. “Seeing as how you were always so good at them.”
Thor’s jaw twitches and he opens his mouth, but the sound that disrupts the silence is not Thor’s deep growl, but the sound of weak, laboured laughter coming from behind Loki.
Without giving it a second thought, no matter the Thor-shaped threat nearby, Loki turns, his face drawing into a frown when he catches sight of Amora, now sitting upright, her hand curled around her abdomen. Her face is deathly pale, thin trails of blood streaking down her face from her nose, ears and corner of her mouth. She is dying. And yet, the amount of malicious glee burning in her eyes is a sight which sends an involuntary shiver of dread down Loki’s spine.
“The last gift from the Norns before my death.” She says, her voice, even though weak, holds a hint of some hidden threat which makes Loki’s insides clench with yet unnamed dread.
“Your pathetic obsession is what put you in your current position, and still you cling to it.” Loki says, each word dripping with disdain.
Amora bursts into laughter which is cut short when she doubles over, her breathing coming out in harsh pants. Loki takes a hesitant step toward her, not really sure of his intentions. And all had been so clear to him mere moments ago. Before Thor fell from the sky and into his life after a blessed decade of being absent from it.
Absent? Truly?
When she lifts her head again, there is a wide grin on her face, the blood staining her teeth making it seem even more sinister. “My pathetic obsession?” She repeats, sounding genuinely amused. “I cannot decide what I find more amusing, Loki. The irony of your words or the fact you seem blind to it.” Loki clenches his jaw together, his eyes narrowing, but Amora’s gaze leaves his face, her blood-stained grin turning softer as her gaze settles on Thor. Loki almost jerks in surprise when Thor appears next to him, a grave expression on his face. “Hello, Thor. You are a sight for dying eyes.”
For a moment, Loki feels like this is not actually happening, the entire situation suddenly turning surreal. Here he is, standing next to Thor, watching their mutual enemy’s last moments. And all that with the added bonus of Midgardian forces of justice gathering in close vicinity in exponentially larger numbers. Norns really do hate him.
Thor blinks, frowning. “I… I am sorry, Amora.” He says solemnly. Loki’s gaze flicks toward Thor’s face. The sentimental idiot truly does look like he means it. Loki wants to roll his eyes at that, but he settles for a glare which goes unnoticed. Perhaps, next time when he comes into possession of a knowledge of someone planning to subjugate Thor to their will, Loki should stand back and allow it to happen. The entertainment value alone would be more than worth it. “I would wish you a better fate than this.”
“Why the apology, Thor? It is not you who is the cause of this.” She says, her gaze flicking briefly toward Loki’s face, holding a truly wicked glint. “Although…” She trails off, looking meaningfully between Loki and Thor.
“Shut your mouth.” Loki sneers, taking a step forward, his grip around the dagger in his hand tightening. “And die already.”
“Loki.” Thor warns, but Loki ignores him, focused on the look of triumph suddenly appearing on Amora’s face. The look which had no place on the face of a dying woman.
“Have you ever wanted to test the limits of your power, Loki? And then step right over the line?” Amora asks, and Loki freezes on the spot, confused and alarmed at the same time. Of course he had. No magic practitioner ever had not been faced with the same temptation, with the same question – how far can I push myself before I destroy myself? But why would she…?
“How that holds any relevance now, Amora?” Loki asks, noting how Thor’s bewildered gaze travels from Loki to Amora and back again, as if trying to determine the source of a greater threat.
Her grin widens, and Loki feels a twinge of real fear at the amount of dark satisfaction in it. “And I thought you to be smarter than this. Think about it, Loki. If the threat of death is what holds us back, what is to stop us if death is already here?”
Loki blinks, his mind freezing in shock as realization finally dawns on him. It lasts no more than a moment, but it is a moment too long. Amora’s hand shoots up and a Loki only has the time to curse his own stupidity before a blast of magic slams into him, sending him staggering back. He is dimly aware of Thor crying out in alarm and the sounds of sirens growing louder as his muting spell falters, most of his focus concentrated on the almost electric sensation of tendrils of magic weaving themselves around him. Loki clenches his jaw, expecting the pain that he knows is to come, but…
Nothing happens. Nothing.
Slowly and carefully he straightens, taking in his surroundings. Amora is dead, lying on her back, her vacant eyes staring at the sky, her face frozen in a look of triumph. Inhaling harshly, Loki feels a surge of impotent rage coursing through him, and he wants…
“Loki?”
Oh, yes, Thor. Let’s not forget about him. Or you could, if being dragged back in chains to Asgard is your immediate desire.
Loki turns to face his once-brother, his grip on the dagger in his hand turning almost desperate. Thor is staring at Loki and Loki almost recoils when he notes how close he is standing, barely a step away. Far too close for Loki’s peace of mind. All Thor has to do is reach out and he will have Loki in his hold, but Thor, at least for the moment, looks unsure, his expression caught between caution and something that looks like concern.
“What did she… are you well?” Thor asks, slowly and carefully. Loki blinks, feeling a surge of hysterical laughter well up in his throat. He is so far from feeling well, has been for so long, he has forgotten what that actually means.
Releasing a deep breath, Loki summons all the magic he can muster, hoping it will be enough. “Farewell, Thor.” He says, and the last thing he sees before he shimmers out of existence is the look of hurt on Thor’s face.
******
For days, Loki hides like a rat in an abandoned warehouse, using the last of the magic at his disposal to shield himself from Heimdall’s prying eyes should Thor do the reasonable thing and ask for the Gatekeeper’s aid. Doing nothing but wait. For his magic to return so he could leave this wretched realm, all the while cursing Amora, cursing Thor. Cursing even his own stupidity which has led him to chase Amora in the first place.
He stalks the dirty, cold interior of his shelter as a nervous beast, trying, but failing to ignore the tingle of foreign magic, clinging to him as a second skin. Amora might be dead, but she’s had the last laugh, and Loki can almost imagine the mocking curve of her lips at the truly pathetic sight he must be presenting – all but rendered helpless, caught like a mouse in a trap and unable to squirm out of it, waiting for the consequences of whatever spell Amora has hit him with to manifest. Or for the Avengers to storm this place and take him into custody.
After three days and no enemy sightings, he is still trapped in the same warehouse with his patience all but frayed, his nerves tight as bowstring. And the fact that his mind has turned into an endless well of gruesome images of what Amora’s spell could entail, does not help matters in the least. He is anxious and any small sound makes his heart still in his chest, and yet.
Nothing has happened.
He is not growing weaker, his magic slowly – painfully so – but surely returning to him. He is not under any kind of compulsion – as far as he can tell – and he is not experiencing any discomfort. Other than slowly growing mad with helplessness and apprehension.
Day five greets him sitting on the cold concrete floor with his back leaning against the wall, staring at nothing. His anxiety has morphed into listlessness, and even his mind has run out of ideas as to what has that bitch done to him. At this point, Loki would even welcome the sight of Avengers bursting through the door, just to have something, anything, happen. But the doors remain whole and undamaged, and the Avengers do not come.
At the dawn of the sixth day, Loki feels his magic surging through him. He takes a deep breath, revelling in the familiar feeling of his own power returning to him at last. His face splits into a wide, toothy grin and he pushes himself up to his feet. He wants to howl with laughter, and he wants to level this damn rat trap with the ground, but he ignores both. Instead, he reminds himself of what is truly important – leaving this pathetic realm and finding out what kind of a spell he is under.
Taking one last glance of the warehouse, Loki teleports away.
******
“Wait here. My master will see you as soon as he is able.”
Loki drags his eyes away from the strong hand hovering an inch away from his chest, halting his steps. He throws a glance at the large door behind the man, feeling a twinge of fury at the treatment. It takes Loki a moment to remember that he is no longer the younger prince of Asgard and Odin’s son, but a homeless Jotun disguised as an Asgardian, a wanted criminal on two realms.
Swallowing against the bile gathered in his throat, Loki smiles pleasantly. “As you wish.” He says softly, taking a step back, rising his hands in a gesture of surrender.
The bodyguard’s face draws into a frown, and, for a moment, he looks genuinely disappointed with Loki’s attitude. As if he was spoiling for a fight. Loki feels a spark of interest at the idea of making the bodyguard pay for his insolence and he takes an assessing look of the man – average in height, but sturdy built, thick muscle rippling under the naked skin of his arms. A fighter, that much is clear, someone like Thor – all muscle and brute, mindless force.
But that is not all Thor is, is it? Not anymore.
Pushing all thoughts of Thor to the back of his mind where they belong, Loki refocuses his attention back on the man still standing imposingly in front of him. Loki is not sure which species the man belongs to. His build and features are humanoid, but his olive skin and strange eyes, almost purple in colour, are nothing Loki has seen so far. And, after his fall from the Bifrost, he has seen much. The man stares at him with narrowed eyes, as if he can see past Loki’s cordial expression and into his thoughts. And, for a moment, Loki wants the brute to attack him, wants the chance to engage in mindless violence so he could purge himself of at least part of the frustrations he has been living with since New York and Amora’s death. But the man merely snorts softly, as if Loki is beneath him, unworthy of the effort it would take to break him. Taking a step back, the bodyguard folds his hands across his chest, fixing his attention on some non-existent object in front of him, ignoring Loki’s presence completely.
Pressing his lips into a tight line and pushing back the urge to kill the insolent idiot, Loki takes a cursory glance of the room, aware that yet another wait is in front of him. It is half-lit, the only source of light a swirling yellow globe placed above the massive door the brute is guarding. Resigning himself to waiting, however reluctantly, Loki strolls over to the lone chair, the only piece of furniture in the otherwise empty room, and takes a seat.
It has been three months since his and Amora’s clash in New York, since Thor, with his immaculate timing as ever, distracted him long enough, making it possible for Amora to hit him with a spell which still remains a mystery to Loki.
After leaving Midgard, Loki returned to Vanaheim where he has been hiding for the largest part of the last ten years. It is sometimes difficult for Loki to believe that only ten years have passed since Thor discovered his deception. Ten years is nothing, barely a blink of an eye for an Asgardian – or a Jotun as it seems – but it feels longer for Loki. Perhaps the cause of it lies in the nagging and persistent feeling he loathes to name as regret.
Svartalfheim should have been his end. In many ways, it had been. Thor had denied their brotherhood when he came seeking Loki’s help against Malekith. It… stung. Even if Loki had not been sure how much truth there was to Thor’s words. Too much time has passed since he last saw Thor, and the man standing before him, seeing right through his illusion, was not the same brash, impulsive and simple brother Loki grew up with. But Frigga was dead and Thor was offering him a way out of his cell and a chance at painting his hands with that creature’s blood. There was nothing for him to do but say yes. And then he died. Or should have died.
Sometimes, when he is too weary to stop himself, he recalls how it felt to have Thor’s arms around him, to watch the anguish and horror in Thor’s eyes, to see tears streaming down his face. Tears for him. But he does it less and less now, the momentary illusion of peace not worth the hollow ache in the middle of his chest that comes afterwards. They have made their peace, there, in the middle of a barren wasteland. And even if it has happened in the worst possible moment, they were brothers once again, the bond re-forged in Loki’s blood and Thor’s tears.
It lasted only until Loki came back to life with a gasp, the wound that should have been his death, already starting to heal. Thor and his scientist were nowhere to be seen, believing him dead, and there, in the distance, Loki could see a member of Einherjar coming his way. He was a free man in that moment. Free to choose his next step. He could have hidden himself. He could have run and kept away from Asgard, let Thor’s last memory of him be a good one.
But he had made a different choice. One which, like all the rest of his choices, blew up in his face in the form of furious Thor confronting him. And now here he is, in a shack in the middle of one of Alfheim’s forests, drenched in Amora’s magic, waiting like a beggar for a dwarven magician to grant him the honour of his time.
And all this because of Thor. Like always. If the fool had not appeared when he had, Loki would have ended Amora before she recovered enough to curse him. And the bitch had done just that – cursed him, but, no matter his efforts, Loki was not able to determine the exact nature of the curse. It took him a month of searching, threatening and negotiating to find his way to someone who has been mentioned only in hushed whispers, more a myth than reality – the dwarf with the ability to discern the nature of magic, but without any magic of his own.
The light flickers, then starts blinking in and out of existence, but Loki pays it no mind. Well, not until…
“The master will see you now.”
Loki’s eyes flick toward the bodyguard, the expression on his face almost as sullen as his voice. “That was surprisingly fast.” Loki says, grinning widely as he rises to his feet.
“Don’t try anything.” The brute stops him with a hand against his chest, his eyes narrowed with animosity and suspicion.
Loki almost snorts, a memory of similar expression and similar warning flashing inside his mind. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Loki smiles, with a mocking half-bow. The muscle in the brute’s jaw twitches, the hand still splayed against Loki’s chest digging deeper. Loki’s grin only grows wider, his eyebrows rising in question. “Is it wise to keep your master waiting?”
The brute’s lips curl in a disgusted snarl as he pulls his hand away and takes a step to the side, allowing Loki to pass. Loki chuckles softly and reaches after the door, but when his hand comes in contact with the polished wood, the reality swirls and stretches all around him, and before he has a chance to do anything but release a surprised gasp, Loki finds himself standing in the middle of a spacious, well lit room, his eyes widening despite himself when they land on a massive shelf, taking up entire wall of the room, filled with various, extremely rare magical objects.
Without thinking, Loki walks over to the shelf, his feet carrying him there almost of their own volition. Releasing a sharp breath, his heartbeat picking up speed at the sheer amount of power right before his eyes, Loki reaches out, his fingers hovering hesitatingly over a sheet of paper.
“I believe not one of my clients has not done what you are doing now.” An amused, slightly gruff voice sounds from behind him, and Loki has to use all his self-control not to snatch his hand back as if he is a child, caught with his fingers in a cookie jar. “And to answer the question you are probably entertaining; no, trying to kill me would not end well for you.”
Loki releases a soft chuckle and turns slowly, not bothering to deny the dwarf’s words.
“I gathered that.” Loki says, the corner of his mouth still turned upwards. “Considering your collection remains intact.”
“So the rumours about Loki Odinson are true, then. You are in possession of a quick mind.” The dwarf says, coming to sit into one of the two large chairs, placed in the middle of the room, offering the other to Loki. “Please, take a seat.”
The smile fades from Loki’s lips, his chest growing cold, his hands clenching into fists despite himself. “Only Loki, if you would be so kind.” Loki forces through clenched teeth, willing himself to calm. “So you know my identity.”
The dwarf shrugs as Loki settles into the offered seat. “I make it my business to know all my potential clients’ identities. It’s closely tied with the payment for my services.”
Loki blinks, frowning, but decides not to bite the bait so early in conversation. “And how am I to address you? My sources were not conclusive on that front.” Loki asks, a part of him genuinely intrigued. One does not often find himself in the company of a myth. And names… well, they do possess not a small amount of power. As his host had proved so effortlessly not so long ago.
A smile flicks across the dwarf’s bearded face. “You may call me Hadrin.” He says softly, and Loki stops himself from rolling his eyes, but just barely. A false name, but it will do. Calling him ‘dwarf’ would become silly after a while. “And now, about your problem…”
“Where are we now?” Loki asks, ignoring Hadrin’s words, trying to gain some ground in this conversation. He is not used to being the weaker party in any conversation, the one with less insight, and it grates on his nerves, too reminiscent of Odin. “Are we even still on Alfheim?”
A barest flicker of surprise appears in Hadrin’s eyes, but it disappears almost instantly. “Truly quick mind. But you will have to excuse me for not answering. Secrets of the trade.” Hadrin says, shrugging his shoulders apologetically, but the smile is gone from his eyes, his gaze turning sharp and assessing.
“I understand. The truth always seems that much greater when wrapped in illusion.” Loki smiles, sharp and vicious. “And if the illusion persist long enough, it grows and you have created yourself a myth.”
“Oh, yes,illusion. You would know all about that.” Hadrin says, smiling softly. “Wouldn’t you?”
Loki blinks, the smile freezing on his face, his stomach feeling heavy and cold suddenly. He has forgotten about that, had not even considered it before coming here. Hadrin sees him, truly sees him. Sees through the illusion of his Aesir skin, down to his real, Jotun one.
“Are you ready to talk about what made you seek me out? Or are there any other questions you wish answered?”
Loki manages a small, forced smile. If anything, his dealings with Thor have taught him the value of knowing when to retreat. “My curiosity is sated, thank you.”
A glint of excitement lights up Hadrin’s eyes and he rubs his hands together gleefully. “I must say, I have not been this excited in a long time. It is not often that a prince of Asgard seeks my aid.”
This time Loki does not even try to stop himself. His hand shots out, winding around the dwarf’s throat. “I may not be able to kill you, dwarf, but I have recently learned how much damage one can make with their last breath.”
To Loki’s immense annoyance, Hadrin does not look neither alarmed, nor scared. He calmly wraps his fingers around Loki’s wrist and pulls gently. “And someone like you… I would wager quite a lot.”
They stay like that a moment longer, and Loki can almost taste the desire to squeeze his fingers tighter and see what will happen. But he had been in this place once before, only that time instead of squeezing tighter, he had opened his hand and let go. Which is what he does this time.
A shudder runs through him and he exhales harshly, his back falling against the back of the chair as if he is a puppet whose stings were cut.
Hadrin rubs at his throat, a small, almost appreciative smile playing on his lips. “I haven’t had this much fun in centuries.” He states lightly, and Loki presses his lips tighter, settling for a murderous glare. Hadrin ignores it completely, his expression growing cold and hard. “But now is the time for business. Change.”
“What?” Loki asks, alarmed, his heart starting to beat rapidly.
“Change into your Jotun form.”
Loki starts to rise from the chair, fury building up inside hm. Fury and shame. “I will not-”
“Do you need my service or not?”
Loki shuts his mouth with a loud click, biting back a stream of insults and threats. He has no leverage here. And a bare minimum of power. He needs Hadrin’s knowledge, for his own has failed him. Slumping back into the chair, Loki releases a deep breath. “Yes, I do.” He all but whispers, sounding resigned. Defeated.
“Then do as you are told.”
Loki clenches his hands into fists, his nostrils flaring, but he forces control over himself. He needs the dwarf’s help. Needs it. “May I ask why?”
“Payment, of course.” Hadrin replies without missing a beat. “Why else?”
Fury wells up inside his throat, and, for a moment, Loki sees red. “You insignificant little worm. If this is meant to humiliate me-”
Hadrin’s eyes widen in wonder, then he bursts into laughter, effectively cutting off the rest of Loki’s sentence. “For someone who refuses to be called a prince, you do think highly of yourself. What possible gain could I get from your humiliation?” Hadrin snorts, his mouth curving with derision. “Besides, I already see how you look beneath that charming Aesir illusion.”
“Then what is it you seek to gain?” Loki asks. What Hadrin said makes perfect sense. But what is it he wishes of him?
“Now I’m starting to doubt that intellect of yours. Magic, of course. How else do you think I have come up with most of my collection?” Hadrin says, sounding impatient. “Well? I do have other clients I need to devote my time to.”
Loki swallows, his throat feeling dry and raw with apprehension. And shame. Always shame. “I have never made use of… of that magic.”
“You mean to say you don’t know how.” Hadrin states coolly. Then, for some reason, his expression softens minutely. “When you were born no one needed to show you how to breathe. It’s the same with this. It’s your birthright, it’s in your blood.”
Loki flinches at the mention of the word birthright and closes his eyes. Even after all this time, even after everything, there is still a shadow of his not-father lurking inside his mind. Perhaps he should have died on that frozen rock. It would certainly be better for everyone involved if he had. Even for him. But he had not.
Opening his eyes, Loki allows himself a smile – tight and forced. He has never wanted to do this deliberately. Not under any circumstances, and now… it doesn’t seem like he has a choice.
“I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I have other clients, Loki. Either do this or leave, the choice is yours.” Hadrin says levelly, leaning back in his chair.
Loki grimaces and looks down at his hands – pale skin, almost too pale, not even a hint of the cerulean. But it is there. He can hide it under an illusion, ignore it, despise it, but what he cannot do is make it disappear.
When he tries to change, it is surprisingly easy. Much like Hadrin said, it comes natural, like taking a deep breath then releasing it slowly. The change starts with his fingers, a wave of cerulean spreading slowly, erasing the Aesir illusion. A flash of memory almost causes a bark of laughter to leave his mouth, but Loki manages to clench his teeth together. This is how his downward spiral had started – with his hand turning blue in the grip of a Jotun.
When it is done, Loki lifts his head, fixing Hadrin with a blank look. He feels strangely hollow, like all his emotions have suddenly fled – even anger, even shame – leaving him bereft of their familiar presence. Alone in his true skin. “It is done. Now what?”
“Do something. Create something. I’d think for someone with the moniker of Silvertongue you’d have a little more imagination.”
A spark of annoyance breaks through the hollow numbness of Loki’s chest, and he throws a glare at the dwarf, but Hadrin merely reaches inside his long, brown tunic, taking out something with much resemblance to a crystal globe.
“Well, go on.” Hadrin urges him with an impatient wave of his empty hand.
Taking another deep breath, Loki remembers Jotunheim, remembers the easy way the ice formed around Jotuns’ hands, taking the shape they deemed fit. He hesitates a moment, unsure whether he dreads the failure or success. But then he relaxes, closes his eyes and simply lets everything go. Nothing out of ordinary happens, only a slight shift in the temperature, but it works. Loki knows it.
“Now that’s more like it.”
Hadrin’s pleased voice jolts him out of his reverie, and when his eyes snap open, there is a cone of ice in his clenched right hand. Loki stares dully at the foreign object in his hand, unsure what to do. Or even what to feel.
But Hadrin takes the decision out of his hands, at least regarding the former. Moving faster than Loki would give him credit for, Hadrin rises from his chair and leans over Loki’s right hand. It takes Loki a moment to note that he is holding that crystal globe in his right hand.
“Open your hand.” He commands, and Loki obeys without a moment’s hesitation. He stares transfixed, as Hadrin places the globe directly over the ice in his hand. The globe shimmers with blue light and to Loki it seems like it is literally sucking the ice from his hand, until there is not even a trace of it in his hand. Releasing a satisfied ‘ha’, Hadrin takes step back, bringing the globe up proudly. Loki’s eyebrows rise in wonder as he stares at a swirling, blue cloud trapped inside Hadrin’s globe.
He reaches out, his fingers hesitatingly hovering an inch over the globe. “What is that?” He whispers, looking up at Hadrin, his voice sounding foreign to him – low, thin and amazed.
Hadrin’s face splits into a wide, self-satisfied grin. “That is Jotun magic… your magic in its raw form.” Hadrin says, sounding proud, his brown eyes alight with satisfaction and something which looks almost like hunger. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Loki swallows, his famed wit leaving him bereft of words, his heartbeat a deafening noise in his ears, and no matter his will, he remains unable to draw his eyes away from the swirling blue magic trapped inside Hadrin’s globe – his magic.
Beautiful.
“Well, now that that’s settled.” Hadrin says, snatching the globe back. Turning on his heel, he strides over to his shelf. He stands there a moment, a frown on his face, before he carefully places the globe between something that looks like an ordinary rock – only it is black as the night, with a strange, unsettling reddish glow – and what appears to be a star sculpted from some garish yellow substance.
Rubbing his hands together, Hadrin stays still a moment, no doubt admiring the new addition to his collection, and Loki uses that moment to come to his senses, throwing a glare at his hand, still hovering in the air. Clenching his hand into fist, he brings it down by his side, and, with a sharp intake of breath, changes back to his Aesir visage.
“Is it not the time for you to uphold your end of this transaction, dwarf?” Loki asks, glaring at Hadrin’s back.
“Oh, of course. Forgive me, but I always get excited when I add something new to my collection.” Hadrin says, turning, the corners of his mouth lifting when he notes Loki’s change, but he does not comment on it. Inclining his head to the side, he takes a long, assessing gaze of Loki. “The magic around you is strong. And trust me, I know. It hurts my eyes looking at you. Whoever had done this, is either truly powerful or was extremely stupid.”
“Extremely vengeful.” Loki says, with a half-shrug. “She is dead now.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Hadrin says bluntly. At Loki’s slightly surprised look, he adds. “I wold not feel comfortable knowing that there is someone out there who is able to spend the amount of magic it took to curse you… you know it is a curse, right? And remain alive.”
“But what kind of a curse?” Loki exclaims hotly, rising to his feet. “Nothing has happened. Nothing. I feel no differently than before. No harm has come to me. I am beginning to suspect Amora has failed in everything but slowly driv-”, Loki cuts himself off, taking a deep, calming breath, fixing Hadrin with a hard look. “Speak, dwarf. What is the nature of this curse?”
“Come closer.” Hadrin commands, and Loki obeys hesitating only a moment. He strides over to Hadrin, stopping a step away from the dwarf. “Your hand, please.” Hadrin says, holding out his own hand.
Loki’s gaze flicks from Hadrin’s face to his hand and back again. All his sources were in agreement of one thing about the dwarf – he sees magic, its essence and effect.
“There is something different about your curse.” Hadrin says, as if sensing Loki’s thoughts and suspicion. “I need to feel it for myself.”
“You can… feel it?” Loki says, and he cannot help but feel a touch envious. But then he remembers that Hadrin cannot practice magic. He wonders how it must feel to see magic, knowing he will never be able to command it.
“It is a long story, and has much to do with another curse.” Hadrin says evenly, but there is a flash of something – longing? – in the depths of his eyes. “Your hand.”
Slowly, Loki places his palm over Hadrin’s, his eyes fixed on the dwarf’s face, gauging his reaction.
“Hm, interesting.” Hadrin murmurs. “So that is why the other string… Oh.”
“What is it?” Loki demands when Hadrin grows silent, his eyes widening in wonder. “Hadrin? Speak, dwarf.”
Slowly, Hadrin rises his gaze toward Loki’s face. “This… I have never seen a curse such as this one.”
A wave of dread washes over Loki, stilling his breath and heart alike. And for a moment, he does not even want to know. He wants to flee this place and never return, never think of this dwarf and the look of horrified wonder in his eyes ever again. But that would be a fool’s reaction, and a coward’s reaction, and Loki is neither.
“Well?” Loki all but growls, snatching his hand back. “I am growing tired of your silence and ramblings alike, dwarf. Either speak plainly, or I will test the enchantments placed on you.” Curling his mouth into a sneer, he adds softly. “The choice is yours.”
Hadrin blinks slowly, as if waking from a dream, allowing his hand to fall back to his side. He shakes his head, throwing another long and awed look at Loki, or, more accurately, at the magic surrounding him. “The one who cursed you, Amora? She either has a truly wicked sense of humour, or she had forfeited her life in vain.”
“Hadrin.”
“Calm down, I am getting there, it is just…” Shaking his head in disbelief, Hadrin’s face grows serious. “You are not the only one involved in this curse.”
What?
“What?” Loki says, frowning. “How can that… she has cursed me, not anyone else.”
“I wish you could see how it looks… here,” Hadrin says, pointing at some place above Loki’s right shoulder. “Here is where it is the most obvious, another branch leading… well, I cannot believe where it’s leading.”
“I am at the end of my patience, dwarf. I have given you what you asked of me. Now I want the answer. What is the nature of the curse placed on me?”
“Well, you have been cursed with life, apparently.” At Loki’s low growl, Hadrin rolls his eyes. “I’m telling you what you wanted to hear. Your friend has cursed you so that you are basically stealing life from another. You get a day, he loses a week.”
Loki blinks, trying to process what Hadrin said. But why…? Why would Amora grant him a prolonged life? And who is the person on the wrong side of the curse?
You get a day, he loses a week. He?
A thought occurs to him, an awful and terrifying thought, and Loki wants to push it back to the back of his mind… no, to stop it from even forming fully. But it is too late, and Loki releases a choked off sound, staggering back as a face flashes in front of his mind’s eye. Familiar face. Face he knows even better than his own.
A tremor wracks his entire body, his throat filling with bile. She wouldn’t do that. Why would she do something ridiculous and pointless as that?
Taking a deep breath, Loki forces himself to calm down. He is somewhat successful. “You can tell who… who the other person is?” Loki asks, amazed how firm his voice sounds when he feels like he is more likely to collapse in a heap on the ground than remain upright.
A small, almost pitying smile appears on Hadrin’s lips, and Loki wants nothing more than tear it from his face. Along with his mouth. “You ask, and you already know.”
“Who?!” Loki demands, taking a threatening step forward, his hands clenched tightly into fists.
Hadrin remains unafraid, not moving an inch. “Very well, if you need it said, I will say it.” Hadrin’s voice comes out even, his eyes fixed on Loki’s face with an expression that is somehow both amused and merciless. “You are currently stealing life from a very powerful man. The current king of Asgard, Thor Odinson. I believe you know him.”
Loki blinks, then closes his eyes, his ears ringing with the sound of a triumphant laughter of a dead woman.