Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They had no choice.

He was powerful enough to defeat a human army. But when the said army consisted of sapphire-skinned creatures the size of hills and whose mere touch froze the blood in their veins, he could barely shave off their numbers.

They called him the Protector. In these times, he felt he deserved no such title. 

When the giant invaders came from swirling holes ripped from the fabric of the atmosphere, he had tried his hardest to minimize the casualties. He fought in the frontlines and protected as many lives as he could.

However, he was but one man.

They were losing this war. Already, thousands had met their gory ends in the span of weeks. Thousands more will follow if nothing changes.

He could not bear it any longer. 

So, deep into the night, he met with the leader of the foreign invaders and sought to parley to prevent more loss. Jötunn, the giants called themselves. They hailed from an icy planet named Jötunheimr and aimed to expand their territory.

“And why should we spare you mortals?” the leader of the invaders, Laufey-King, asked with a scoff. He grinned, showing rows of sharp teeth. His blood-red eyes glinted with undeniable malice. “What have you to offer us that we cannot take ourselves?”

The Protector took a deep but quiet breath, gathering his courage for the offer he was about to make. His eyes flared brightly, threads of golden energy weaving themselves between his fingers. He lifted his chin and let the giants witness the great power he had at his command.

“Me.”

“Matt! Hey, Matt!”

Matt snapped awake and almost fell out of the plastic chair he had dozed off on. “Wha-What?” He rubbed his aching eyes with the heels of his palms, wincing at the various aches and strains in his body clawing for his attention.

Kyle took in his appearance with his slanted eyes. “Go home, dude. You’ve been in the hospital for almost two days now.” With a cup of steaming coffee in one hand, Kyle gestured at the rumpled lab coat, the unshaven jaw, the greasy hair, and the dark circles under his co-worker’s eyes. On one corner of the table Matt had been napping in, Kyle even spied an unceremoniously placed clipboard.

Matt sighed, running his fingers through his cropped hair. He found Kyle’s idea tempting but, “I can’t go home now, not with us so understaffed.”

“Not anymore. Katlyn arrived a couple of hours ago. She can relieve you.”

Matt brightened considerably. “She’s back from her vacation?” He grappled with the abandoned clipboard and skimmed through its contents. “I’ll update her regarding the emergency patients —"

Kyle shook his head after taking a sip of his coffee. “She’s all caught up now. Nurse Jamil updated her. Go home, Matt. Doctor’s orders.”

Matt groaned. “Can you please come up with a wittier joke sometime soon? You’ve overused that one.”

“It’s a classic,” Kyle defended with a sniff.

“Millennials,” Matt muttered under his breath.

Kyle heard, nonetheless. He squawked. “Hey, you’re a millennial too!”

Matt’s lips quirked up. “I guess I am.” A secret joke that only Matt would get.

Matt did eventually head home. He bid farewell to the nurses and fellow doctors he encountered. A handful of them cooed in concern and scolded him for not going home sooner. He endured the well-meaning lectures with a sheepish smile.

Out of his workwear and stuffed into a comfortably thick wooly coat, Dr. Matthew Ambrose headed out of New York’s Albion Hospital.

Minty air assaulted his cheeks and ears as soon as he stepped out of the automatic glass doors. Matt shivered and drew his coat tighter into himself.

The white ice crunched beneath Matt’s boots as he strides towards his apartment. It was only a twenty-minute walk away so he decided to save money on cab fare.

Besides, snowy winter in the city that never slept was never boring nor lacking in breathtaking sights. 

It was three o’clock in the morning, the skies dark and starless. The night painted structures and skyscrapers in an ominous tone, even as the beautiful white snow etched outlines upon their precipice. Even the lamp posts along the streets emit a drowsy and foggy light, doing little to dissipate the dreary ambiance. People were sparse, each of them wrapped in thick coverings and hurrying to their destinations. Others hold steaming beverages that staved away the cold. Most vehicles were parked and unmoving while a handful of others brave the slippery roads.

Matt usually enjoyed the snow and, sometimes, the cold that came with it. Everything felt surreal and beautiful with white dusty outlines. 

His dream earlier, however, had sparked a sense of unease within him.

Because it was no dream but rather memories of centuries long-buried beneath his mind.

Matt had lived for more than a thousand-and-a-half years, his aging ceasing when he was in his mid-twenties. In those times long passed, he had gained many monikers and responsibilities.

Several lifetimes ago and, indeed, several centuries ago, Matt had once been called Merlin of Ealdor and his responsibility had been to protect the prattish prince of Camelot named Arthur Pendragon. It was his first life, the first quest that mattered. It was also the first (but definitely not the last) time where he miserably failed in his duties. Where he failed his friends and loved ones.

At the tender age of thirty, King Arthur Pendragon died from a stab wound that Merlin could neither prevent nor heal.

Matt remembered the devastation that gripped him as his best friend mumbled heartbreaking last words. Recalled the heartache filling his body when he placed Arthur on a boat and burned away the king’s remains.

Unbeknownst to him back then, deeper grief and sorrow awaited him four centuries after that.

Because Arthur Pendragon and the Knights of the Round table had been prophesied to come back during Albion’s greatest need. And they did. Over and over again, when the British Isles faced a crisis, the reincarnations of the king and his entourage were right there in the thick of things, right there with Merlin himself. They solved problems and led the people into changes for the better. They worked together to fight whatever battle needed to be fought. With the discrete use of his magic, Merlin was also able to smoothen their way to success.

Although Merlin grieved when he found himself alone once more, he had the assurance that he would meet his friends again. He had never truly lost them.

Merlin never truly knew loss until he went to a planet of perpetual winters and lost the most precious thing he had ever gained.

A tiny snowflake lands on Matt’s nose, dragging him out of the memories he tried hard to erase. He shook himself out of his melancholy, knowing that traversing that part of his past would only bring immeasurable grief. Even though it had been a little more than a thousand years since the incident, his heart would drown itself in a fresh wave of malaise. His dream earlier hadn’t helped because it was no mere dream; it was a memory that determined the beginning of his anguish.

The winter season would sometimes remind him of what he had lost, of what he had never stopped looking for even though he told himself that he had given up.

Matt sighed and shoved his ungloved hands into his pocket. He saw the door to his apartment just meters away and released another sigh—this time, one of relief. Exhaustion wracked his whole body, and he’ll most likely sleep for twenty-four hours straight.

His strides on a deserted snow-covered street quickened, his desire for the comforts of his bed overwhelming him.

An incandescent portal ripped through the air a foot away from him, setting all thoughts of home at the back of his mind.

“Gah!” Matt yelped and jumped away from the unwelcome happenstance.

His magic sparkled between his palms in alarm, and he raised his hands in preparation. What the hell was going on? Was it an attack? His identity was well-hidden in this lifetime, and he had not used his abilities to a visible extent. No one should have known that he was anything but a normal New York doctor of the 21st century.

A sapphire-skinned creature pops out of the portal and sprawled onto the snow, drawing all of Matt’s thoughts to a halt. The portal closed with a sucking noise and promptly disappeared without a trace.

Matt stared at the area where the portal had been, and then at the unmoving creature slumped down on the ground. Cautiously, Matt bent down to take a closer look at the person the portal had spat out. 

The first things Matt noted, with horror, were the numerous wounds festering upon their skin. Gaping lacerations crisscross their bare back, oozing black blood and leaving almost no skin unmarked. A shoulder bulged with obvious dislocation and swelling. Their shoulder-length hair was clumped and matted, glued together by blood and gore. Their arms and hands, bearing burn marks and peeled skin, ended with crooked fingers healed wrong.

A shattered femur, a twisted ankle . . . Matt listed off all the injuries in his head to determine the first thing that needed immediate attention. The creature’s stained clothes were barely protecting their modesty, torn and ragged as they were.

Matt didn’t know what manner of creature they were and how they got where they were, but he doubted they would live long without immediate medical attention.

So, Matt reached out and grasped the creature’s least damaged shoulder to provide first aid. He fetched his mobile with his other hand to call an ambulance.

Then, his fingertips ghosted upon the blue skin and a formidable enchantment activated for the first time in a thousand years.

A mother’s touch, warm and gentle.

The first spark of green seiðr upon his pale little fingers, and the delight that courses through his veins at the sensation.

“When I am king, I'll hunt the monsters down and slay them all! Just as you did, Father!” A child’s enthusiasm, bright and golden as his hair. A brother’s touch, affectionate and unconditional.

“Only one of you can ascend to the throne, but both of you were born to be kings.” A father’s voice, a father’s advice.

An achievement, a beast killed using a complex spell that no one his age could do.

“A real warrior shouldn’t make use of such womanly arts.” A condescending voice destroyed whatever pride he could have felt.

A shining sun casting a large shadow over him. Praises heaped upon his brother over the littlest of accomplishments. Criticism pelted down on him when he tried to do the exact same thing.

“Some do battle. Others just do tricks.”

Bitterness filled his throat, his chest, his whole being until he could no longer determine who he was without it. Envy was too petty a word to describe it.

A planned coronation but his brother was not ready to be king. His brother would plunge them into war and would cause the deaths of thousands. Of all his desires, he never wanted the throne, but he could not let his brother claim it too early.

A planned disruption that quickly spiraled out of his control. A trip to the planet of monsters to seek justice.

His pale arm turning a disgusting blue upon a monster’s grip. Horror and terror drowned him.

A brother banished, a father who lied to him his whole life.

“The Casket wasn't the only thing you took from Jötunheimr that day, was it?”

“No. In the aftermath of the battle I went into the temple and I found a baby. Small for a Giant's offspring, abandoned, suffering, left to die. Laufey's son.”

He was but a stolen relic.

“You could have told me what I was from the beginning! Why didn't you?”

“You're my son... I wanted only to protect you from the truth…”

“What, because I... I... I am the monster parents tell their children about at night?”

All those years of him disappointing his father, all those years of trying to fit in — it all made sense now. He was no son of his father; he was merely a beast pretending to be otherwise.

His father fell into a deep sleep, and the unwanted throne fell unto him.

In his desire to prove that he was the son of no monster, he planned to destroy all the monsters and their planet. He slaughtered his birth father and would slaughter all those who claimed to be the monster’s kin.

His brother fought with him and destroyed all his plans to prove himself.

In the end, as he hung from the precipice, he was only left with the desire to destroy himself.

He let go and let the Void swallowed him whole.

If only the death he so craved found him in the Void. But creatures with heartless claws and a master with a magnanimously malicious grin found him first.

After countless hours of agony, after his skin had regrown and healed over broken bones, he was convinced to do the master’s bidding.

It wasn’t — He wasn’t forced or mind-controlled or — He wanted this, he wanted a throne and a realm to rule over. He wasn’t controlled, he would never be so weak as to succumb to — he wasn’t, he wasn’t, he wasn’t, he wasn’t. Everything was of his own free will, every action his own. He was — He was not —

The Miðgarðrian mirror showed the flat blue of his irises instead of the normal green but that doesn’t mean — It doesn’t mean anything. He was a magnificent shapeshifter, capable of changing every part of his body.

The plan to rule over Miðgarðr and give the Tesseract to his master failed miserably, as expected. (As expected? Had he planned to fail? Why? He wanted a throne, why would he —)

“You will long for something as sweet as pain,” the Other hissed a promise to be fulfilled.

His not-brother brought him back to Asgard, and his not-father imprisoned him in the deepest dungeons in the realm. He said nothing in his defense; he sneered and mocked and snarled. The years apart from his supposed family had not decreased the bitterness in his heart.

His not-father bound his magic using iron threads weaved with the strongest of suppression spells.

After weeks of peaceful recuperation, the master who he had disappointed broke him out from his prison and stole him away.

Days, weeks, months spent away delirious with pain. He wanted — He wanted to cease being. He wanted everything to stop but such mercies were beyond him now.

Then, days of bliss-filled peace, of his torturers having grown bored of his screams. His bound seiðr recovered, enough to perform an enchantment he knew would not succeed. Hope had continued to make a fool out of him but he owned little else.

It didn’t matter if it succeeded. One way or another, he shall find his escape—

Matt pulled away, turned to the side, and threw up whatever little he ate in the past few hours. When his stomach purged itself of its contents, he continued dry heaving with helpless little gasps.

His head pounded as if a hundred hammers were pummeling sharp nails into his skull. Dark spots burst in his vision, threatening unconsciousness. He supposed that was the result of a thousand years’ worth of memories cramming themselves into his mind in the span of a minute.

As recollections not his own settled into his mind, a motley of feelings crackled in his chest like bolts of lightning.

Red-hot anger, one that can burn the whole world down. Regret and heartache, ones that almost consumed him and rendered him completely immobile. Relief and joy, so potent that he could transform winter into spring.

A soft whine slapped him out of his inner storm.

Matt wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sprung towards the injured Jötunn. Loki. His — His —

Loki’s broken fingers twitched, his head moving against the snow. With a small gesture, Matt destroyed every CCTV in the area. Because of the late hour, the street had remained deserted, and their encounter stayed unwitnessed. After ensuring no record of Loki returning to Earth existed, he gingerly turned Loki onto his back. Snow clung to the wounds, emphasizing their goriness and length.

The sight of Loki’s mouth stitched closed with magic-suppressing iron threads sent a simmer of anger down his chest. Matt pushed it away. There will be a time for that.

More thoughts and notions filtered through Matt’s mind at the touch. Endless pain. The relief of the cold against his monster skin. Did I escape? Am I out of his clutches?

The spell he had placed on a sapphire-skinned babe more than a thousand years ago appeared to be undeterred in spite of its inactive years. Matt was heart-wrenchingly glad for it. Without it, he would have lived his life not knowing that —

“You’re going to be fine,” Matt says, voice cracking. He slipped his arms around Loki’s shoulders and under the back of the Jötunn’s knees. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

~O~

With a snap of his fingers, Matt broke the disgusting suppression spell over the threads.

Loki, unconscious and barely breathing as he lied upon the sole bed in Matt’s apartment, released a breathless gasp. His seiðr fizzled, feeble but free to replenish itself.

Next, Matt cast another spell, suppressing the pain signals sent by Loki’s nerve endings. Loki’s limbs subsequently went lax, the permanent frown upon his bruised brow smoothing out in relief. 

Matt cut the disenchanted threads with a sanitized pair of medical scissors and made quick but careful work of pulling the iron threads out the sensitive skin around Loki’s lips. As soon as the threads were as far as possible from its victim, Matt burned them all away with a sharp and curt gesture.

For several hours, Matt let his magic flow free like winds in a hurricane. Golden threads stitched gaping skin, burned away infections, aligned and reset bones, patched over torn muscles, and healed internal bleedings. Scars that would have otherwise marked blue skin didn’t come to existence, smoothened away with a whispered spell and gentle hands.

Loki’s seiðr sputtered, attempting to help with repairing all the damage but too impotent to do much. The Jötunn himself moved little all throughout the healing sessions, breathing even and sleep undisturbed.

With every touch, Matt inadvertently gathered sensations from the creature under his care. Exhaustion. Hunger. Bewilderment. Relief. Longing.

Safe, Matt tried to emit often but he was not sure Loki was receiving the message.

The dissolution of the thousand-year spell was the first thing Matt did after he finished healing all of Loki’s injuries. He had only kept it to gauge the extent of Loki’s wounds and healing abilities. Now, there would be no more breach of privacy. But Matt doubted Loki would be at all pleased at the memories and thoughts Matt had already seen. That was, thankfully, a concern for the future.

For now, having cleaned up all remnants of Loki’s trials upon his body, Matt opened the windows to let the winter air into the room. Loki’s temperature was far too warm for a Jötunn; the freezing wind will do him some good.

The mid-morning sun streamed from foggy skies.

Matt himself breathed in the chilly air, letting it cool the fires in his veins caused by his overuse of magic. He basked in the weak sunlight.

When he realized who exactly Loki was, Matt had set aside all emotions the epiphany provoked and focused on treating Loki. Now that it was done, there was nothing stopping the turbulent thoughts from invading his mind.

Matt let every facet of the day’s happenstance consume him for a brief second. 

Then, he began compartmentalizing.

He locked away the indescribable rage deep at the back of his mind. It would do neither of them good. He would bring it forward when the time came.

The grief and sorrow — he allowed it to languish in his chest. He let the full weight of his failure squash his heart for a short minute.

Then, he exhaled and let them dissipate.

The happiness blossoming in his chest could not be contained. He turned back to the person upon his bed and his lips curled in a smile.

Because no matter what happened, no matter how much time they had lost, Loki was here now. Loki was right by his grasp, his to protect and to cherish.

Several lifetimes ago and, indeed, several centuries ago, when creatures called the Jötunn attempted to subjugate Earth, Matt brought down lightning storms upon his enemies and vanquished many of them. He had gone by Merlin back then too, but people had called him monikers. The Protector, the humans decided. The creatures of Jötunheimr granted him another epithet.

The danger-striker. The sudden-attacker.

Fárbauti, they once named him.

Matt approached the bed once more and studied the raised portion of skin along his arms. Heritage lines inherited from his biological father, Laufey-King. But the curved embossment on Loki’s forehead and brows were unmistakably from the other parent. They were symbols Matt had traced with awe upon a newborn babe wriggling in his arms.

Loptr, Matt’s mind whispered the name he had spent a millennium trying to forget.

A memory that masqueraded as a dream, and a desperate teleportation spell that led Loki to him.

Matt felt like the fates were finally being kind to them both.

~O~

Chapter Text

Loki woke up in the same way he always did in the past years: every movement stifled, and mind instantly aware.

Being groggy was a luxury he could no longer afford. And the less his captors knew of his state of consciousness, the better. He kept his breathing and his heartbeat slow. Using every sense except his sight, Loki attempted to determine where he was.

A soft cushion underneath him caressed his exposed skin. A gentle wind blew from his left side, bringing with it unexpected respite. Loki noted absently that no clothing remained upon his skin; he was completely naked and covered in nothing but a paper-thin blanket.

Cloth swished about nearby. Wood creaked in the muffled distance. Mellow footfalls padded on said wood and metal clattered. Loki tensed for half a second then forced himself to relax. The footsteps did not appear to be drawing closer.

The potent aroma of boiling meat made Loki’s mouth water. Abruptly, his stomach rumbled. Loki suppressed a flinch. Months of starvation had silenced his stomach’s clamoring for hunger; he was surprised to find it so active now.

Where am I?

His sightless observations only confirmed the fact that his desperate attempt at a teleportation spell had succeeded. Judging by the comfortable bedding and the lack of unnamable screeching, he had escaped his Chitauri captors. How long he would remain free remained uncertain.

Loki tentatively twitched his arm to gauge more of his surroundings. He braced himself for the pain the action would invoke. Which did not come.

Blood-red eyes flew open in shock.

A cracked ceiling and streams of fading sunlight assaulted the eyes that were too used to the darkness. Loki closed them again for a moment and briefly allowed them respite before opening them again.

Loki moved his arms and tried to sit upon the bed had been lying upon. His muscles were stiff, his limbs adopting a numb quality. But the pain that was his constant companion for months was almost nonexistent. Nothing stung, burned, or stabbed.

The thin red blanket fell from his chest and onto his lap, exposing an expanse of blue skin marred only by heritage lines and nothing else.

His body reflected nothing of his torture. No lacerations, no peeled skin, not even a single bruise.

Another wave of shock electrified him as he noticed another thing missing. Tentatively, he lifted his hand and ghosted (uncrooked and straightened) fingers upon his lips. Smooth and unhindered skin. Unsuppressed. Unthreaded.

Half-believing it to be a very good illusion, he worked his jaw. His mouth opened and closed without a single obstacle.

He reached for his seiðr. It responded, weak but ready to whatever bidding it was currently capable of.

Did I die after all?

That was the only explanation for it all. But his current chambers did little to confirm that notion, looking nothing like Helheim or even Valhalla.

The chambers were about the size of Loki’s prison in Asgard. The assortment of clutters, however, made the room appear much smaller. A small wardrobe of clothes, a varnished desk, an oddly structured black chair, primitive devices, several unorganized parchments . . . The paraphernalia in the chambers was somewhat archaic and largely unfamiliar.

The closed-door opened with a quiet squeak, knocking Loki out of his musings. His head snapped to it in alarm.

The individual by the doorway froze, their dark blue eyes widening. They were tall, cropped hair raven-dark, cheekbones high, ears blatant, and complexion pale. The clothing they donned was simple and unadorned, containing no hint of their status or role.

Loki kept his face blank and uninterested, expertly hiding his trepidation. He had little time to plan, to strategize his next steps. On the other hand, Loki had always been good at improvising.

The man — the owner of the abode, Loki assumed — unfroze himself and cleared his throat. “H-Hey. How are you feeling?”

For the briefest of moments, Loki was thrown off-guard. Miðgarðrian speak. He was in Miðgarðr? It was the last place he expected the teleportation spell to bring him.

“I —" Mortifyingly, a coughing fit gripped Loki’s too dry throat.

The Miðgarðrian by the doorway bristled in what appeared to be concern. He made a gesture, his eyes flared a golden color, and a glass of water darted to his waiting hand.

Astonishment and bewilderment filled Loki’s chest. A Miðgarðrian seiðrmann? He thought those kinds were long extinct. It seemed he had underestimated Miðgarðr once more.

The Miðgarðrian hurriedly approached Loki’s bed, water in tow. Loki couldn’t suppress a flinch in time. Abruptly, the Miðgarðrian paused his movements and slowly resumed them, blatantly telegraphing each and every twitch of his limbs.

Loki was handed the water, and he drank it with little hesitation. If the Miðgarðrian wished to poison Loki, he would have done so when Loki was helplessly unconscious.

“Slowly,” the Miðgarðrian said.

Loki resisted the urge to shoot the Miðgarðrian a glare. He was no child.

He eventually finished the water, wetting his throat but unable to quench his thirst. He had gone without it for far too long for a mere glass to satiate him. Licking his lips, Loki handed the glass back to the Miðgarðrian.

“I-I am grateful,” Loki said, seeing no harm in endearing himself slightly to the Miðgarðrian. Until he knew more about his current circumstance, it would be best to be as harmless and charming as possible.

Also, Norns, he could finally speak. He had missed his words.

Loki offered a smile. Then, realizing that an array of sharp teeth didn’t exactly portray a friendly image, he ceased doing so.

The Miðgarðrian returned the smile, nonetheless, his flat and unsharpened incisors much more amiable than Loki’s own. Unexpected jealousy lanced through Loki’s chest for such a petty thing.

A few months past, his bound and mostly useless seiðr had consumed his Æsir glamor to help heal him from the torture that kept on coming. Back then, when his pale skin faded to blue ones, he had not the time or the thought to care. Now, however . . . He shuddered and hoped his seiðr would recover soon.

“So, uh, how are you feeling?” the Miðgarðrian repeated, dragging a chair for him to sit on.

While it did mean the Miðgarðrian wasn’t looming over Loki, it did signify that this conversation would take a while. Loki had little patience for any sort of discussion right now, but he supposed he should dredge it up from somewhere.

“I am well,” Loki answered. He glanced at his healed fingers and recalled the spell the Miðgarðrian performed earlier. “I suppose I have you to thank for that?”

“No headaches? Dizziness?” the Miðgarðrian prodded, mouth a moue of seriousness. “I tried to replenish the blood you lost but I wasn’t sure if it was enough.”

A blood-replenishment enchantment? Loki discreetly darted his eyes over the Miðgarðrian’s form; he found no hint of exhaustion on the man. Even Asgard’s best healers would be, at best, quick to rest after such enchantment and would not awaken for many days. Plus, the Miðgarðrian had also healed major wounds completely and without a trace. And . . .

Again, without explicit permission, Loki found his fingers tapping the skin around his lips. Still threadless. His seiðr was still unbounded.

Loki came to his senses and casually lowered his arm. The Miðgarðrian seiðrmann took notice anyway.

The Miðgarðrian’s expression twisted — in anger or sympathy, Loki knew not. “Yeah, it was a nasty enchantment, wasn’t it?” Anger, it was definitely anger, Loki realized. The Miðgarðrian’s hands curled into fists.

The fury crackled in the air between them. Loki’s own seiðr responded at the potential threat, spluttering feebly. Loki held his breath and hoped the rage wasn’t directed at him.

Then, the Miðgarðrian exhaled, deflating like a popped rubber ball. “Anyway, I’ve removed every trace of it now. Your seiðr should recover soon.” His tone held a pleased lilt as if his anger never was.

The Miðgarðrian had broken the Allfather’s binding spell as if it was no effort at all. Unease filtered through Loki; it seemed he had yet again found himself under the rule of a formidable being. And here he thought the Norns were finally favoring him.

He upped his polite act. “And you have my utmost gratitude for that, good sir,” Loki replied, letting his voice drip with faux relief. “I am in your debt. If there’s anything you wished of me, I would try my best to fulfill it.”

Something unidentifiable flitted by the Miðgarðrian’s features. If Loki didn’t know any better, he would describe it as fondness. “There will be no debts between us, Loki.”

Loki stiffened but quickly tried to hide his reaction. “It seems you have me at a disadvantage. I have no knowledge of your name.” His tone was bland, belying none of the alarm he felt.

The Miðgarðrian winced. “Merlin. That’s my name. I owe you a thorough explanation, but I wanted to discuss it after you’ve recovered some more.” He ran his finger through his dark hair and sighed. “After dinner then. Would you like to have your dinner at the table, or would you like me to bring it to your bed?”

Loki wanted the explanation now. If the Miðgarðrian had already deduced Loki’s identity, then this Merlin surely already had planned on how to make use of his vulnerable guest.

Loki bit his tongue. The Miðgarðrian had the upper hand here, and it would do him well to be as affable as possible.

“I would prefer dinner at a table,” Loki said.

The Miðgarðrian rummaged through the messy wardrobe in the room and offered Loki a set of clothes. After, the Miðgarðrian headed to the door to give Loki some privacy.

“Shout if you need any help?” What should have been a statement lilted into an uncertain question.

So, Loki gave a curt nod in reply, knowing that he would do no such thing. The Miðgarðrian sent him a closed-lipped smile before closing the door to the chambers behind him.

Loki quickly donned the given clothes, trying not to notice the revolting color of his skin. Dizziness assaulted him as soon as he stood up. Thankfully, the black spots in his vision dissipated after a few breaths.

His muscles throbbed dully but again, to his amazement, no great pain appeared forthcoming. He truly was healed, completely and without doubt.

No small amount of seiðr was used to remedy his heavy injuries. The repayment that the Miðgarðrian would demand would be just as considerable. If Loki didn’t manage to bury a dagger into the Miðgarðrian’s back first, that was.

Loki paced the tiny area between the bed and the wall, stretching the limbs that he thought he would never use again. Taking deep breaths and combing back his bedraggled hair, he prepared himself for the next set of trials that awaited him.

After delaying as much as he could, Loki exited the chambers and readied himself for a negotiation.

Warm air blew into his skin, making Loki realize the coldness of the room he was just in. Loki glanced back, noted the open window and the snow-covered sill. He knows I’m a frost giant. He knows what a frost giant is. That didn’t bode well.

The outer chambers presented most of the area of the house. The receiving room, with cushioned furniture and entertainment devices. The kitchen, with primitive stoves and pots and pans. The dining room with a humble set of chairs and an equally unimpressive table.

The Miðgarðrian was a flurry of movements, arranging bowls and utensils on the dining table. With mitten-covered hands, he heaved a pot emitting the most delectable smell and set it down in the middle of the table. He used no hint of seiðr in his actions.

“Sit, sit,” the Miðgarðrian beckoned amiably.

Loki claimed one of the chairs with the grace of a prince. The Miðgarðrian might know who he was and what he was, but Loki was determined to leave a good impression from here on. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

The Miðgarðrian shook his head and ladled a large helping of stew on Loki’s bowl. “I cooked something light for your stomach. Tell me if it doesn’t agree with you.”

Loki hid his discomfort at the fussy behavior, unable to guess the motive for it. “I am grateful for your consideration,” he replied instead, taking care to keep his smile closed-lipped.

For a few embarrassing minutes, Loki struggled to hold the spoon with his long-nailed hands. But he persevered and got used to it fairly quickly.

They ate in relative silence. The stew was indeed light but no less savory. Loki’s stomach rumbling calmed the more he spooned the fare into his mouth. It was the first real food that touched his tongue for months. He savored each drop of the soup but took care not to eat like the mannerless beast that he looked to be.

The Miðgarðrian glanced at him every few minutes, observing and doing so none-too-subtly. Loki ignored him for the most part, more focused on enjoying his meal.

The Miðgarðrian wordlessly served Loki a second bowl, then a third, and a fourth. Loki ate them all without complaint, hunger thoroughly satiated.

When the Miðgarðrian began ladling the fifth serving, Loki held up a hand. “I’m quite full, thank you.”

The Miðgarðrian sat back down, sheepish. He tried to resume his meal, which, Loki noted, was not even half empty.

Now that Loki was full and his dinner was finished, he prodded with a confidence he did not feel, “Am I to get an explanation now?” He arched a dark brow, lips carefully quirked in a smirk.

“Ah, yes, of course.” The Miðgarðrian cleared his throat, looking unreasonably jittery.

He opened his mouth, and it stayed open for several silent seconds. Then, he snapped it shut, frowning and pondering. After a few more moments of this, the Miðgarðrian groaned and muttered, “Good god, where do I start?”

Loki valiantly fought down the urge to grab the Miðgarðrian’s head and smack it down the table. Instead, he plastered on a patient expression and replied, “The beginning, perhaps?”

“No, that’s not really a good idea.” The Miðgarðrian abruptly brightened. “All right, okay.” He breathed in deeply and steepled his fingers atop the table. “The teleportation spell you did. What does it do? Why did it bring you here?”

Loki blinked rapidly. How much does this Miðgarðrian know exactly? How did he know I was the one who did the teleportation spell when he knew my seiðr was bound? Is this an interrogation then instead of an explanation? Of course, Loki should have expected it.

“I wasn’t the one who opened the portal,” Loki lied coolly. “My seiðr was bound if you remember. I couldn’t have —"

“You gathered enough seiðr for one low-level but highly dangerous teleportation spell,” the Miðgarðrian cut off, not unkindly. “The blood-seek enchantment.”

So, he already knew and was testing to see if Loki would lie. And Loki failed that test miserably. Pretending he had done nothing wrong, Loki kept his disarming smile on. “Ah, yes, of course. My apologies. My memory of that time is a bit fuzzy.”

The Miðgarðrian huffed out an amused sound but didn’t challenge Loki’s claims. Then, he sobered up and met Loki’s gaze head-on. “So why did a spell like that bring you here? To Ear— Miðgarðr?”

Loki shrugged, having spared not a thought about it. “The spell is dangerous because it is highly unpredictable.”

The blood-seek teleportation enchantment was one of the most dangerous spells in existence. It didn’t require much seiðr but something far more dangerous. Its casting required copious amounts of the caster’s blood, and its result could be unexpected at best. Fortunately, Loki had spilled a great supply of the former and lacked the necessary care for the latter. Anywhere was better than the Mad Titan’s torture chambers.

The Miðgarðrian disentangled his steepled hands only to tap a finger upon the wood of the table. “The teleportation spell aims to find the caster’s closest blood relative and open a portal connecting to the location.” He glanced at Loki as if to confirm.

“Correct,” Loki replied patronizingly as if congratulating a child on his first letters.

If the sacrificial blood was not enough, it could spit the caster out into empty space. If the blood relative had erected a defense against location spells, the portal would simply not form. Too many risks, not enough benefits. For a desperate man such as Loki, the spell had been his only choice.

In all honesty, Loki had expected to find himself in Jötunheimr. He had heard rumors that Laufey had two more sons, and Loki expected the spell to spit him at their doorstep. Miðgarðr was truly the better option of the two so he wasn’t complaining.

The Miðgarðrian licked his lips, the tapping of his finger growing quicker. “So. So the spell popped you right at my feet.”

Immediately, Loki realized the wrong assumption the Miðgarðrian had. Amusement and distaste simultaneously flicked by Loki’s chest at the notion that he was related by blood to a Miðgarðrian.

“I can assure you that we share no blood,” Loki drawled out, finding the idea ridiculous.

“And I can assure you that you’re wrong,” the Miðgarðrian shot back before visibly biting the inside of his cheek. He looked to the heavens and laughed a little. “I’m not making this easy, am I?”

Loki stared at the Miðgarðrian, unamused now.

However.

Loki could make use of this.

“And how do you suspect we are related?” Loki asked, tentative, letting faux hope tint his tone but peppering in enough dubiousness.

The Miðgarðrian sighed. “I was once called Fárbauti.”

Loki waited. No words followed, just the Miðgarðrian staring at him as if that statement should have meant something. “And who is Fárbauti?” This time, he couldn’t hide the annoyance from his features. He wished the Miðgarðrian would stop dilly-dallying.

The Miðgarðrian blew out another breath, shoulders slumping down. His eyes strayed from Loki’s. “Over a thousand years ago, Laufey-King of Jötunheimr tried to subjugate Earth and claimed thousands of human lives. To prevent more carnage, the leaders of the human tribes offered him a powerful being that will help him rule without cruelty.”

Unease crawled through Loki’s full stomach. His clawed fingers gripped the edge of the table. Unreasonably, he wished the Miðgarðrian would cease speaking.

“The two of them had . . . relations. And so Laufey-King’s third and smallest son was conceived and born.” The Miðgarðrian brought his dark-blue gaze back to Loki and locked eyes with him. “Loptr, he was named. Third prince of Jötunheimr, son of Laufey-King and Fárbauti-seiðrmadr. A newborn babe left at the Great Temple for his safety during the war with the Æsir. I thought him dead when the Temple was ransacked. But now I know he was stolen and raised far away from his kin.”

Silence hung in the air, thick and deafening. The Miðgarðrian stared at Loki with no hint of beguilement in his mien.

The sound Loki’s heartbeat pounded in his ears, blood rushing to his head. How did a mere Miðgarðrian know of the circumstance of my birth? Loki dismissed the rest of the ramblings, certain that they were the product of a delusion. Miðgarðrians didn’t even live past the age of two hundred.

(Loki had spared not a thought as to who his other birth parent could have been. It was a waste of time, and Loki cared not for their company if he ever found out they live.)

Only the Allfather and his confidants should have known that he was Laufey’s son or that he was abandoned in Jötunheimr's Great Temple. Seeing as Odin treated Miðgarðrians like they were goats at a feast, Loki doubted this particular Miðgarðrian was one of the Allfather’s confidants.

Had Laufey told anyone before Loki pierced Gungnir into his chest? Who else was privy to Loki’s secrets?

Loki unclenched his fists and forced every tensed muscle to relax. He had to show that none of the Miðgarðrian’s unexpected knowledge affected him.

“A ludicrous story,” Loki drawled out, adopting a casual pose. “You would forgive me for not believing a word of it, I hope.”

The Miðgarðrian scratched his cheek, resigned. “Yeah, I suppose that’s fair. Ask any questions you have. I’ll answer all of them truthfully and hopefully convince you of the truth to my words.”

Loki doubted that. He jumped at the opportunity to get answers, nonetheless. Loki was called the God of Lies; he can dig the truth between weaved words.

“How did you know that I am Laufey’s son?” Loki demanded.

Guilt waved through the lines of the Miðgarðrian’s features. He shifted uneasily, eyes straying away from Loki’s once more. “I didn’t know much about Jötunn physiology when you were born. So, I placed a spell on you that will allow me to sense your feelings upon touch — whether you were hungry or too warm or in any pain at all. Allowed me a window’s view to your memory as well. To be sure you were all right in my few minutes’ absences.” He ran a hand through his mop of dark locks, messing it up further. “Honestly, I didn’t expect it to still be effective after a thousand years. When you came out of that portal and I — I tried to help you, the spell activated.”

Loki frowned heavily. The Miðgarðrian was just prattling on about the same absurd narrative.

“I didn’t know—I gained your memories, Loki. All the highlights of those one thousand years. I never meant—I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He looked utterly contrite; his eyes lowered. “What you know, I now know too.”

Loki froze, the implications of the confession leaving him reeling. “You performed a mind-spell upon me?” It did make sense — how the mortal knew things no one else should have.

After all the violations Loki’s body had wrought, he shouldn’t have been as surprised to experience another. All his secrets were laid bare before this dastardly Miðgarðrian. The Miðgarðrian had already begun seeking repayment even before Loki gained consciousness. He had no chance of fooling the Miðgarðrian from the start.

“I’ve removed it now.” The Miðgarðrian’s hurried assurance was nothing but empty words. “I never meant for the spell to persist a few months after your birth. I’m sorry.”

“Stop it with your infernal claims!” Loki snarled, displaying his fury and dropping all pretenses of being nice. “Performed it at my birth—We both know you placed it on me when I was lying injured and helpless under your hands!”

Loki slammed a fist on the table, making the bowls and utensils clatter. He hid his other hand behind his back and focused on accessing his pocket dimension. He felt the weak snap of his seiðr, and a dagger slipped into his fingers. The action had sapped whatever little seiðr he had recovered. He gritted his teeth, but he had another type of skill for his emergency use, loathe as he was to use it.

The Miðgarðrian flattened his palms on the table, mouth twisting. “What do I have to do to make you believe me? To make you believe that I am your—”

Loki cut him off with a sharp gesture. Any more of these ridiculous lies and he would explode with rage.

Calmly and coolly, Loki turned blood-red eyes towards the Miðgarðrian. He made a show of running his gaze all over the man’s face, searching. “You do remarkably resemble my Æsir form. But—” Here, Loki squinted. “Come closer. I want to see.”

Something akin to hope lightened the Miðgarðrian features. He left his seat and drew closer to Loki’s without hesitation or question.

Fool.

Loki himself gracefully rose to his feet, one hand out of the Miðgarðrian’s sight. When they stood inches away, of the same height to each other, Loki struck.

He tackled the Miðgarðrian and slammed him to the cold hard ground. The Miðgarðrian yelped and cracked his head on the floor. A dazed look entered his eyes, and Loki didn’t wait for him to recover.

Loki grabbed the Miðgarðrian’s face and drew out the frost that all creatures of Jötunheimr kept under their skin. He was clumsy and unused to it, but he managed the right results. Underneath Loki’s clawed hands, the Miðgarðrian’s pale flesh darkened with frostbite. The Miðgarðrian couldn’t even let out a scream, his mouth covered by Loki’s deadly-cold fingers.

Loki laid the dagger on the Miðgarðrian's exposed throat. Just as Loki was about to drag it across and end the Miðgarðrian’s life before the man could use his seiðr, a hand grasped Loki’s wrist to stop his movements.

The pale fingers darkened with algor, Loki’s frost giant abilities at work on every part of his skin. Loki allowed himself a smirk.

Then, Loki realized that the fingers were turning the wrong color.

He stared as soft blue crawled through each of the Miðgarðrian's knuckles before engulfing his whole hand and dipping down his wrists. Raised lines marred the sapphire skin.

Loki’s head snapped to the Miðgarðrian's face. What he had mistaken as frostbite was the same blue tone of skin. The Miðgarðrian's unblinking blue irises swiftly transformed into black pupils drenched in red-blood sclera. His sapphire-skinned cheeks and chin swirled with tribunal marks.

As the color — Jötunn blue — reached the Miðgarðrian's forehead, familiar curving embossments revealed themselves.

Familial lines that were the exact same match to Loki’s own.

Chapter Text

Loki snatched his hands away from the Miðgarðrian (?) as if he had been burned. He kept his dagger firmly in his grip and stared, slack-jawed, at the creature that had been revealed before him.

The Jötunn skin bled from the Miðgarðrian’s skin as soon as Loki’s was off him. In only a few moments, only pale unmarked skin remained.

He sat up and grimaced, rubbing the back of his head and pawing at his reddened throat. “I should have expected that, I think.” He seemed mildly inconvenienced at the attempt to end his life.

“You’re a shapeshifter,” Loki growled out. Of course. It was a trick. All of it was a trick. The Miðgarðrian was truly committed to his ridiculous proclamations of being Loki’s kin.

“I can mimic other lifeforms, yes,” the Miðgarðrian replied. “The Jötunn form is my own, however. It is no mimicked skin,” he added as if reading Loki’s mind. “We share familial lines, Loki. Surely, you saw that.”

“I saw nothing but tricks,” Loki hissed.

“Then, what? What more can I do for you to believe me?” There was a tinge of desperation in the Miðgarðrian’s tone.

“Perhaps if you let me violate your mind just as you did with mine, I would consider it,” Loki snapped back, lips curling to show menacing sharp teeth.

He meant nothing by it, merely spewing out words as a distraction while he planned his next steps. He had failed to get rid of the Miðgarðrian, and he doubted he would get a second chance to do so soon. The only option left was to escape and find somewhere safe to recuperate.

The Miðgarðrian gave a thoughtful pause. Then, he nodded determinedly. “All right, if that’s what you want.”

“What?” 

Before Loki could dodge, the Miðgarðrian leaned forward and clutched Loki’s arms.

The Miðgarðrian’s irises blazed gold. Loki tumbled gracelessly into the sea of memories.

Immeasurable grief, hands scrabbling at the bloodied cloth in the stone cradle.

“You told me he would be safe in the Temple! You told me —"

The cold unfeeling face of Laufey-King. “What care have I for a runt’s death when many of my worthy men lie dead on the battlefield?”

An all-consuming fury. A temple destroyed, the sight of many Jötnar shrinking back in terror.

“Set your rage to Asgard and not on us!” Laufey-King roared. “They’re the ones who slaughtered your child.”

A secret path between worlds. A city made of gleaming gold. A city built from the blood of the other eight realms. Realm Eternal, Asgard was called.

Yellow eyes on a solemn face, dark skin on a bulky body, a giant sword in both hands. The Guardian of a bridge called Bifröst. It was easy to hide from his all-seeing gaze.

But another’s sight found him.

“My, my, who are you?” Bright emerald eyes, high cheekbones, a teasing smirk. “Sneaking around in the Realm Eternal? Are you an assassin here to kill dear old dad? Perhaps I’ll even help you.”

The anger that had brought him here still simmered beneath his skin. “Will you take me to him?”

A large throne room. A one-eyed king with white hair. Beside him, a queen with a halo of blonde locks.

They both looked uninjured. Clean and dressed royally in bright beautiful clothes. No grief lined their faces, no regret for all the children that they got killed in their crusade to rule all of Nine Realms.

He was prepared to make them suffer, to make them feel the same helplessness he had experienced.

Then, the flaxen-haired toddler by the queen’s feet giggled, his tiny pudgy hands pawing at the dark-haired babe on the queen’s lap. With a fond smile, the queen shifted the burbling babe so that the toddler could play with him a bit better.

“My half-brothers,” the green-eyed woman claimed with a huff. “Tiny helpless things, aren’t they?”

They were. Tiny innocent things, unknowing of war and loss.

His anger abruptly deflated at the sight, leaving him bereft and exhausted.

He remained in Asgard for a good while, seeing if he would be able to gather the courage to avenge his slain child. Hela Odinsdottir, the first princess of Asgard with a hunger for conquest like his father, offered to house and hide him.

“You amuse me, Fárbauti-seiðrmadr,” Hela said with gleaming eyes. “Stay and entertain me.”

They weren’t friends. He could never be friends with a blood-thirsty conqueror. But they had use for one another, so they remained somewhat amicable.

“Do you not get tired of it?” he had asked one day, months into their acquaintance. “Of the fighting, of the bloodshed?”

Hela smirked. “Darling, I relish in it.”

He shook his head. “No, you don’t. You relish the control, the power that no woman in this realm is allowed to have. You relish not being seen as merely a tool for breeding. You relish showing the king, your father, that you are much more powerful than him. The fighting, the bloodshed—Those were just the consequence.”

Something dangerous glinted in Hela’s eyes. “You know nothing,” she snarled before storming off.

He saw Hela only once after that, covered in the blood of the Valkyries that tried to contain her. Odin no longer thirsted for conquest, but Hela grew more vengeful in turn. The king sought to kill her, and Hela sought to conquer the golden throne of Asgard for herself.

Hela had detoured to the chambers where she hid him. “Do you not relish this, Fárbauti-seiðrmadr? Asgard destroying itself from the inside?”

He stared at her and felt . . . that this was what he would have become, had he let revenge fuel his actions. He felt nothing but pity for her now. “Don’t hurt your brothers,” he said.

Hela scoffed. “That’s it? I could have avenged your son for you, you know. I killed many Æsir soldiers today. One of them may have been the one who murdered your child.”

A pang of heartbreak. An inconsolable grief. It had been many years, but it did not lessen the sorrow. But the thought of a child-killer dead by Hela’s hands soothed the pain a little bit. “I thank you, Hela.”

Hela looked taken aback. Then, she growled and headed to the throne room to confront the king.

The king defeated her, barely. But the king was also a father, and a father cannot bear to kill one’s child. So, Odin imprisoned her instead of ending her life. He erased all traces of her wrongdoings and her existence in the Nine Realms. And consequently, the king also erased the memory of Asgard’s own wrongdoings.

How convenient.

After, he shed the name Fárbauti, snuck out of the Realm Eternal, and went back to Earth.

He travelled the continents and donned the role of the Protector once more.

Empires and kingdoms rose and fell, some ending with grueling genocide but most with a quiet whimper. The people he once called his own became colonists, waging battle upon lands weaker than their own and stealing resources.

Wars erupted and the worst of humans ordered the deaths of thousands under their commands. The technology grew exponentially, as did the capacity to kill very many humans effectively and with little effort.

Sometimes, he questioned whether humanity was at all worth protecting.

Then, a poor woman shared the little bread she had with her neighbor, a child shielded his little sister from a supposed falling bomb, a man wordlessly helped a stranger carry heavy equipment, a group risked their own lives and livelihood to change an unfair law.

He watched humanity overcoming every difficulty thrown at them, the little and the giant ones, and he knew that they were worth his protection and more.

He never again took the role of a fighter, a soldier, a commander. He never fought in the frontlines of battle and rarely used offensive magic. He was but a healer, a physician. A strategist but never one to plan battle.

At times, he remembered the babe that would never witness the beauty of Earth, and he wept heavily into the night.

His friends, king and knights of old, reincarnated during turbulent times. A beacon of hope amidst the endless dreary days.

“You’re different,” Arthur said. A question gleamed in the king’s eyes.

“I lost something. Someone,” he confessed. And he confessed the rest of the story to his friends shortly after.

His friends had children of their own, people they leave behind in each reincarnation. They understood his grief and offered no empty words of comfort.

It got easier, in time.

He took in orphans and raised them as his own. He guided the young and vulnerable, and protected them from the harm they cannot yet fight.

He tried to have his own child again, one that was biologically his. But it was impossible.

He was infertile, no matter what form he took.

Loptr was a miracle, his little miracle, one the Triple Goddess had magnanimously gifted him. And now he had lost him.

A portal ripping over the skies of New York, lizard-like creatures raining down upon Earth.

A madman dressed in green leathers, vying to conquer the planet.

He could easily close the portal but — the fledgling defenders of the Earth were handling it perfectly. They have no need for his interference. He chose to remain in the shadows, just ensuring the gateway was small and narrow. It bottlenecked the wave of enemies and allowed the civilians more time to escape.

Another disaster passed; another would-be conqueror defeated.

Until.

A portal opened in the middle of an empty street in New York and returned to him the most precious thing he ever had.

Loki gasped for air as the Miðgarðrian released his hold.

The images, sensations, memories were slow to settle in his mind. He grasped his aching head, dropping his dagger, and biting back a groan.

“Sorry, sorry!” The Miðgarðrian — Fárbauti, Merlin, Matthew — hovered around him, concern furrowing his brows. “I guess there’s really no way to make a mind-spell completely painless.”

“Cease speaking,” Loki gritted out.

Merlin (Fárbauti? How was Loki supposed to address his —) shut his mouth with a click.

Loki closed his eyes and concentrated on organizing the newfound knowledge thrust upon him. He cannot question their authenticity; a formidable mind-spell such as that cannot create false memories. It was a raw transfer of information, unfiltered and undeniable.

So, it was true. It was all true. This Miðgarðrian was Loki’s biological — his —

Mother? Father?

Jötnar were of both genders. Loki didn’t know whether Laufey or Fárbauti bore him, and he honestly didn’t want to find out.

Loki’s hand went to his chest where he could still feel the echo of unnamable grief and fury. A parent still mourning the child he lost more than a thousand years ago.

The child he was mourning was Loki.

“Odin said I had been abandoned, left to die,” Loki said. He flicked an inquiring gaze up at the Miðgarðrian.

The Miðgarðrian’s eyes darkened. “Why would an abandoned babe be placed right next to Jötunheimr's treasured artifact? Why would an abandoned babe be left at the heavily guarded Great Temple in the same room as the Casket of Ancient Winters?”

After Laufey confirmed Loki’s status as a runt, Loki never thought to question Odin’s story. 

Loki nodded in acknowledgment and then went back to sorting out the new memories. Merlin stayed quiet, sitting a foot away from him on the floor.

After a few minutes, Loki spoke up again. “Hela Odinsdottir. Odin really had a daughter as his firstborn?” Thor had a sister he never met. Or never remembered meeting anyway.

(Is she not my sister too —)

The revelation that Odin had more life-changing secrets to keep was no longer surprising. Loki wondered what Thor would feel when he found out about this one. How would it feel to have your father lie to you to ‘protect’ you, oh dear not-brother of mine?

“Yes. He imprisoned her when she became out of control,” Merlin confirmed.

“When she became out of his control,” Loki emphasized. Oh, and was that not familiar?

Merlin acknowledged that with a tilt of his head.

“I look much like her,” Loki said quietly. Green mischievous eyes, pale skin, dark straight hair. The same penchant to attack their own family members. “Do you know why?”

Merlin blinked, surprised at the question. He shook his head. “I honestly have no idea. I didn’t even notice.”

Merlin likely took no note because Loki looked nothing like that now. Loki was no longer in his Æsir form.

Another pregnant silence filled the air between them. Merlin sat patiently, awaiting more questions.

Loki didn’t know what to think, let alone feel. A swirling mass of emotions took his chest in a storm, heavy and tiresome.

He had not been abandoned as a babe. Odin had stolen him from a parent that could have loved him wholeheartedly. Who loved him still, even with all of Loki’s misdeeds laid bare for him to see.

Frigga was a loving mother. Even after Loki was imprisoned for his crimes, she had visited through her astral projections, caring for her as a mother would to her unruly child. She continued to treat Loki as her son and tried to comfort him in her own way.

But even Frigga had also lied to him his whole life. She wanted to tell him the truth but didn’t; in the end, that was all that mattered (wasn’t it?). How was Loki to know her attempts to comfort him weren’t merely manipulations done to pacify the monster they’ve raised?

Loki breathed in and out, overwhelmed but attempting to perish the feeling. Norns, he had just escaped his torture. He wasn’t too prepared to deal with a revelation of this scale. But deal with it, he must.

“What happens now?” Loki asked, lifting his head and meeting Merlin’s gaze for the first time since the end of the mind-spell.

Merlin visibly swallowed and then badly attempted to adopt a nonchalant visage. “I wish — you would stay. At-At least until you’ve recovered enough magic to defend yourself out there. But what—what do you want to happen now?”

What did Loki want? He was rarely given such a broad choice in the past years. He took the time to contemplate the question.

The Mad Titan had surely noticed his escape by now. He would come for Loki once more, that was for certain. But the Mad Titan’s plans were already in the works; Thanos might put off looking for Loki because he had much more important matters to take care of. With this, Loki had time to prepare.

As for the golden realm, Heimdallr would have already known that the once-prince of Asgard was on Miðgarðr. The Mad Titan’s domain cloaked itself against the all-seeing gaze. As soon as Loki portalled out of there, he was no longer hidden from Heimdallr or Odin. Plans to retrieve him must already be underway. If the Bifröst had been already repaired, they would be coming for him soon.

Soon, the defenders of Miðgarðr would find him here in this abode and capture him again.

What did Loki want? He wanted to stop running. He wanted to find a safe place away from all the lies he had surrounded himself with and just breathe.

Inexplicably, he wished to know more about this Miðgarðrian who shared his secrets with the God of Lies and Chaos without hesitation. With that, he had given Loki power over him — the power to destroy his peaceful life in Miðgarðr, the power to expose him and his weaknesses to potential enemies.

Loki wished to know how Merlin came to his power, how he came to meet Laufey and came to live in Jötunheimr. Who were his friends that seemed to consistently reincarnate every couple of centuries? The memories Merlin had shared had been plentiful, but they were compact, the low and the high points, no nuance or details between them.

But what choice did Loki truly have?

“I cannot stay,” Loki said. He plucked his dagger from where it landed and got off the floor.

A crestfallen expression claimed Merlin’s face. “Oh.”

Loki bit the inside of his cheek, an urge to explain bubbling in his chest. In the end, he allowed the truth to fall from his lips. “As you are aware, I am wanted by many dangerous people. Should I stay, I will bring all of them to your doorstep.”

Merlin hurriedly stumbled to his feet. “I don’t mind!” He cleared his throat and composed himself a bit. “I mean — you know as well as I do that I am more than capable enough to protect myself. And you. I am powerful enough to keep you safe from them.”

Loki gripped the hilt of his dagger tighter, a band constricting in his chest. Such a careless offer. “Your seiðr is indeed impressive. But you will be nothing but dust against them.”

“You haven’t seen the true extent of my skills,” Merlin insisted.

Loki arched a brow. “I almost managed to kill you mere minutes ago. I who was recently injured and have no seiðr at my disposal.”

Merlin smirked, mischief lining his eyes. “You wouldn’t have managed to kill me, believe me. You only got as far as that because I let you.”

Loki’s brows rose. “You let me?”

Merlin shrugged. “I wasn’t about to raise a hand against you. And I thought you needed to let out some steam.”

Merlin was well within his rights to raise a hand against Loki given the circumstances. That he did not showed proof of either his denied weakness or his unreasonable leniency towards the creature he thought his son.

Fool.

Loki scolded himself for letting amusement and fondness color his thoughts.

“Look.” Merlin crossed his arms, shoulders set in a determined line. His voice, when he spoke, was strengthened with a conviction that sent Loki reeling. “Dangerous people are coming for you, yes. But you know me now. You know I will not stand back and let them take you — no matter who they are. Whether they are stronger than me, whether they’ll merely step on me like an ant — I will die and kill before I let them touch a single hair on your head.”

The words sent a fissure of shock, awe, and disbelief down Loki’s spine. Loki did know; he knew Merlin would and did almost raze a realm to the ground for him. But knowing and hearing it out loud were two different things.

Thor would have done that for Loki, once. But there were far too many betrayals between them now.

Loki flipped the dagger in his grip, absentmindedly playing with it as he avoided Merlin’s piercing gaze. “How can you say that after seeing all that I’ve done?”

Merlin sighed, posture loosening. “I won’t lie and say your past actions don’t matter to me.”

Loki nodded, expecting as much. The Protector of Miðgarðr would hardly be called as such if Loki’s attempt to subjugate it was ignored.

Something in Merlin’s eyes softened. “But there were extenuating circumstances and reparations can still be made. You are not even of age yet so you can’t take the full blame.”

Loki honestly had no plans on making reparations nor did he really want to. He would have said as much but the latter part of the remarks caught his complete attention. “Not even — I’m more than a thousand years old, by your Miðgarðr reckoning!” he exclaimed, indignant. He would not be reduced to a mere child who didn’t know what he was doing.

Merlin blinked rapidly. “Yes. Just a thousand years old.” Then, a realization appeared to have come to him. “Yes, you’re of age for an Æsir because they live for about five thousand years. But the Jötnar live for twice as long. A Jötunn can only claim maturity when they’ve lived for over two thousand years.”

Loki opened his mouth to protest and realized, with horror, that he cannot. Even though he was one himself, Loki knew little of frost giants and their ways. He only knew what he himself observed in his own glamor-less body.

Was he just a child throwing a tantrum all these years? The notion horrified him beyond belief.

Then, Loki recalled that he wasn’t fully Jötunn. “What —" are you? “— is your lifespan? How long does a . . . Miðgarðrian like you live?”

Merlin was not an average Miðgarðrian, not if he had existed long before Loki was born. Looking at Merlin’s features, he could not have been older than Loki himself but that couldn’t be right.

“Oh! Uh.” Merlin rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t actually know. I stopped aging a while back. But I was fully shapeshifted into a Jötunn back then, so you don’t have mixed blood, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Stopped aging? Judging by the redirection of the topic, Merlin didn’t wish to discuss it. Loki relented for now, but it was a subject he desired to know more about. Very few beings in the galaxy could claim an ageless ability.

“You would risk your life for me because you think me a child?” Loki asked, anger brimming in his tone. He didn’t need anyone’s pity or charity.

“I’ll risk my life for you because you’re my child,” Merlin said as if it was that simple. “It doesn’t matter how old you are.”

Loki swallowed at the admission. No flowery vows, just a simple straight fact. “And if I still choose to leave?”

Again, Merlin adopts that same crestfallen expression. Was Merlin truly that easy to read or was he a master manipulator aiming to gain sympathy from Loki?

“I only ask that you allow me to put a non-intrusive tracking spell on you. So that I can know when you’re in trouble,” Merlin said.

Loki huffed. “I won’t need your help.” Loki had gotten through the worst trials by himself without depending on anyone.

“You’ll have it anyway,” Merlin replied without missing a beat.

Unreasonable.

Merlin reeked of unreasonable sentiment throughout their interactions. He had nothing to gain by helping Loki, nothing to gain but immeasurable trouble. He would endanger his peaceful life to care for a stranger that shared his blood but did little to earn his trust.

Loki rolled the hilt of his dagger over his palm, contemplating.

His injuries had healed but his body was still filled with exhaustion. The threads stitching his lips closed were gone but his seiðr was nonexistent. He still had his Æsir — or rather, Jötunn —strength and durability and the ice powers that it entailed.

There were people after Loki, and he had already stayed for far too long in one place.

But.

Loki swiped a stray curl out of his eyes and sighed. He was tired, and Merlin was offering a tempting place where another would watch his back.

Loki didn’t trust Merlin, not completely. Merlin appeared too softhearted and naive, but he had no desire to hurt Loki. For now, that was. So, Loki trusted Merlin more than he trusted anyone else right now.

“One night,” Loki said, finally. “I’ll stay for one night more.”

“Okay.” Merlin’s resulting grin was wide and bright. “Okay.”

Chapter Text

~O~

Loki turned in for the night shortly after their talk, clearly exhausted by the day’s endeavors.

Matt kept the bedroom window open, letting the minty winter air bathe the bedroom walls. Loki appeared more comfortable with lower temperatures, although he tried not to show it.

“Good night,” Matt bade, trying not to sound unsure.

Loki nodded in reply, stashing the sharpest dagger Matt had ever seen under a pillow. Matt counted the response, meek as it was, as a victory.

Matt closed the bedroom door, crushing the urge to fuss even more. Loki wouldn’t welcome his ministrations at all.

He smiled as he cleaned the remains of their dinner. That went a lot better than he expected. Only an almost stabbing had occurred, and Loki had listened to him. Loki believed him, which was more than he could have asked for.

Matt transferred the dirty dishes onto the sink and began washing them.

Loki would be safe here in his home. If Loki had relented and agreed to stay for one night, Matt was confident he could convince the Jötunn to stay for a few more. Matt loathed the idea that Loki would be out there without any defense, given the people's cruel nature after him.

The Mad Titan, Asgard, the Avengers . . .

Matt frowned in contemplation, scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain inside the pot.

He needed to get plans afoot and pull in some favors. It wouldn't be easy, and it certainly wouldn’t be simple. A small price to pay, Matt thought, to keep Loki by his side. Or, at the very least, free to move about on Earth.

The doorbell rang with a noisy clamor.

Matt threw a silencing spell towards the bedroom, making sure the sound didn’t disturb the occupant inside. Then, Matt wiped his suds-filled hands on a towel and frowned at the front door. Matt wasn’t expecting guests, especially this late in the day.

The doorbell rang again.

Matt approached the door and looked through the peephole.

Two individuals, a middle-aged man with cropped dark hair and a young woman with long blonde locks pulled into a loose ponytail, loitered in front. They both adorn an overcoat with the name of an electric company — the electric company responsible for the area, in fact. Curious.

Matt opened the door before they could ring the bell for the third time. “Yes?” The gap on the door was only big enough to poke his head through. He wasn’t wearing anything appropriate for the cold air outside.

“Good evening, sir,” the woman greeted with a bright smile, her dark eyes roaming Matt’s face. “Mr. Matthew Ambrose?”

“That’s me, yes.”

“My name is Dana Williams, and this is my co-worker, Larry Jones,” the woman introduced, tone friendly. The man nodded in acknowledgment when Matt turned to him. “We’re with the New York Power Authority. We’d like to ask a few questions regarding the power outages last night. Were you affected?”

Matt shook his head, frowning. He didn’t remember anything like that in the past few days. “Not that I know of.”

Larry nodded. “A couple of houses in the area were, Mr. Ambrose. We’re trying to determine the cause.”

“You know these corporations.” Dana chuckled. “Trying to see if the fault is theirs or not.”

“Uh, okay. Don’t know if I’ll be much help though,” Matt said. Then, before he could freeze his socks off, Matt grabbed his winter jacket from the rack near the door and donned it.

He went outside, joined the workers, and closed the door behind him to prevent his living room from becoming a freezer. Matt noted Larry’s gaze dropping to his jacket before lifting again. Matt looked down at himself, suddenly afraid that there were some embarrassing patches or tears in the coat. Thankfully, there was none he could see.

“The CCTV cameras were the ones that were most affected,” Dana resumed, reading off her notepad. “Do you have one of those?” She glanced up at the front door’s frame to see for herself.

Oh, bollocks.

Matt should have pretended no one was home. “No CCTVs for me, I’m afraid.”

“Right, right.” Dana nodded, writing down some notes. “Did you see anything strange last night? Lightning strikes? A spark? Kids stealing cables?”

Matt shook his head. A sliver of suspicion clung to his mind. “Saw none of those. Wait.” Matt looked up, faux pondering. “I had a late shift the night before so I may have imagined it, but I heard like—a sucking noise.”

Dana and Larry seemed immensely interested all of a sudden, and not at all confused. “Oh? Anything you can remember can help, Mr. Ambrose.”

Matt inwardly cursed. He damaged all the CCTVs in the area, but something must have been recovered. Technology nowadays was growing more resilient and complex for him to keep up. He should have taken time to make sure no evidence remained. I’ve been careless. On the other hand, Loki would have likely gotten worse last night if Matt had tarried.

Not enough footage must have been recovered though because they weren’t interrogating Matt nor were they treating him dubiously. They were merely gathering more information. How much did they see? Who were these people? FBI, CIA?

SHIELD?

Matt hid his suspicions from his face and faked a laugh. He rubbed the back of his head, sheepish. “Sorry, I just remembered. I had a sci-fi show on when I went to sleep last night. Doctor Who, you know that show? I must have heard the sucking noise from there. You know, vwoorp, vwoorp goes the TARDIS.”

Dana looked disappointed. Larry merely appeared unimpressed.

The two — who were obviously agents of some sort — made a few more inquiries. They circled back to the same questions, just phrasing it differently in an attempt to get Matt to slip up. They were a thousand years too young to attempt such an interrogation tactic on him. Matt kept his story straight, beaming and tittering as if he was the most harmless young man in the world.

His gaze remained on them and pointedly not at the open bedroom window five feet away. The thick curtains were blocking much of what was inside, so Matt valiantly attempted not to worry.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Ambrose,” Larry said, his features solemn. There was a suspicion in his eyes that Matt couldn’t shake off. The agent offered a business card. “If you remember anything more, please give us a call.”

“The New York Power Authority may even reward you if you have info that can help them avoid paying for the damages,” Dana added with a laugh and a wink.

Matt accepted the card without hesitation, plastering an excited mien. “Will do, Ms. Dana, Mr. Larry. You both be careful on your way home.”

The agents left without another word, and Matt calmly re-entered his apartment.

He immediately bolted the door closed and looked through the peephole once more. His entrance remained empty of people, the two agents truly having left.

Matt sighed and leaned against the door for support. Trouble beckoned, and it hadn’t even been one full day.

Well, he knew what he was happily getting into the moment he took Loki in.

He glanced at the closed bedroom door and strode to it without much thought. Quietly, he turned the knob and peeked inside.

Loki laid on the bed under a thin blanket, a furrow in his brows and limbs restless. His sleep was undisturbed, if not peaceful.

Matt cast an enchantment upon the open window, one that would gift any intruders a very rude present indeed.

Wherever agency those two people belonged, it wouldn’t be long before they would come knocking on Matt’s door again. Matt needed to prepare a plan that would ensure they wouldn’t look his way again.

Matt finished washing the dishes with a quick spell.

After, he encased the whole apartment with strong offensive and defensive enchantments that nothing short of a nuclear bomb could damage it.

~O~

Distant voices screaming and screeching. A silence so deafening that he wanted to cover his ears.

Blurry shapes swayed in his vision, lights and colors mixing like a rainbow bridge. 

Thoughts scattered like a drizzle, falling around him. Yet he cannot grasp any of them. 

He was standing up. Or maybe lying down. No, he was falling and falling—

Matt gasped awake, jerking up from the settee with sweat coating him like a second skin. 

The telly flickered on, showcasing an irritatingly loud kids’ show. The fluorescent lights shuddered and moaned. Every piece of furniture shook as if a localized earthquake had possessed each of them.

For several groggy seconds, Matt was still falling and falling into an endless void, and he can’t breathe, there was no air in space—

“Be calm,” a voice commanded, firm and undeniable. “You are in your abode in Miðgarðr. You have just woken up. It is midday. Now, breathe.”

Matt inhaled, finally getting air into his lungs. He exhaled shakily before inhaling again.

Slowly, the dream world released its grip on Matt and his senses. His living room came into focus, the soft cushions under him finally registering in his mind. His ears popped and the loud sounds of the telly filtered in. He winced. With a gesture, he turned it off and enjoyed the blessed silence.

A glass of water entered his vision and startled him. Matt looked up to the sight of Loki arching a dark brow down at him.

Matt accepted the glass. “Thank you.” He drank it and the water’s coolness grounded him. After, he set the glass aside and wiped away the locks plastered to his forehead. He felt immensely better.

Nightmares weren’t unfamiliar to him. This particular one, however, was. The emptiness and soundlessness of the galaxy had never been one of Matt’s fears, mainly because he had never experienced it. His gaze darted up to Loki before looking away. It seemed memory-sharing wasn't as harmless as he thought it would be. He was glad he avoided pushing the more traumatic events of his life to the forefront when he had willingly shared his mind with Loki.

Matt glanced at the clock blinking away atop the telly. 1:39 PM, the red lights glared.

Matt cursed. He hadn't planned on sleeping long. Several all-nighters pulled at the hospital, impromptu healing of a heavily wounded Jötunn, and another sleepless night putting up protections had finally taken their price.

“Have you eaten?” Matt asked, hastily getting to his feet and heading to the kitchen. “I’ll prepare something quick. Just wait a bit.”

“I got the leftovers from the cooling box,” Loki informs him primly before gracefully seating himself on the spot that Matt just vacated.

He lounges on it like it was a throne and not a five-year-old settee, which made the corners of Matt’s mouth quirk up. Loki appeared to have found the bathroom and managed to get the shower working because his dark hair was wet and curling at the edges. His clothing was still Matt’s, although Matt can’t remember the last time he saw that ‘I am a luxury few can afford’ graphic-T. Must be buried deep in his wardrobe.

Loki’s gaze flickered around the ceilings and walls. “You’ve put up wards around your home.”

Matt rummages through the cabinets and drawers for the skillet and spatula. “Huh? Oh, yeah. Took me the whole night.” He fetched the eggs, frozen bacon bits, and sausages from the refrigerator.

“You place them up because of what I have told you?” There was no emotion in Loki’s tone, nothing to indicate whether Matt did a misstep or not.

Matt pushed his lips together, considering. He didn’t want to worry Loki but, at the same time, it would be prudent for Loki to be as informed as possible.

Matt ignited the stove. “Partly because of that. But also—some people came by. They said they were from the electric company, but they were clearly government agents in disguise.”

From the corner of his eye, Matt saw Loki bristling.

“Don’t worry. They don’t suspect anything yet. I have a couple of plans to allay their suspicions if they do dig in further,” Matt assured confidently before cracking the eggs over the heated skillet.

Only the sounds of the eggs and bacon sizzling break the silence in the apartment for a few minutes.

Then, Loki spoke. “It will be wise to take my leave.” He smoothly got to his feet.

“Wait, wait.” Matt turned off the stove and swivelled to face Loki, arm raised. A sliver of desperation colored his words. “Think about it for a minute. If they search here and find nothing significant, they won’t look this way twice. Won’t it be safer to hide here afterward?”

Loki sent Matt a severe frown and a frustrated look. “It is not merely the Miðgarðrians. Heimdallr already knows where I am and Asgard will come looking here. I have already stayed too long.”

Matt blinked rapidly. “Heimdallr?”

“The Guardian of Bifröst. He has the ability to see anywhere in the Nine Realms.” Loki rubbed his fingers in one hand and leaf-colored sparks emitted from his fingertips. Judging by the scowl on his face, he clearly didn’t recover enough seiðr to satisfy him.

Matt brightened, glad to have found a viable thread of argument. “Oh! He doesn’t see you. Or rather, he doesn’t see us.”

Loki’s red-black eyes narrowed. “Your wards may have prevented that, but he has already seen me —"

Matt shook his head, smiling. “I have a passive spell in place. Anyone within a seventy feet radius of me cannot be seen by his gaze.” He paused in thought. “Well, not exactly invisible. That would just get his attention because he’ll notice the large gap where his eyes can’t seem to get through. His gaze is merely clouded. If he does turn his attention in my vicinity, he will be inexplicably encouraged to look away.”

Loki stared at him, a stunned look upon his face. “You—You are capable of that?”

Matt nodded, wondering why Loki thought otherwise. “Of course. It’s easy once you know how Heimdallr’s ability works. You were able to do it too, right?” Matt recalled how Loki hid the Jötnar intruders from Heimdallr’s sight during Thor’s coronation. 

“Yes, but it was not a passive spell. And I certainly cannot do it for long periods of time,” Loki replied, a tinge of irritation in his words, as if he loathed to admit his shortcomings.

Matt shrugged. “I didn’t want any entity watching my every move, so I made a way for the spell to go on without me minding it.” He smiled. “I can teach you if you want?”

A pensive frown marred Loki’s face. “It would indeed be useful.”

Matt reined in the desire to beam. “Wouldn’t it?”

Loki shot him a look that said, ‘I know exactly what you’re doing’. Matt replied with a guileless ‘I don’t know what you’re on about’ expression.

Relief burst through Matt’s chest when Loki sat back down on the settee. Matt continued cooking without worry. He gave Loki so many good reasons to stay; as a practical man, Loki would be hard-pressed not to accept his offer.

In no time at all, Matt had finished preparing the late lunch. They ate in relative silence but there was a bubble of anticipation in the air that made Matt restless.

Then, Loki set his fork down with finality. “Why are you so desperate to make me stay?”

Matt, who had been in the middle of swallowing another bite of fluffy eggs, paused. He cocked his head to the side. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You do not know me — no.” Loki cut off Matt’s protest with a sharp look. “We may share blood, but this is the first time we’ve properly met. You may have seen my memories, but you do not know me.”

“Then I would like to,” Matt interjects, keeping his tone gentle. “If you would allow me the chance.”

Something flickered in Loki’s eyes — doubt, irritation, longing, or perhaps all three. His gaze turned to the plate in front of him, quiet but thinking.

Loki wasn’t used to people being straightforward with him, Matt knew. The Jötunn was more used to interactions with double meanings where each remark was akin to a landmine one had to carefully defuse. Matt planned to continue being frank with his intentions through and through. Loki needn’t worry about landmines with him.

Whether Loki appreciated Matt’s bluntness remained to be seen. Matt wasn’t used to the notion himself, having lived much of his long life hiding his identity from most of the people he met. He found it refreshing to be completely honest this time.

When Loki said nothing for several minutes, Matt risked a question. “Where would you go? After—If you leave?”

“There is no specific destination,” Loki admitted with a cold tone. “There will be no realm, no barren moon, no crevice where I can hide from my pursuers. Hence, I have to keep moving.”

“There is one place,” Matt responded with a meaningful look.

Annoyance set Loki’s lips into a thin line. “I admire your arrogance, but you are a fool if you think I won’t be found here.”

Matt chewed his food, organizing his arguments. Finally, he said, “I indeed can’t guarantee that they won’t find you here. But —"

“You’ll die and kill to keep me safe,” Loki finished wryly. “Or so you’ve said.”

“You don’t believe me?” Matt thought Loki did. Why else would Loki have stayed the night if he didn’t believe Matt would keep him safe?

Loki leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers. His dark eyes glinted, calculative. “I believe that every help and every favor come with a price. What is yours?”

“You know what it is,” Matt said with a small self-deprecating smile. “The chance to see my long-lost son out of harm and to spend more time with him.”

At the remark, Loki let out a breath that was almost a strangled gasp. Matt supposed it was the first time either of them acknowledged their relationship out loud without pretense. Matt shot a worried glance at Loki, wondering if he should have phrased that more delicately. Based on what Matt glimpsed upon in Loki’s memories, parentage had always been a sore spot.

Loki discretely cleared his throat, gathering his composure and adopting a nonchalant facade. “And you desired nothing else from me?”

Matt determinedly shook his head. “Nothing else.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed, black irises darting dubiously over Matt’s countenance. It was clear he doubted the simplicity of Matt’s wants. Matt was about to offer another mind-spell to erase said doubts when Loki straightened, seemingly deciding.

“Are you willing to enter a magical contract with me?” Loki asked, posture and voice casual. “One that would ensure that both of us get the best out of this arrangement.”

Matt felt his heart jump for joy in his chest. “So, you’re staying?”

“For now. And with certain conditions,” Loki reminded him.

Matt could barely contain the urge to embrace Loki and outwardly celebrate. He opted to let a giant grin display his happiness instead.

Loki scoffed but there was an upturn on the corners of his lips.

“You won’t regret this,” Matt vowed.

“Perhaps not,” Loki replied with an arched brow. “But you certainly will.”

Matt felt a ball of warmth and unbearable fondness bubbling in his chest. Behind him, the tiny house plant atop the refrigerator bloomed healthy yellow flowers. “Never.”

~O~

The terms on their magical contract were painfully convoluted and elaborate yet much simpler than Loki expected.

Merlin would provide housing and as much protection as he was capable of. Which, Loki was utterly astonished to discover, was quite a lot. Merlin could hide from Heimdallr’s sight for an indefinite amount of time and could cast protection wards that would amaze even the best of seiðrmann in the Nine Realms. The fact that Merlin lived unbothered in a tiny house in Miðgarðr spoke of how well he had hidden his existence from the others; no one as powerful as him would be left alone by the rulers of the realms.

Loki required that Merlin never lie to him nor betray him to any of his enemies. Merlin, of course, asked the same of Loki.

“I vow that I will tell you no untruth,” Loki worded carefully. With an instruction such as that, concessions could be made. Telling no untruth, after all, did not exactly mean that he would tell the truth.

A dash of hurt filtered through Merlin’s eyes, showing Loki that Merlin did not miss the implications. Still, Merlin said nothing in protest and carelessly promised not to lie in turn.

Softhearted and naive flitted by Loki’s mind again.

In exchange for Merlin’s hospitality, Loki was to help with a couple of chores around the house. As Merlin experienced little of the seiðr of other realms and the flexibility of Merlin’s seiðr piqued Loki’s interests, an exchange of knowledge was beneficial for them both and was, thus, included in their agreement.

Merlin finally offered a restriction of his own after a while. “You can’t do actions that seek to intentionally harm humans.”

Loki can’t help but smirk. “Like an attempt to subjugate the planet?”

“Like that,” Merlin said, a tint of disapproval in his tone and blue eyes.

Inexplicably, guilt and consternation pushed through Loki’s stomach. He aggressively pushed it down, replacing it with a dose of irritation. Loki had not felt guilt for his actions, and he would not start now.

“Although, if it’s in self-defense, feel free to act,” Merlin added, a thoughtful frown upon his brow. “Or if you’re protecting someone. Or if it’s minor harm meant as a prank.”

“How considerate,” Loki said, a touch sarcastic.

“You’re welcome,” Merlin responded cheekily.

Loki shot him a withering glare.

Merlin’s concern regarding the harm Loki could do was warranted, given Loki’s past. But any elaborate plans to do harm to these mortals would just attract the attention of the so-called defenders of Miðgarðr. As it was, Loki had no plans of doing just that.

Breaching the terms of the contract did not determine its termination. Punishments would be decided by both parties if needed.

The contract, they decided, would be terminated the moment both wished to do so, if either one of them met death, or if Loki was found by his enemies in Merlin’s abode.

They fleshed out further details in the following hour. On Loki’s part, he made sure to weave exact words to diminish loopholes and to gain him as much freedom as possible. There was no need, Loki realized with unease because the contract was far more advantageous on his end than Merlin’s. Merlin had given in to unreasonable leeway and seemed uncaring of the various ways Loki could wiggle out of their terms.

The epiphany made Loki simultaneously pleased and uncomfortable. Briefly, he considered offering more concessions on his part to make the deal somewhat fair.

However, Loki was not one for benevolence.

So, the contract was signed with drops of their blood and threads of their seiðr. The house sparkled with emerald shine and golden weaves.

Merlin’s seiðr felt . . . light and airy, fleetingly giddy yet dense as steel. Loving and comforting, akin to a mother’s touch. Loki shied away from the notion like a plague.

How does his own seiðr feel like to Merlin? Thor had once described it as bright venom slithering coolly beneath his skin. For one who so loved snakes and their mannerisms, it was one of the least insulting compliments Thor could give.

The magical contract sealed itself with a sharp breezy noise, bringing Loki’s wandering mind to the present.

“And done!” Merlin said brightly. His dark-blue eyes sparked with undeniable mirth.

Loki pondered whether he made the right choice. Merlin clearly had certain expectations on how this whole living arrangement would go. And he also favored certain expectations when it comes to defining their relationship.

Merlin would be sorely disappointed, Loki thinks wryly. The God of Mischief and Chaos had no plans to — to bond, as it were. He would maintain an amicable behavior with Merlin but nothing else. It was purely a transactional relationship, nothing more.

Merlin might have fallen into sentiment when he found out Loki was his blood-borne child, but Loki had fallen into no such thing. 

Still.

No matter how fickle Merlin’s affections would prove to be, it was . . . a bit pleasing to be wanted for a while.

~O~