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At first, it’s just a sense of weakness, a small tremble that sets his hands to shaking and puts some wobbliness in his steps, and Loki does his best to ignore it. He probably pushed himself too far in the training yard again.
It gets worse, as the evening draws near. The sun hasn’t yet fully hidden behind the edge of the mountains when Loki gives up trying to read and collapses into his bed, exhausted. It’s nothing, he tells himself, nothing a restful night cannot fix.
He slips into an uneasy sleep for a while, but the lantern he left lit on the bedside table is still glowing when a murky, shadowy nightmare jerks him awake. It’s the same night terrors that haunted him since childhood, in which he wanders, lost and alone, among the jagged, icy peaks in some dark, unfamiliar place. He told Thor about it, that one night when his screams brought his brother to his room. Thor only laughed and said that dreams were just dreams and it would pass as soon as daylight touched Loki’s skin.
Loki made sure to always put a silencing charm on his room before going to sleep ever since.
He lies there, taking in deliberate breaths until the visions fade from his brain. The elevated heartrate and the rush of blood in his ears remain though, even as he calms down. His muscles are aching dully, as if every tendon in his body has been pulled and overstrained recently, and the room seems unbearably hot, even though the hearth hasn’t been lit and the night air is seeping through the open windows.
The linens are sticking to his sweaty skin, so he kicks them away and hisses, as the movement sets off a sharp cramp in his side. He has to stay still for a while, taking only shallow, careful breaths and waiting for it to subside.
He focuses and sends a spark of magic down his body, exploring, but nothing seems out of order, nothing is broken or damaged. And yet, his heart is still pounding, and his diaphragm aches each time he inhales.
He rakes his brain – uncharacteristically clumsy and unfocused – for potential illnesses that could have caused it, but his query comes up empty. He idly recalls a couple of diseases that could produce a similar set of symptoms, but that knowledge is useless, as they are rife only among the other, lesser races of the Nine and the Æsir anatomy makes Loki immune to them.
That doesn’t mean it cannot be an illness. Æsir are more resilient, but not completely immune to every disease in the universe. Loki knows a lot about that. He used to be sickly as a child, prone to fall to seemingly every possible ailment and slower to recover than his peers. But that was before he got old enough for Mother to wrap him in the web of protective spells, aimed to strengthen his body and boost his failing immunity, that she then maintained, until he learned enough about magic to be able to do it himself.
The spellwork is still in place, stashed away in the corner of his mind, its presence and the tiny strand of energy it takes to uphold becoming a part of himself, something he no longer even registers consciously.
He should go to the infirmary, he knows. He learned enough about magic to be able to heal a bruise or a wound, even a serious one, but this still remains outside of the scope of his understanding of healing process, more so if the very source remains a mystery. But that would mean admitting a weakness. He wasn’t injured during training or during some daring escapade like a proper warrior – that alone has happened enough of times already – and the word would get around. Volstagg and Sif would never let him hear the end of this. They already thought him frail and inadequate.
A poor excuse for a prince.
He drags himself out of bed and swallows a whine as his limbs protest, then leans against the bedstand and waits for the dizziness to pass.
His legs suddenly feel too weak to hold his weight, but he grits his teeth and shuffles his way out of the room, keeping a steadying hand to the wall to stave off the risk of collapsing. He has to fix it, he knows, but he needs to learn more first. He has already read every book in his room, be it on magic or otherwise, so his best bet is the royal library. It is vast and contains everything there was to learn about the universe.
Or close to it, as Loki’s previous explorations have discovered.
Still, if it’s something that happened before, it should be in there, if not in the medicine section then in the Asgard’s registry.
He waits out a pair of guards, patrolling the corridor just outside the royal quarters, then skulks out and closes the door behind himself cautiously. It’s not like he’s not allowed to be here – or anywhere, for that matter, he is a prince after all – but he doesn’t want his people to see him like this. They’ve seen enough of his failures already.
The way seems five times longer than usually and Loki has to pause a couple of times, clinging to the walls or banisters for support, just to catch a breath.
He aims his unsteady steps towards the back entrance to the library, the one available just to the court officials, chosen nobles and, of course, the royal family, that leads straight to the restricted section, that holds the knowledge Father and other Æsir kings before him deemed unsuitable for the common folk. Most books on magic are there, after all.
He almost makes it.
---
When he wakes up the light is painting his closed eyelids red, and he knows immediately that he is not back in his chambers. The mattress feels different, and the air carries a harsh smell of herbal ointments and concoctions – used by the healers in cases that don’t require a subtler touch of magic.
He opens his eyes and registers, to no surprise at all, that he is in one of the private rooms in the infirmary. He stifles a groan.
The draperies surrounding the bed rustle, a woman in a healer’s gown slinks in. Her hair, framing her homely, round face is sprinkled with silver, and it doesn’t take Loki much time to recognize her. Of course it’s Toroy, as she is the only one to ever tend to his injuries, for some reason. Loki tried to figure out why, once or twice, but he didn’t much like the conclusion he reached – that he is the only one who actually needs a personal healer in his whole family – so he dropped it quickly.
The woman places the tray she is carrying on the bedside table and performs a curtsy. “You’ve awoken, my prince.”
Loki doesn’t feel like speaking, his head hurts, his throat is sore and dry, and his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, heavy and uncooperative, so he just huffs in response.
The healer doesn’t seem to mind. She has already seen Loki at his worst during his childhood and later on, time after time.
She bestows him with a smile and brings a cup to his lips. Loki expects water, but it’s not. It has a sharp, metallic taste that scratches his throat and makes it hard to swallow. He still does, because he can feel the faint sparkles of magic swirling in the liquid.
“The All-Mother prepared the potion herself,” the healer says, seeing his questioning glance, and the meaning of her words stirs inside Loki unpleasantly, despite the woman’s calm, soothing tone, the tone one develops when working with sick and injured for millennia.
If the All-Mother is involved it means it isn’t something that can be fixed easily. It means that she came here, when he was unconscious, and saw him like this.
The woman places her hand on his shoulder and only now he realizes he is hyperventilating. “It’s all right. It will make you better.”
That he can trust. Mother made it and she is the most talented spellcaster Loki knows. Sure, many would grant that title to Father, but Loki knows better. He nods and drinks the rest of the potion.
As soon as it’s gone, the healer produces a vial. “A sleeping concoction,” she explains. “It will help you rest, as the potion works its course. You will feel better when you wake up.”
Loki wants to protest, but the notion seems alluring, and he does not.
---
He doesn’t feel better when he wakes up. Quite to the contrary, in fact. His head is swimming, and he cannot focus his eyes, his every bone and every muscle screams in pain as if his body has been set on fire, and every breath feels like inhaling a storm of needles.
“How are you feeling, my prince?” Toroy asks and Loki isn’t sure if she was there the whole time or just came to his bedside.
He wants to answer, but he is only able to produce a pained moan.
Toroy frowns and places her hand on his forehead. Her face grows dark, and she hurries out without saying a word.
Rude.
His eyelids grow too heavy, and he lets them fall.
---
The next time he registers his surroundings, he is lying flat on his back, the ethereal representation of his body produced by the soul forge floating above him. He doesn’t remember walking over, so someone had to carry him around.
He tries to shift in place and a new wave of pain wipes his mind clean, before he can worry about it more.
Toroy is here, her skilled fingers weaving the energies around, her face pensive and her brows furrowed. Loki tries to make out what she’s doing exactly but his eyes still refuse to focus properly.
There are voices, somewhere to his right and he turns his head, then hisses as the muscles in his neck protest.
He can barely make out the silhouettes, made blurry both by his unfocused eyesight and the shiny barrier dividing him from the rest of the room, but it’s enough. It’s Mother and Father, and they seem to be in the middle of a heated discussion, even though the scraps of words that reach Loki's ears don’t really invoke any coherent meaning in his brain.
“You shouldn’t be awake,” Toroy says and there’s something harsh and alarmed in her tone now. She makes a wide gesture, bringing forth some new strand of energy and twists it around, and, just as she does, the world around dissolves back to nothing.
---
He is back in the infirmary bed the next time he comes around. He’s been placed on his side for some reason he cannot immediately guess. It’s some change of pace though, so he doesn’t try to move, not entirely sure if he even can do it anymore.
The pain that flared so brightly before is subdued now, replaced with ungraceful numbness in his limbs, and a spark of hope blazes up momentarily.
Then he recognizes the heavy feeling and realizes where it comes from. He’s been given pain relievers.
He squeezes his eyes shut, his cheeks burning with shame. I can take it, I don’t need it! he wants to scream, but, deep down, he knows it would be a lie. He is weak and he does need it. The people around know it too, and that makes it tenfold worse.
Toroy comes over. She has no more smiles for him, and her face is solemn and drawn as she reaches to wipe Loki’s face. The cloth comes up bloody.
Loki stares at the otherwise pristinely white fabric in her hand and finally realizes.
He is going to die.
---
Mother is at his bedside and Loki relishes in the warmth of her hand resting on his tight in a rare show of intimacy, as he’s trying to listen to her words.
“Your father will see the reason and do the right thing,” she says, and Loki is not sure what she’s talking about, but he’s certain that she’s right. Father is wise and he is never wrong.
He nods and tries to smile at her. He isn’t sure if he makes it, but Mother still smiles back, her eyes growing shiny, and leans in to brush a strand of hair away from his face, then lets her hand linger on his temple, just for a heartbeat.
Then she tucks the linens closer around him, just like she sometimes did when he was sick as a child, and stays next to his bed, until he falls asleep.
---
Later, Toroy brings him a vial of painkillers and he hesitates just for a heartbeat before he allows her to tip it into his mouth, as he is too weak to even be able to drink it on his own.
It doesn’t matter, not anymore.
---
Mother is there a couple more times, but, other than that, it’s just Loki and Toroy in the infirmary room.
One of the mornings – judging from the angle of the sunlight hitting the ceiling, as the curtains around the bed remain drawn – he caves in and asks.
“Was Thor here?”
Toroy just purses her lips and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, my prince,” she says, then amends, “I’m sure prince Thor will come as soon as he can.”
Loki nods and doesn’t ask about his brother any more.
---
It’s a slow progression, but it does get worse.
He no longer can hold food down, so Toroy makes him a herbal tea to ease the cramps in his stomach. It helps some, if not fully, just like another vial of painkillers, a third – or was it the fourth? – dose that day, and it’s only early afternoon.
Still, days are better than nights, when he can just lie there and stare at the ceiling and there’s nothing to keep the dark thoughts at bay.
There’s a small bell Toroy places next to his hand each evening, so he can call her when he needs assistance. Loki’s voice is too far gone for it to reach her in the adjacent room, where she retreats for the night’s rest.
Loki never uses it.
---
“I want to see the sky,” Loki whispers, when Toroy is done serving him his tea and medicine.
“I shouldn’t…” she starts and pauses, then looks at him sadly for a moment and nods. She drags the panels holding the curtains away, giving Loki full insight into the room he’s in for the first time. It’s not big and it holds just his bed, a line of cabinets under the opposite wall, a workbench with a washing basin in the corner, and a couple of chairs. The walls are bare and painted in an off-white tone, just like the ceiling. It’s a far cry from the rest of the castle, with its stuccos and tapestries and mosaics, and Loki’s brain scrambles for a moment before he remembers what it reminds him of.
A cell.
Perhaps this is what it is, after all.
There’s a single window, tall and narrow, like every window in this part of the castle, and all Loki can see out of it from his perspective is a wall of the castle’s adjacent wing.
Toroy eyes dash between the window and Loki for a moment, then she sighs and grabs the headboard of the bed. Surprisingly, the bed moves smoothly on hidden rollers, and Toroy maneuvers it to a spot directly in front of the window.
The sun is high up in the sky and Loki squints against the brightness but doesn’t close his eyes fully. It could be, after all, his last chance to see it.
Toroy approaches the window and draws her fingers over the frame. The shining barrier disappears and air rushes in, replacing the smell of medicine with the scent of apple blossoms. With a hint of manure, as this side of the castle faces the stables.
Loki chuckles to himself at the notion.
The bed sways lightly as Toroy sits down on its edge. Her hand rests on his knee and he can feel the warmth even through the blanket. She is looking at him and there’s something in her eyes he cannot decode. He never noticed before, but they are the exact same shade of blue as Thor’s and Mother’s.
“I’m sorry, Loki,” she says and clears her throat.
She would get in trouble if someone heard her refer to him just by his given name and not his title, but there’s nobody here but them and Loki doesn’t mind. He actually likes the way she says it. It sounds almost like it wasn’t a curse.
He nods in acknowledgment and offers her a wan smile in return.
She holds his gaze for a while, then sighs and turns away. Her face grows hard, and she stands up. “I need to take care of something. Will you be all right on your own for a while?”
He nods again and the woman gathers her skirts and rushes out.
Loki doesn’t know where she is going, but it doesn’t matter. It no longer concerns him. Whatever affair she needs to attend, is an affair for the living.
The sunlight feels warm on his skin, and he basks in it, until the sun disappears behind the edge of the window frame, and he can no longer see it.
---
The door bursts open and rouses him from the uneasy sleep. The bed has been returned to its rightful spot, but the curtains are still pushed aside, so Loki can see the reason for the turmoil.
And so, Father is standing in the middle of the room, and Mother is at his side. He is wearing his ceremonial armor and has Gungnir in his hand, even though the sky is already darkening, and the court proceedings have ended a good while ago.
The other door, leading to Toroy’s quarters, opens as well and the woman herself rushes out. “What is the me…” She freezes for a heartbeat, then bows her head. “Your majesty. My queen.”
Mother approaches her and says something, discreetly into her ear, then they leave.
Father still stands there, his eye on Loki, his face unreadable and Loki wishes he would say something.
He does not, just takes a step forward, then another, then he stops besides Loki’s bed and Loki feels the urge to curl into a ball and hide his face, if just to avoid Father’s accusatory glare. He cannot though, so he bears it.
Father reaches out and places his thumb on Loki’s forehead. The air vibrates with spellwork, but Loki cannot recognize it, unsure if it is because of the weakened state of his mind or if it’s something he has never seen performed before.
The warmth of Father’s finger on his skin grows more intense, until it feels almost like a hot iron poker touching his flesh. Loki grits his teeth and doesn’t try to squirm away. Whatever Father is doing, it must have a purpose.
Then the heat spills over, overcoming Loki’s face and traveling down his torso and arms and his skin feels as if it is sizzling over a fire. He can no longer hold back the pained whimpers.
Father removes his hand, but the burning doesn’t go away.
Loki wants to ask for reasons, but his tongue refuses to cooperate, his teeth still clenched, and the opportunity passes quickly, as Father turns on his heel and leaves, still without a word.
The air feels as if he is breathing furnace fumes, hot and thick and wrong. His skin still itches as if covered in flames and it stings uncomfortably where the fabric of his clothes and the linens touch him.
He tries to raise his hand, and it obeys him, albeit sluggishly, then he studies it in the waning light. His mind blanks out.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
No, it cannot be. It’s just his feeble mind playing tricks on him, Father would never…
He looks again. There’s no twisting the reality in front of his eyes. The skin color, the black fingernails, the disgustingly prominent lines.
Then he screams.
There are hands on him, and they feel like hot coals pressed to his skin. He tries to shake them off, but they hold him, pinned in place.
He screams again, in pain this time. There’s another hand on his temple and then there’s only darkness.
---
The room looks different now. It seems brighter, more spacious, more vivid, more detailed. He blinks, but the sensation doesn’t go away. It still feels hot, but no longer unbearably so.
He tries moving his hands, and it works, but he doesn’t get far before the pressure on his wrists grows and the movement is halted. He tugs at the restraints, but they hold.
“I’m sorry, Loki, we had to do it. There was a risk you’d hurt yourself. Or others,” Mother says and stands up. It isn’t to remove the cuffs though. Instead, she pulls the link activating the pulley hidden under the bed and it inclines forward, bringing Loki to a half-sitting position.
From this new perspective, Loki can see his hands, attached to the sides of the bed with padded, leather cuffs. Awfully blue, awfully Jötnar hands.
“Why?” he asks. His voice is still rough, but it works better than before.
Mother sits back down with a sigh and looks away. “We were meaning to tell you earlier, but…” she starts, then pauses and rubs her eyes. Loki never saw her like this, and it takes him a moment to see the expression on her face for what it is. Regret.
Loki’s mind is running in circles trying to wrap around the meaning of Mother’s words.
“Your sickness is unique to… the Jötunheimr’s population and cannot be cured when you’re not in your true form.”
The words settle like a physical burden on his chest, squeezing his throat and forcing tears out of his eyes. “Mother…” he starts, and doesn’t even know how to continue, his words suddenly failing him, inside and out.
“I’m sorry you had to find out like this,” she says curtly, gets up, and leaves, all without looking at him again.
---
No. It can’t be true, just some cruel trick. Perhaps Thor talked them into it, angry that Loki missed their scheduled training sessions? Perhaps it’s just a mistake…
He is just fooling himself. He can feel it. There’s no spell. All the magic – wrapped tightly around him all his life – is gone. Without it, there’s one option left. This is who he really is and the truth of that has been hidden from him for a century because…
He doesn’t even have a guess.
“My prince,” Toroy says, and Loki opens his eyes to look at her. He expects to see the same revulsion he feels painted on her face, but it isn’t there. She perches herself on the side of his bed again and cups his hand in hers.
He tries jerking away, instinctively, but the cuff holds his arm in place. She doesn’t let go, just smiles.
“How can you even bear to touch me like this, knowing what I am?” he asks. It’s baffling. Everyone knows that the Jötnar are just vile, mindless monsters…
She huffs out a small laugh. “Oh, dear, I always knew. Since the first day you came here, as a baby. I was the one to care for you when the All-Father brought you to Asgard.”
He blinks at her. She knew, and yet she was so kind to him, debasing herself, attending to the needs of a monster.
Her one hand still remains on his, an unfamiliar but not entirely unwelcome feeling, and she uses her other hand to touch his face. He stays in place and lets her do it.
“This doesn’t change a thing, Loki,” she says and scuttles closer, then wraps her arms around him.
He cannot return the hug, even if he wanted to, so he just nuzzles his face into her clothes and lets the tears fall.
---
It takes less than a day for the medicine’s effects to start showing. By the afternoon he wakes up from a nap rested for the first time in days, then eats all the food Toroy feeds him. He could’ve done it him himself, he feels well enough for that, but the cuffs stay on and make it impossible. Toroy didn’t remove them, and he didn’t ask, suspecting she would’ve unlocked them if she was allowed to do so.
It would be a disgrace, to have a Frost Giant wandering the palace halls, after all.
---
“Your hair needs a wash,” Toroy says, tugging at an exceptionally stubborn tangle with her comb.
Loki’s aware, but there’s only so much Toroy’s wet cloth can do, with him trapped in place like he is. He yanks at the bonds to prove his point.
She hesitates for a heartbeat and reaches to undo the cuffs.
“But…”
“Shh,” she hushes him, “Let that be our little secret, okay?”
She opens one strap and Loki raises his hand in front of his eyes, while she walks around the bed to reach the other. The raised marks look even more awful up close, but by now he got used to the sight enough for it to no longer revolt him as much as at first.
He takes a deep breath and swings his legs over the side of the bed. What he can see of his skin – his feet and his legs up to his knees, the rest hidden under the loose gown he is wearing – is just as blue. There are also more lines, wrapping around his ankles and shins. He shakes his head and pushes himself up, then sways. Toroy holds his arm, steadying him, then leads him towards the back of the room.
He expects he’s going to be allowed to use the basin, but she tugs at his arm and shows him towards the door to her quarters instead. “There’s a bathroom here,” she says and pushes the door open.
The room is small, not much bigger than a storage closet. There’s a narrow bed in one corner, a desk with some papers on it in the other, and a wardrobe. “Is this where you live?” Loki blurts out.
“I don’t need anything more, dear,” she laughs, then points toward the door at the other end. “Can you do it yourself or do you need my help?”
“I’ll try on my own, thank you.”
She smiles and lets go of his arm. It’s harder to keep the balance without support, but he manages to get to the door without collapsing.
The bathroom is even smaller and the tub in the corner is so tiny he knows he wouldn’t even be able to sit down in it without bending his legs.
“I know it’s not much for a prince,” she says. It’s a joke, but there’s a thrum of a true apology in it too.
“It’s perfectly fine,” Loki says and swings the door close.
He turns and freezes. There’s a mirror on the wall.
He takes everything in. The burning eyes, the dark lines of his lips, the raised marks, his mind reeling with a mixture of fear and disgust.
His knees give way, and he crumbles to the floor, sobs racking his body. How can he go on living, looking like this? Everyone who lays their eyes on him will know him for what he is!
The door opens and Toroy kneels next to him and wraps her arms around his trembling shoulders. “It’s okay, dear. You’ll be fine, I swear,” she whispers into his ear, and he chooses to believe her.
---
The days trickle away, but no one visits him anymore.
Why would they?
He and Toroy compromise more and more about the time Loki can stay out of the cuffs, and he is soon allowed to eat and dress and wash and even walk around the room on his own. Then Toroy brings him a few books from the library and lets him lounge on the pile of pillows on the windowsill while he reads.
“I’ve been summoned to the Queen’s quarters for an audience tomorrow,” Toroy says, looking up from the stack of papers she is filling out.
“Do you know what for?”
“I’ve been sending daily reports about the progress of your recovery. I noted down that you’re fine enough to return to your family," she says, then adds, a bit more quietly, "a couple of days ago.”
Loki blinks. “I cannot leave, not like this.”
She sighs and nods.
“Will my Father come to…” he pauses, the memory of their last encounter burning in his brain.
Toroy crooks her head. “You don’t need the All-Father’s magic, Loki.”
He frowns. “I do. Illusions are too easy to see through and I cannot do a full, permanent transformation like this.”
“Yes, you can. It was always your own magic, changing your appearance, Odin just encouraged it.”
“It was… me? But… how? This is a very advanced spellwork, I’m nowhere near that level yet.”
“It’s not a spell. It’s you. Your nature. You’re a shapeshifter, Loki.”
“I’m a what?!”
---
He’s been trying the whole afternoon, sitting on his bed with his eyes closed and poking his brain from every angle he could think of, looking for magic that was supposed to be there.
“I don’t think I can do this, Toroy,” he says with a grunt.
“Of course you can, you’ve done it before.”
It takes him another few tries before he finds what he’s looking for. A strand of strange and unfamiliar magic, buried inside his brain, one that he has never seen before. He pulls on it and sudden clarity fills his mind.
Energy flows through his body and the room grows colder and – once he opens his eyes – darker, and when he looks down, he sees pale skin, just like it always has been.
“Told you,” Toroy smiles.
---
“You don’t have to keep it on, you know,” she says, as she is fastening the cuffs for the night, so loosely that Loki is rather sure he could just wiggle his hands free out of them if he tried. Or just snap them, really, now that his strength has returned. It’s not worth it. He doesn’t mind it that much and the risk of someone wandering in and finding him unrestrained after Mother ordered it done is too significant, for him and for Toroy both.
“I know. I know this skin is a lie. But I feel more like… me, looking like that. And I want to see if the change will last through the night.”
“It always did before, didn’t it?” Toroy smiles and pats his hand in reassurance. “Good night, Loki.”
“Good night, Toroy.”
She bows her head – she still does that sometimes and Loki can never be sure if it’s in jest or not, but doesn’t mind either way – and leaves.
He wiggles his shoulders to find a more comfortable position then lies there, trying not to think about what tomorrow may bring, until he finally drifts off.
He dreams about the icy peaks again, and this time he can finally understand the meaning once he wakes up.
---
“It’s disgusting,” he complains as he chews his morning meal.
“Stop making a fuss and eat your breakfast,” Toroy scolds, half-heartedly. Her own plate is set aside, almost untouched. “It’s standard fare for the infirmary. Your oh so special princely meal didn’t arrive, so you’ll have to do with what all the regular people are having.”
“Are you trying to tell me this is not supposed to be punishment?” he says lightly, kicking what could possibly be a piece of meat around his plate with a spoon.
“No, Loki. Welcome to the real world of your subjects,” she scoffs. “Although, I must admit, today's is exceptionally terrible.”
Loki laughs, then immediately cuts himself off, as the door opens and Mother steps in.
Toroy rushes up from her seat and bows. “My queen, I didn’t expect you to…”
Mother stops her with a gesture and her eyes land on Loki.
He slowly puts the plate away and raises his – very visibly unrestrained – hands up, in a symbol of placation. “I’m sorry, I talked Toroy into freeing me. It grows awfully bothersome to not be able to feed myself.”
Mother hesitates for a moment, then smiles. “Healer Toroy is a smart woman. There’s no need for it, now that you’ve mastered the transformation.”
Loki isn’t sure what one has to do with the other, but doesn’t question it, just slowly lowers his hands and folds them in his lap.
“I received the morning note and came to see you as fast as I could,” Mother says.
I don’t know why you couldn’t do that before, crosses Loki’s mind, but he shuts it down. Mother is a busy woman, and the courtly duties take the bulk of her day. “Thank you, Mother,” he says instead. “Does it mean that I can leave?”
“Yes, of course, just one small thing and we can leave together. There’s a meal waiting for you in your chambers,” she adds, giving Loki’s plate a sideways glance. She comes over and leans closer, her hand reaching for his temple.
There’s a spell sparkling at her fingertips and Loki jerks away, instinctively.
“Don’t fight it,” Mother says and places her other hand at the nape of his neck, holding him in place. “It can only make it worse.”
His heart is racing in his chest as he fights the urge to shake her hands off and dash away, then a sudden outrage rings in his head, as he recognizes the spell for what it is. A memory-altering charm.
Then Mother’s fingers touch his temple, and it all fades away and his mind fills with blissful silence.
“It’s done,” Mother says, and Loki isn’t sure what it is that is supposedly done. His head feels light, like it’s filled with tree fluff, and he looks around, disoriented. It’s an infirmary room, that much is obvious, but the reason he’s here escapes him.
“What happened?” he asks.
“It was just a small accident,” Mother says. "You fell off your horse and hit your head, but Healer Toroy checked up on you and says you’re fine."
“Oh, yes,” he says, remembering. He was racing with Thor in the orchard and hit a branch by mistake. How could he forget that? He turns to the healer. “Can I go now?”
The woman smiles and there’s something in that smile he cannot decode, then nods. “Of course, my prince.”
Mother is turning to leave, so he gathers himself up from his bed and trudges behind her to follow. They are at the door when he remembers his manners and turns back to the healer. “Thank you,” he says.
The woman bows and smiles again. “Till the next time, my prince.”
Loki isn’t sure why he would want to return of his own volition, but it’s pointless to argue, so he just inclines his head and runs to catch up to Mother.