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On a moonless night in Loki’s chambers, Loki and Fandral sat alongside one another. These kinds of nights were often the only time they could carve out for each other, with Fandral’s duties and Loki’s current impersonation of the king keeping them apart. As such, the late hour tended to loosen their lips, and some of their most meaningful conversations happened on these nights. Tonight is a good example of this.
Some nights, Loki read, carding through Fandral’s golden hair where he rested his head upon the other’s legs. Some nights, they shared anecdotes, making up for lost years. On those nights, the air seemed to move around them, carrying their voices like wind, lifting the sounds out the window to shield them from prying ears. Other nights, nights like these, they couldn’t bother with any of that. On nights like these, the air seems still.
“You... know of my true heritage.”
“I do.” Fandral said without hesitation. Loki, posing as Odin, had been slowly twisting the narrative the Aesir had on Jotunheim as a whole. Within the past few years, the public’s view on the Jotnar had shifted from ‘savages and horrible monsters’ into ‘a people in need of Asgard’s help after being released from centuries of tyranny.’ It wasn’t exactly a favorable view, but you cannot un-instill the millennias of elitism taught to the Aesir people. Pity, he supposed, was better than malice. Only a few months ago, he had revealed to the public Loki’s true heritage, in hopes that any love they still held for their dishonored prince would be the tipping point to change the people’s views. It had worked for the most part, as before Loki’s reported death, he’d had equally as many allies as he did enemies.
“Did you know before I told the public?” Loki asked quietly. He was genuinely curious if Thor had immediately told his companions of Loki’s true parentage, when the King and Queen no doubt told him after Loki’s assumed death.
“No.” Fandral answered truthfully. “I... didn’t. Have you always known, or is it something you learned recently?” Of course, by recently, he could mean in the last century, or the last year. Time references like that get complicated when you live to the ages that the Aesir (and the Jotnar, he supposed) do.
It takes a bit for Loki to find the words. “Thor’s banishment. That’s around the time I discovered it. Right before Odin fell into the Odinsleep.”
Fandral’s eyebrows furrowed, not that Loki could see it happen, the way they were faced away from each other. “That’s... less than a decade ago.” Loki nodded in response, which Fandral did see happen, because he had turned his head in surprise. He shifted his body to face the other man, which after a moment, Loki mirrored. Facing each other now, they still could see very little of each other’s expressions in the low light.
“Well, I’d say,” Fandral started slowly, “That for someone who recently found out they’d been lied to their entire life, you’re coping quite well, all things considered.”
At this, Loki scoffed. “I’d hardly call attempting genocide and subsequently throwing myself off the Bifrost when I failed ‘coping well.’” He’d been a fool, to think he could gain Odin’s worthless approval at that point. He’d thought that maybe, if he levelled a strike against the Jotnar that was truly devastating, he could prove he wasn’t one of them. (To whom he wanted to prove that, he isn’t sure.) Or, if it went differently, and he successfully ran the Jotnar extinct, then he’d be the only one left. If there were no Jotnar left, then him being one wouldn’t mean anything anymore. It was a foolish hope, and one made of rash desperation. He knew the exact death toll that came of it, now that he was king. He won’t soon forget it.
Fandral expertly avoided that topic of conversation, likely not wanting to think about the devastation caused by his lover’s hand. “Have you ever seen it?”
“Seen what?”
“Your Jotun form.” Fandral replied easily, and Loki took a sharp breath.
He held the breath, letting it out a few moments later, when he had gathered his thoughts. “No. I haven’t, not fully. What I have seen of it is... horrible. I wanted to tear the skin off when I saw it, down to the bone if I needed to in order to see something other than blue.” He admitted.
Fandral frowned at the description. “Do you really think it looks that horrifying?”
Loki nodded. “I’ve tried to look at it before, in a mirror. I could never manage to open my eyes to see it. I was too afraid of what would be staring back at me.”
“Okay, show me.”
Loki’s gaze snapped up to his face, only to find him looking earnestly back.
Fandral reached up and brushed a strand of hair out of his face. “Let me be the judge. You’re scared of seeing yourself like that, but I know you, and I know you’re curious. You don’t even have to open your eyes while it happens. But if you wanted someone to see it, you could show me.”
Loki swallowed thickly and messed with the hem of his shirt, the silk starting to thin where he fiddled with it so much. “It’s not pretty.” He warned, trying to dissuade him.
“I would most likely disagree.” Fandral said, letting a small smile grace his features. “I find it hard to believe that any part of you could be anything less than stunning.” And wasn’t that a wonder. Here in front of him sat a man who spent his entire life fed nothing but stories of how the Jotnar ate their young and killed his people, and yet he looked into the eyes of one with nothing but adoration (and a barely noticeable hint of sorrow).
Because of this, or maybe in spite of it, (would he rather see disgust in his lover’s eyes, if it validated his own?) he closed his eyes and removed the glamour. It felt like peeling off a fake skin, and in a way, he supposed, it was. He didn’t open his eyes again until the whole dreadful process was over, and when he did, he had trouble suppressing the shudder that overcame him when he saw the cobalt hue of his hands. He had only ever seen them twice before now, when he used the casket, before his fall off the Bifrost. The markings that were etched into his hands were morbidly familiar, despite knowing that he had no reason to recognize them.
He risked a glance upwards at Fandral’s face, only to see that nothing had changed in the way he was gazing at him. It almost angered him. How is it, that his own hands are trembling as he can barely stand to look at them, but the man that only a number of years ago would have drawn his sword at the sight of his skin could look at him with such reverence?
Fandral gently took Loki’s hands into his own. Loki immediately wants to jerk them away for fear his skin would burn him. It doesn’t. Fandral tenderly traced the ridges on his hands, trailing up to where they disappeared beneath his long sleeves. It’s a blessing, Loki thought privately, that he wears such concealing clothing. He didn’t think he could bear to see much more of this skin. Fandral moved a hand to his face, now, and Loki let his eyes flutter closed as he began to trace the markings on his cheeks. He traced the lines along his jaw, drawing a crude map of the face for him. If he couldn’t bear to look at it, he at least deserved to have an idea. The touch was fleeting, unbearably light as it travelled up to trace the circular ridges along his forehead.
The hand dropped eventually, finding no more lines to map. Fandral took Loki's hands again, placing light kisses to the top of his head. Loki let his forehead fall onto Fandral's shoulder, ignoring how suffocatingly beautiful it felt to be adored so thoroughly.