Chapter Text
Feasts held by the Royal House of Asgard were known to have no equal. For a kingdom otherwise built on war and conquest, it was a strange claim to fame.
The Crown Prince of Asgard, Thor Odinson, enjoyed the banquet hall as much as he did the battlefield, and was indeed brilliant in both arenas. Today, however, he couldn’t quite get his blood to sing in anticipation as it usually did. In an uneasy gloom he sat at the end of one bench, craving the customary revel but unable to summon it.
He couldn’t figure out, no matter how he pondered in endless, helpless circles, how the Jotnar had gotten an invite to this particular banquet. Furthermore, he couldn’t fathom why he’d been ordered not to bash their heads in the moment they entered.
Mjolnir hummed unhappily by his side, concealed there at perhaps a third of its usual size. He’d argued bitterly with his father about bringing the famed Jotunn-bane along at all, for fear of—imagine it!—unnerving their guests. In the end Odin had acquiesced, but only on the condition that Mjolnir remain small enough to be hidden.
Thor muttered an unhappy oath under his breath, startling the servant fussing with the place settings beside him. Most of the expected Asgardians were already present, milling around and making jovial conversation, but their honored guests had yet to arrive. Thor was tempted to break with decorum and rip a piece off the roast pheasant nearest to him, a pointed display of his displeasure, but he didn’t quite dare that measure of his father’s wrath.
Odin himself sat a few feet away, behind Thor and on the raised dais that did for a throne in the banquet hall. He surveyed the scene with obvious pride—a thing that rankled Thor further.
Pride over what? he wanted to cry out. We prepare to receive our sworn enemies as friends and you sit there beaming? It makes you appear senile, old man!
He envisioned saying so out loud, for a moment emboldened and then physically cringing from his father’s imagined rage.
A shout from the doorway announced the guests’ arrival; Odin stood, clad in formal regalia over gleaming armor, Gungnir in his hand. Thor stayed seated, risking the discourtesy of tossing back a cup of strong ale. It was through the resulting flurry of sparks across his vision that he saw two giants enter, and between them—
Thor sat up straighter, curiosity piqued, leaning forward for a better view. The figure between the two recognizably massive Jotnar was small, at least compared to their brethren. They had the blue skin of a Frost Giant, and the brilliant red eyes too, but stood at average height for a citizen of Asgard. Small in other ways, too—narrow in the hips and chest, thin in the face, downright bony in the wrists and hands. Their dark hair hung in braids and loose tresses long enough to reach their waist, thoroughly snarled in places and woven with silver ornamentation. Upon their head they wore a horned crown of jagged silver, a thing that might double as a weapon during unexpected conflict. Bare-chested like their companions, they wore rugged brown slacks but a fine, fur-lined cape of green and silver wrapped around their shoulders.
“Presenting,” shouted a servant, “the Crown Prince of Jotunheim, Loki Laufeyson!”
“Welcome, Prince Loki, to our hall,” Odin said into the shocked hush.
The small Jotunn—Loki, by name—raised an almost dismissive hand. “An honor, I’m sure, Lord Odin. I’m pleased we could come to enough semblance of peace to allow for such a thing.”
Thor narrowed his eyes. Could all Jotnar speak so civilly? He hadn’t thought so. But perhaps he had simply killed all those he’d met before they had the chance.
Odin smiled. “I, too, am greatly pleased. Come—sit in the place of greatest honor beside my son, Thor.”
Thor stiffened, every nerve in his body coming alight as if in preparation for battle. He almost spoke out in objection, but he knew the consequences would be severe. He’d argued with all his strength against this feast in the first place and lost. He held his tongue.
“Thank you,” Loki said brightly, motioning for his two attendants to join a separate table. Thor felt a measure of regard despite himself—the Jotunn prince had courage, striding alone into the center of Asgard’s finest hall. Thor’s dourness returned just in time, however, to give that Jotunn prince a proper scowl when he took the seat beside him. He smelled quite peculiar, like nothing Thor was familiar with: a musky scent almost buried by ice and stone, with a faint breath of rotting meat even farther beneath. From the selection of drink Loki picked up a goblet of deep red wine.
“To our honored company, Prince of Jotunheim, Loki Laufeyson,” Odin said, raising his glass in a toast. “May this feast be remembered as the start of better relations between Jotunheim and Asgard—to the benefit of us both.”
“With my most profound gratitude, and to your health and honor, Allfather,” the Jotunn replied, raising his drink.
Thor felt the handle of his own flagon creak with the pressure of his clenched fist; he threw back its entire contents in an attempt to douse the blood-thirst that seared at the back of his throat. Mjolnir hummed at his side, silently begging to make pulp of this dastardly prince’s skull.
With the initial toast the banquet began in earnest. Boisterous music started up, servants flooding in to tend to any and all needs; the guests began to help themselves to the spread of good food that so burdened the ornate tables. Thor reached for that pheasant he’d been eyeing earlier, tearing off a leg with a muffled splintering of bone. He wondered if he’d be able to stomach it—delicious as it undoubtedly was—with a Jotunn sitting next to him.
Loki himself, when Thor stole a glance at him, seemed to have no such reservations. He, like Thor, had emptied his wine goblet on the toast; he tore now at the food, seeming at times to forget to chew, scarfing the next bite before the last was fully down his throat. It might have been an animalistic display if it didn’t meet every expectation of enthusiasm at an Agrarian feast. To pick at food would have been rude; Loki did no such thing. He chased bread and meat with more wine, the red liquid staining his pallid mouth.
Such a display, Thor thought, was nothing if not bravado—a boast, a dare. All thoughts of being ill gone, Thor made a fevered attempt to catch up; he ate dedicatedly for a moment, then glanced again at their guest to gauge the contest. His eyes fell, unbidden, on Loki’s hands—grasping, savage things, scared in places and dexterous and so thin. A wave of nausea rose up unexpectedly in Thor, a shadow falling across his previous assumption. Not a contest. Not some fool boast. Survival. Loki’s teeth were as jagged and sharp as any Jotunn’s, but two were missing just left of one upper canine; despite the abundance well within reach, he gnawed each bone clean of skin and sinew. Survival. Thor had heard stories of Jotunn children being made to fight one another for their food; he’d thought it merely one more exaggerated tale of trademark Jotunn savagery, but watching Loki eat he thought perhaps it might be entirely true.
Distracted, now, Thor let himself notice that the ridging on Loki’s cyan skin wasn’t only the markings indicative of his people. Among the natural textures were scars, knotted twists of flesh and jagged lines. He let himself see that the crown, that cruel thing that could certainly double as a weapon, also dug into Loki’s own temples. What sort of people must the Jotnar be, Thor wondered, Mjolnir raging at his hip, that their crown prince is in such a state? For a wild moment he wondered if Loki might be that crown prince and not a slave sent in the prince’s place to this potentially fatal feast. But no, Odin had seen the prince before during diplomatic visits to Jotunheim, had spoken to him before, and Thor besides that found it hard to believe the Jotnar were strategically capable of such a ploy.
Thor rejoined the feast, this time more to keep the Jotunn company than to put him in his place. Despite himself, as time wore on, Thor began enjoying the atmosphere as he would at any other banquet. He laughed and drank, forgetting to watch for a concealed knife driven into his side. He stole glances at the Jotunn, who in turn took in every detail of the room with keen crimson eyes while he bolted food and drink.
The night deepened, the glow of firelight within the hall seeming warmer for the darkness outside. The two Frost Giants who had accompanied Loki grew bored and edgy; eventually they removed themselves to the side of the hall and waited, pensive, owlish red eyes fixed on their prince. As midnight arrived and passed by, Loki mumbled a word of apology to no one in particular and went to them. Thor watched, curious rather than hostile now, as the three Jotnar conversed; his mouth opened slowly, without sound, as Loki returned and his two attendants departed.
“May I impose on your hospitality for a while longer?” Loki asked Odin, swaying slightly before the dais.
Odin regarded him with some mixture of amusement, pleasure, and wariness. Thor leaned forward, wondering what had triggered the latter. “Of course, Prince Loki. You may stay as our guest as long as you wish. Spend the night, remain for a few days, if that’s what suits you. All due hospitality will be provided."
“I think I may,” Loki replied, with a drunken bow at the waist. “I thank you, truly, for this reception. It surpasses all expectation.”
“Do they not hold such celebrations in Jotunheim?”
The musicians had fallen silent, all attention fixed on the Jotunn Prince and the King of Asgard. Thor, closest to where Loki stood, watched rapt.
“In Jotunheim,” Loki said, “we tell tales of Asgard, as I expect you tell tales of Jotunheim. We speak of your splendor as you speak of our wretchedness. We speak of your decadence as you speak of our brutality. In every way, Allfather, reality outstrips these stories.”
Thor shifted forward in his seat, fascinated by the suddenly unsettled look in his father’s eyes.
“Perhaps we’ll learn the truth of one another, should this treaty come to pass,” Odin said at last, and stood. “Friends, do carry on. I must retire for the evening.” He descended; Thor stood hastily as he approached. “Thor, see that our guest is shown to appropriate accommodations,” Odin said, with a seriousness that belayed any objections.
Am I the only one you trust to handle him, Father? Thor longed to ask, but said only, “It shall be done.”
“Good,” Odin murmured, then turned once more to Loki. “Thank you for your company, this evening. I hope to speak about matters of the future, come morning.”
“I look forward to it,” Loki replied, and retook his seat once Odin had departed. Thor sunk down as well. It took the musicians an uncertain moment to pick up their song, but once they did the drunken conversation and revelry slowly resumed, albeit more subdued with the hour and the steady loss of guests as they drifted off into the night.
Loki kept at the food, slower now; Thor did the same. He was uncertain which of them was supposed to leave first—once he was gone, he knew, the banquet would officially be over. But Loki was the honored guest, and could by virtue of that stay as long as he wished. While Thor had never been in any hurry for a banquet to end, the idea of his fate being in a Frost Giant’s hands was more than mildly unsettling.
As it was, Loki didn’t keep him in such suspense for long. Perhaps ten minutes after Odin departed he drained his latest glass of wine and said, “Must a room be prepared? No great rush, but I am ready to turn in whenever it’s available.”
Thor stood. “We have guest accommodations always at the ready. We may go now, if that’s agreeable.”
Loki rose more slowly, less hurried. Even he, a Frost Giant made of nothing but jagged, sharp edges and hostility, appeared softened by the hours of revelry and feasting. He smiled. “Lead the way.”
Thor thought of calling for guards to accompany them, but that would seem intolerably weak—and unfair, besides—when Loki had no equal entourage. Had Loki sent his attendants away, Thor wondered, or had they left him? It hardly mattered now.
“Did your father give some sort of signal for you to kill me?”
Thor started, pulled from his thoughts. He glanced back at the Jotunn padding soundlessly along behind him. Mead’s influence made Thor think that perhaps he hadn’t heard properly.
“What was that?”
Loki shrugged. “If he did, I didn’t catch it. But you are the most notorious of Giant-slayers. And you’ve got the bane of all us Jotnar right there with you. I’ll bet Mjolnir is even more inclined than you are to break open my skull.”
Thor stiffened. “No. I mean, yes, Mjolnir would like that quite a bit. But no, I’ve gotten no instructions except to show you to a room. You asked for hospitality and my father granted it. You're a guest in my house, at least for this night."
Loki smiled—a wry and twisted little expression. “He hopes for reciprocity. For more than peace between our two realms, for mutual benefit.”
“He’s an old fool,” Thor grumbled.
“That he is,” Loki said, and Thor snapped around to stare at him. “We have nothing to offer a land like yours. And he should know that. What does he hope to gain, really? Has he told you?”
Thor shook his head, mystified and vaguely insulted. “If there’s nothing to come of it, why are you here at all?”
A smile flickered across Loki’s face. “Oh, a Jotunn has much to gain here in Asgard. It’s simply that Jotunheim has little to repay such bounty.”
Thor thought again of the feast and said, with some confusion, “I thought you lot were adapted to that eternal winter you call home.”
“Adapted, yes,” Loki replied, a note of genuine humor in his voice, “but what living creature could ever thrive in a place so barren? Not us, not anything. We do just fine there—adapted, as you say. But have you ever met a Jotunn that’s anything but rugged skin and tough muscle and ill-temper?”
Thor shrugged. “I’ve seen a rather limited sampling of your people.”
“They’re representative, I promise you,” Loki said. “Do you know how commonly we kill one another? It’s technically forbidden outside of honor-combat, but in the same way that Asgard’s children might be forbidden to stay up past a certain hour. I would wager that your Jotunn-bane has killed far less Frost Giants than we Frost Giants have.”
Thor stared at him, slowing and then stopping in front of one of the palace’s guest suites. Loki smiled at him.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, his tone hollow and formal. “I look forward to meeting again with Odin, come morning.”
“Call for a servant if you need anything,” Thor said mechanically, as if talking to any other Asgardian house guest. “Rest well.”
“Believe me, I will,” Loki said, and raised a hand in farewell as the heavy doors swung shut behind him.
Thor stood still for a moment, wondering if he was supposed to post a guard. In the end he wandered back towards his own chambers without doing so. If Odin wanted to treat a Frost Giant as a guest, let it go as wrong as it was libel to.
You’re gravely mistaken, Father. And when this Prince Loki proves that, you’ll thank me for culling the miserable runt.
… … …
Loki Laufeyson crawled up into the ornate bed, burrowing into the bedclothes for the sake of softness rather than warmth. With a flick of his wrist his boots and cape arranged themselves neatly at the bedside. He didn’t lift his face from the mattress.
“Made it…” he breathed, feeling the pleasantly heavy haze of wine all over. He rolled onto his back, sprawling with limbs outstretched, and drew a luxuriously deep breath. “I made it here, here to Asgard.”
If he were to die, he would bare Cruel Fate no ill-will. If he were to die in that very moment, he would at least be well-fed and warmed through with fine wine. He almost wished for it, that he might die in such a euphoric moment, before it inevitably came to ruin.
“Oh, Father... if you could see me, how you would laugh. I might laugh right along with you, laugh you all the way to Hel.”