Work Text:
Loki took a deep breath and pulled the hood of his cloak further over his face. He was cocooned in as many shadowing spells as he knew –almost enough to conceal a whole council of dragons or maybe even Thor- and he was in the last place anyone would think to look at his face, but still… better to take precautions.
Keeping to the shadows, Loki moved further into the Troll Market.
It was dark, loud, and chaotic. Built inside a large cave, the paths and stalls twisted to follow the natural rock formations and the air was lit with torches, lamps, witch-fire, and will-o’-the-wisps floating lazily between the smoke. Hundreds of beings (the rejects and rogues of all Nine Realms) mixed in relative peace, bickered and bartered, ate and drank, traded and stole, between the shadows of the free zone that was the Troll Market, crossroad of a hundred paths
If Heimdall could track him here, Loki would eat his own helmet.
He stepped around a wizened witch selling lichen and human fingers, slid past a procession of dwarves carrying long silken banners, paused to give way to the elegant litter of an elf noblewoman (her porcelain hand almost invisible where it rested on the intricately carved bone of her seat) and stopped to purchase a glass of mulled cider from an old Vanr.
Loki felt more at home here than in Asgard’s golden halls.
It wasn’t the first time he sneaked out of Asgard and went to do mischief in other realms, but it was the first time he hadn’t dragged his brother with him (or vice versa) or allowed the all-seeing Bifrost Gatekeeper to keep an eye on them. Loki was on his own and the mulled cider tasted like freedom.
Hours later, with his pockets bulging with rare ingredients and curiosities (only half of which had been pilfered from distracted stall-keepers), Loki climbed the rickety stairs to the quieter part of the Market; precariously clinging to the cave walls, wooden shacks held the living quarters of some sellers, a brothel or two, and lodging houses of more than questionable safety and cleanliness. Loki wrinkled his nose at the smell of spilt beer and unwashed bodies, but the walkways afforded an excellent view of the sprawling Market.
He was startled out of his contemplation by the sweetest sound he’d ever heard (second only to his mother’s lullabies); he moved towards the source of the melody, ducking past uninterested bystanders and a possibly-dead troll, and came to a halt at the junction of three walkways and a rope ladder.
In a nest of rags, in a damp corner, the withered husks of three elf women huddled, a small tin can at their feet. For all that their sallow, wrinkled faces reminded Loki of nothing more than desiccated corpses, their voices ran strong and clear, like a wild mountain stream.
Loki caught his breath with a gasp when the song came to an end and the noise of the Market again intruded in his thoughts. One of the elf women, with a hand that was nothing but bones under parchment-thin skin, waved the tin can hopefully in his direction and, without a moment’s thought, Loki emptied his purse into it; he could always steal another one later, if he needed it.
When he looked around to make sure no one had spotted his charitable act –in that place, it would mark him as a vulnerable target-, he saw someone watching him from the door of a nearby hovel; well, not watching him exactly, but the elf singers and their excited chattering as they counted Loki’s coins. The elf (for it was an elf, white-haired and grim) caught Loki’s eye for a moment, then looked away and walked back inside, a grey curtain falling closed behind him.
Loki shook his head and walked away, intending to get something to eat. He stopped before he’d given three steps.
Wait a minute...
Even under the flickering, greenish light of the witch-fire, he knew what he’d seen: a horizontal scar which crossed the elf’s face from cheekbone to cheekbone, finer lines intersecting it.
It wasn’t that long ago that Loki had sat through his lessons in Alfheimr history: that was the royal mark, a scar only seen on those who sat or would sit on the throne to one of the clans.
What the Hel was a royal prince doing in the Troll Market?! Well, another prince, Loki conceded; but he was only visiting, while the elf looked at home there. The reports the Allfather got from Alfheimr weren’t the best, but surely it hadn’t come to this...
Looking at the emaciated elf singers, who were picking up their nest of rags, Loki didn’t feel so certain.
He gave a couple of steps towards the hovel the elf had disappeared into, then stopped. What was he going to do? Go charging in there, demanding answers? That was a ‘plan’ worthy of Thor, not him. But his curiosity was peaked and he couldn’t walk away either.
Loki hesitated for a moment, then made up his mind. As stealthily as he could, he approached the wooden shack, crouched by the door and listened in; he heard a curious metal tinkling, some shuffling, hammering, more clanking. When he was about to lose his patience, he heard a soft curse and a small metal piece came rolling out of the door onto the walkway.
Quick as a dragon, Loki swooped in and caught it; there was his key!
When the curtain was pushed aside and the elf stepped out, Loki was there, arm outstretched.
“Is this yours?” he asked in his most pleasant tone, putting his best smile in place in case the elf’s yellow eyes could see into the shadows of his cloak.
“Yes,” the elf answered, snatching the piece out of Loki’s hand; and then, as an afterthought, as he turned to walk back inside, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Loki said, heart beating fast at his own daring, “Your Highness.”
The elf stopped at once, his back to Loki; a pause and then he turned around, yellow eyes narrowed.
“Come in,” he said, holding the curtain open for Loki; it wasn’t an invitation, it was an order.
Heart beating like a captured bird’s, but still with his smile in place, Loki walked past the elf and into the room, where he was quick to put himself in a position which didn’t lend itself quite so favourably to being stabbed in the back.
The place was dark, but clean, with the smell of leather and hot metal overlying that of dry leaves and something spicy Loki couldn’t quite place. The source of the metallic noises was on a small table, a dwarvish-looking gadget Loki’s finger itched to investigate; there were also tools spread around and a small anvil in one corner. It certainly looked nothing like the Alfheimr court Loki had visited once.
“So.” The elf stood on the doorway, arms crossed; his wide shoulders strained the seams of his shirt and battle scars peeked from the unlaced neckline, and Loki was wildly distracted for a second, almost enough not to notice the lance resting close to the elf’s right hand. “How do you know me, stranger?”
“Ah...” Loki swallowed, his mouth dry all of a sudden; no good lie came to mind. “I wouldn’t presume to know your name, but... the royal scar is quite, quite distinctive.”
The elf stared at him for long moment; when Loki was on the brink of fidgeting, he looked away with a thoughtful hum.
“It is to those who’ve studied Alfheimr.” His eyes met Loki’s again. “Nuada Silverlance of the Clan Bethmoora is my name, stranger.”
Loki didn’t gape, but he couldn’t help the way his eyes widened. This wasn’t just an elf prince from a remote mountain clan; this was the elf prince from Alfheimr’s ruling clan, the hero of the Golden War.
“Your Highness,” Loki said, bowing so low that his cloak pooled at his feet like dark water.
The elf watched him, head tilted, completely at ease with the gesture of respect.
“I’ve given you my name... what is yours, stranger who knows enough about Alfheimr to recognise my family’s mark, but is no elf?”
Loki swallowed again. He was pretty sure the elf would be able to see through his lies, and it didn’t seem prudent to antagonise someone so... muscled and covered in scars. For a brief moment, Loki wished he’d thought of bringing Thor along, but no; this was Loki’s adventure and Loki’s alone and he would get through it.
“Loki Odinson of Asgard is my name,” he announced, pushing back the now useless hood of his cloak.
Prince Nuada stared at him for a moment (definitely able to smell lies, Loki thought, and shivered), then one corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been a smile.
“Your Highness,” he said, and bowed as low as Loki had bowed to him.
Loki felt himself blush; he was still too young (and not battle-ready enough) that he was barely ever awarded those gestures of respect even at home. Suddenly suspicious and uncomfortable with himself, he glared at Prince Nuada, but the elf didn’t seem to be mocking him, a picture of solemn grace.
“What brings you here, then, my prince?” asked Nuada moving away from the door and relaxing his stance some; still, Loki wasn’t naive enough to think that if he made the wrong move, he wouldn’t be skewered before he could send his first spell.
“I’m exploring,” he declared, giving the elf the dimpled smile that usually got him out of trouble with everyone but Heimdall.
“Exploring... on your own?” The elf gave him a doubtful look. “Where is your escort?”
“I don’t need an escort,” Loki informed him, dropping the smile as his voice went tight with annoyance. “I am capable of taking care of myself, even here.”
Another long, considering look, then the elf nodded.
“You must be, yes, to have made it this far unmolested... though I’ve yet to hear of the coming of age of King Odin’s youngest son.”
“Because it hasn’t happened yet,” Loki snapped, the ever-delayed ceremony a sore subject. “And you? What brings you here?” He gestured at their surroundings. “You don’t seem to be merely visiting.”
“I am not.”
“So?” Loki pressed. “I admit I don’t read all the reports sent to my father, but surely if Alfheimr were...”
“What?” Nuada asked with a mirthless smile when Loki trailed off. “If Alfheimr were what? If Alfheimr were poisoned, if its soil became dust and its waters bled black? If Alfheimr’s cries reached Asgard’s hallowed halls, what would your royal father do? What did he do when we fought our war? For the self-proclaimed protectors of the Nine Realms, Your Highness, Asgard seems to do remarkably little!”
Loki blinked, taken aback. His first instinct was to defend his father’s name, but... but it wasn’t the first time he thought Asgard’s policies lacking, though he always felt guilty about it and never shared these ideas with anyone.
“What ails Alfheimr?” he asked instead, his voice smaller than he would have liked.
“Midgard’s blight,” sighed Prince Nuada. “Both realms are connected, enough that humanity’s poisoned waters and rotten winds have infected Alfeheimr and threaten to bring us to our knees and worse...”
“Midgard?”
“A nest of filthy insects, spreading plague and destruction wherever they go... should you leave this cave and wonder into the realm above, what ghastly sights you’d see, what sickening smells would assault you! They were given a realm as fair as any of Vanaheimr’s gardens, and not only have they violated it in the most awful of ways, but now their disease is spreading...”
“But... why don’t you do something, then?”
Prince Nuada laughed, the bitter sound making Loki cringe.
“We did. We did. We fought the Golden War and won, but my father shied away from dealing the final, fatal blow. He allowed their gangrenous kind to survive, and now they flourish in their filth while we perish... don’t let you tutors tell you that the truce and the treaty were a success. They were King Balor’s biggest, costliest mistake and one that yet might condemn our realm to ruin.”
Loki listened with all he was worth, eyes wide. No one, not even his father, had ever spoken to him like that, as if he were an adult capable of understanding war, politics and the mistakes of kings.
“What will you do?” he whispered into the silence.
“Wait.” Prince Nuada’s smile was deadly. “Wait and plan and strike when the time is right.”
Loki nodded fervently; this he understood –and failed to make Thor understand.
“But... but here? You are a prince, surely...”
“Don’t,” Nuada interrupted him. “Don’t think of offering me refuge. Would you take it, if you were in my place?”
Loki frowned and bit his lip; would he?
“Worry not, little prince,” the elf said, his voice gentling. “This place and a hundred other like it will suffice for my wait. In defence of my realm and my people, I might yet do much worse than this, and regret none of it.”
To Loki right then, Prince Nuada might as well be glowing, in full golden armour, instead of standing in a dark hovel in his shirtsleeves.
“Alfheimr has a worthy champion in you,” he managed to say at last.
Prince Nuada turned to look at him, almost smiling again.
“Wouldn’t you do the same, Loki of Asgard, if the day came?”
“I would,” Loki said. “I swear I would.”
“May you never need to,” the elf said, raising his hand to touch Loki’s forehead gently in a gesture of blessing, and then stepping away. “Now, night falls outside and the Market is about to show its more vicious face... it’s time you left, my prince.”
Loki nodded, overwhelmed. He bowed again, searching his mind for the right words to say.
“May your actions see success and your realm flourish again, Nuada Silverlance.”
He turned towards the door and stopped at once. A tall, solid body was pressed against his back and a cold, slim blade was pressed against his throat.
“This encounter and my presence here will remain a secret,” Nuada whispered in his ear, his silken hair brushing Loki’s cheek. “I would not enjoy hunting you, but I will if you give me reason.”
Loki started to nod, but the knife at this throat didn’t budge.
“I won’t,” he gasped, feeling hot and cold all over. “I give you my word.”
And, for once, he meant it.
As quickly as he’d grabbed him, Nuada stepped away.
“Take this,” the elf said, curling Loki’s hand around something cold, “and be safe.”
Loki found himself on the walkway, breath caught in his throat. He stumbled away until he found a dark enough corner, and sank to the ground, trembling like a leaf. In his right hand, he held a simple silver dagger, with the royal seal of Clan Bethmoora engraved in the hilt.
Loki went back to Asgard as in a dream, avoiding Heimdall more by chance than by skill; he made his way straight to his rooms and locked himself in, breathing in the darkness until his heart stopped beating like mad. All thoughts of bragging to Thor about his excursion were promptly forgotten, and he hid all souvenirs of his trip as best as he could, except for the dagger, which he decided to always carry with him.
***
When Loki learnt to use a scrying mirror, it was Nuada Silverlance he sought in its depths.
When Odin talked to him and Thor about a prince’s duties, it was Nuada Silverlance’s words he heard.
When reports reached Asgard of Nuada Silverlance's failed restoration of the Golden War, Loki said nothing but regretted it with all his heart, the image of Midgard souring further in his mind.
And when the day came that he saw his duty to his realm and his love for his family take different paths, Loki remembered the oath he’d sworn in that dark hovel in the Troll Market and made his decision.
He’d wait. He’d wait, he’d plan, and he’d strike when the time was right.