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Chapter Text

Sometimes Loki wishes that people in other realms were just as stupid as they are in Asgard.  It really isn’t fair that the people he has to work against are more intelligent and interesting then the people he protects.  But that is really just his bitterness at the situation talking.  He hates Nidavellir.  He hates the Warriors Three.  Common sense, really, that he would hate being sent to Nidavellir with them.  Especially when he needs to get some damn work done and here they are, cornered by Dwarves with magic repelling weapons and just tipsy enough to believe that killing a prince of Asgard (even a second prince, and damn Thor for not coming) and his companions wouldn’t be a bad idea.

***

Three Days Previous

But Thor had insisted.  Thor who couldn’t seem to understand that no, the Warriors Three didn’t like Loki.  And no, Loki didn’t like the Warriors Three.  And yes, everyone was very satisfied not liking each other and could continue thusly until Ragnarok with a measure of contentment. 

                Loki had, on numerous occasions, sat Thor down and explained that his position in the Royal Household did not require people to like him.   In fact, the less people liked him, the less likely they were to guess at his true role.  He explained that seeming like the jealous second son, the insecure spare heir let the people know his ‘role’ and dismiss him from their minds with the understanding that they knew exactly what he was and where he belonged.  He explained that each person that did this was another person who didn’t associate Prince Loki, shadow of Crown Prince Thor, with the Liesmith, spymaster to Odin Allfather and the shadow defender of the realm. 

                Thor still didn’t understand.  Sif understood.  Because there could be no lying to Sif, not even by Loki Liesmith.  They knew each other much too well.  So well it made Loki nervous, and he avoided her for days, until she cornered him in the library and explained that knowing someone went two ways and he could use his knowledge against her as much as she against him.  Which was both reassuring and even more worrying because that manipulation had not occurred to him.  Not with Sif. 

                So when Thor and Father decided that The Warriors Three’s attendance at a Tournament in Nidavellir was the perfect cover for Loki to discover exactly what the Dwarves were working on in their magical smith shops that had all of Loki’s little birds abuzz with anxiety, Sif was the first person that Loki could turn to.  And it should be an adequate vengeance upon his brother.

                “Lady Si-if…”  Loki singsongs in his mother’s voice as he knocks on her chamber door.  He grins as he hears the faint sounds of cursing and the shuffling of clothing as two people try to dress as quietly as possible. 

                Sif opens the door with her best curtsey for the queen, which turns into a scowl when she looks up to see Loki smiling innocently and no sign of Frigga.   She growls but doesn’t bother to try and stop him from slipping through the door.  Thor is halfway into a wardrobe that will collapse under his weight should he manage to wedge himself through the narrow door, with only his loincloth to preserve his modesty.  Loki is quite prepared to watch his fight with the wardrobe (perhaps even take bets on what will give out first:  the floor, the door, or Thor’s temper) when Sif calls, “Thor, your idiot brother is here to see us.”

                Thor looks like he is not sure whether to be relieved that it was not his mother and queen that interrupted them, or to be annoyed that his brother is sitting idly on the recently vacated bed, swinging his legs and whistling innocently. 

                He settles on annoyed. 

                “What are you doing here, Brother?”  Loki’s smile widens even further and his eyes take an even more innocent glint to them.  Thor knows he’s in trouble.  Loki is only innocent when he is at his worst.

                “Why Brother!  I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” Loki looks around the room eyes pausing on Thor’s sweaty face and Sif’s ratnest hair.  “I only wished to correct an error in your math, Dear Brother.”

                It’s worse than Thor thought.  “Dear Brother” worse. 

                “An error in my math, Brother?”

                “Oh yes!  Did you not tell Heimdall that four passengers would be departing for Nidavellir on the morrow?”

                “Yes...You and the Warriors Three.”  Thor is confused.  He knows something is coming, but math?

                “But surely you told the Lady Sif the reason that the Warriors Three are accompanying me on my visit to the Dwarves?”

                There it is.  Sif looks around.

                “Thor?”

                They’re both looking at him expectantly.  Loki with a side of mischievous glee and Sif with a side of suspicion.

                “Sif.  Do not take this the wrong way—“  She doesn’t let him finish.

                “Loki.  Tell me.”

                “The Warriors Three are accompanying me to Nidavellir for a tournament.  Did you not know?  I had wondered why you were not joining us.”

                Sif is angry.  No, that is an understatement.  Sif looks ready to murder the both of them. 

                “Thor, why did you not tell me this?”

                Thor wants to be very far away right now.  Muspelheim maybe.  Or Helheim.  “I merely wished for you to remain in Asgard.  With the Warriors Three and Loki away you would be my sole shield companion.” 

                Loki is quite proud of Thor’s words.  They are not a lie, otherwise he would be blushing and stammering, but they are not why he truly wished Sif to remain in-realm while his other friends play-fight.  Sif knows this.

                “You are afraid I will be accosted by Dwarves,” She says it flatly.  There is a silence.  He is. 

                The Dwarves are well known for their…advances towards Asgardian females.  There is a reason that diplomatic parties from Nidavellir are heralded by a mass exodus of women from the palace and city.  The Dwarves tend to mind their manners in the city, under diplomatic missions, but it is always best not to tempt fate.  As sending Sif to Nidavellir surely would. 

                The lady suddenly laughs.  It is never a good thing when the lady laughs. 

                “Do you think me a blushing maid, to be dragged back to some Dwarf’s smithy for a tumble in the sheets?  Have I not bested you in sword and spear and glaive since the day I took them up?”

                Thor begins to protest, but it is quickly overwhelmed by Sif’s mounting anger.

                “Or is this some sort of misplaced affection?  Do you believe that just because we do this,” she gestures to the bed, “that suddenly I am in need of a strong man to protect me?  Do not mistake my fondness for you as weakness, Odinson.  It would be your last mistake.”

                Thor is silent, like a rabbit before a snake.  Any word could set her fangs into him and he would sorely regret it.

                Loki moves first, a triumphant grin on his face. 

                “Shall I inform Heimdall of another spot in our party?” 

                Sif doesn’t look away from Thor.  “Please do so.”

                Loki leaves, closing the door with a quiet click.  He has had his revenge.  Thor will be without his lover for a few days and he will gain have at least one member of his party that is friendly towards him. 

Thor and Sif stare at each other in silence. 

                “I will bid you goodbye at the Bifrost tomorrow?”  He asks.  She nods and Thor makes his awkward goodnights.

                Sif throws herself into her mussed bed.

                “Gods save me from Odinsons.”

Chapter Text

Sif is the first to the Bifrost.   This is normal.  Loki has ever been one to stay awake reading or spying until sunup and sleep the day away, and the Warriors Three often keep a similar schedule, though for entirely different reasons.  She is not surprised that Thor meets her at Heimdall’s observatory only a few minutes after she arrived.  Thor has probably been up for hours.  Morning training is something that he has never shaken the need to continue, in wartime or peace, whether he is completely proficient in the arm of the day or not.  It is something that Sif finds incredibly endearing about him. 

                Another thing that Sif finds endearing about the Crown Prince is his apologies.  Thor often finds himself in a position to apologize to Sif and the novelty of a prince’s formal apology has never really worn off.  

                Thor sees her at the observatory and approaches warily.  After all, he has not yet made his apology, and she is armed.  When she makes no gesture as if to fight, Thor drops to one knee and begins the words that Frigga drilled into the princes’ heads centuries before. 

                “Lady Sif.  I apologize humbly and completely for my callousness last night.  It was improper of me to question your ability to defend yourself and best the Dwarves.  If there is anything you would ask of me as a more tangible token of my remorse, please ask it of me now.”

                He says it like the words of a script.  She can hear the slots where the parts that pertain to this particular situation were hastily substituted.  But his blue eyes are wide and sincere, so she simply nods.

                “Just do not repeat these actions and I will count myself repaid.”  It is a similarly rote response.  One she has given to Thor a number of times and never to Loki.  Because Loki has only apologized once to her and she would never, ever let him do that again.  Bad things happen when Loki apologizes.

                Thor stands again and surveys the Bifrost.  Their party should leave in half an hour and they will most likely be seen off by the queen and king.  But at the moment it is only the two of them, watching the reservoir tumble beneath them. 

                Sif would remark that it is beautiful, the Bifrost’s rainbow lights reflected in the waves below, but Thor has just apologized for calling her womanly.  And to comment so would be just like a maiden.

                Thor refrains from remarking on how the wind in Sif’s hair and the light on her face makes the lady look like an etching of the warrior women of old.   She would not like to be reminded of their fight, he thinks. 

                So they wait in silence.

***

Loki arrives with the queen, their horses trotting up the Bifrost at a leisurely pace. 

“Darling, you will be careful this time?”

Loki determinedly does not roll his eyes.  This is his mother, she always worries.  But it is his job to get information, and sometimes that takes being tied up and smacked around by Dark Elves.  Sometimes it takes quite a lot of being tied up and smacked around by Dark Elves.  But he had returned well enough and the news that there was a plan in motion to release the demon Surtur had been worth a bit of pain.  Besides, he had everything very well in hand. 

He does have to admit that it might have been a bit of a shock for her to see her second son tumble out of the Bifrost with his back burnt and peeling and the yellow smell of acid and necrotic flesh rolling off him like a fine perfume.  But she shouldn’t have been waiting at the observatory, he argues.  He had only been gone a day longer than expected.  If he had known she would be there, he would have magicked a shirt on.  Or an illusion of a shirt at least.  He hates to worry her. 

“I’ve got the Warriors Three and Sif with me this time, Mother.  If anything goes wrong, they can easily drag my senseless body back to Asgard.  After all, isn’t that why we have them for Thor?”

She gives him a look that reprimands him both for the insult to Thor and the gallows humor.  Loki sighs. 

“I will be fine, Mother.  You need not worry about me.  It is only a bit of reconnaissance.”

“As Svartalheim was only a bit of reconnaissance?  As Muspelheim was before that?”

“Mother…This is my duty.  Please do not ask me to shirk it.”

She does not.  But neither does she look happy about it. 

***

                The Warriors Three are the last to join the party at the Bifrost.  They are fifteen minutes late and still smell of the ale and conquests they had last night.  Hogun looks grimmer than usual, a feat Loki did not know was possible, while Volstagg’s legs look like they can barely take his considerable weight.  And what, Loki wonders, does Fandral have on his head?  It seems to be some sort of mustard-colored wide-rimmed hat to shield his eyes from the sun, but Loki knows that if Fandral were even half-way sober, that hat would never come within ten feet of his golden locks.  Loki rolls his eyes at the state of them. 

                “Friends!” Thor booms. “I am so glad you will be joining my brother this day!  I only regret that I cannot accompany you!”

                Loki barely suppresses a smile at the way the Warriors Three wince at Thor’s voice.  The volume is Thor’s passive-aggressive way of punishing his friends for being late, he knows, and it’s quite touching that Thor is offended in his honor.  But he can’t be touched, because at the moment he is not Loki Liesmith, brother and friend, spymaster and scholar, he is Prince Loki, spare prince, jealous juvenile and smarmy bastard. 

As such, he turns his smile into a smirk and turns to the Warriors Three. 

“Yes.  So lovely to see you here.”  His words are polite, but he couples them with a pointed glance to Volstagg’s vomitty beard and Fandral’s unfortunate hat.  “And I thought we would have to endure the lavish festivities of the opening ceremony.  Thank gods you delayed us, lest we suffer through the feasting and games.”

The Warriors Three glare daggers at him, but dare not answer back with the Queen so nearby, while Thor and Sif try to hide their smiles by looking at the floor.  Frigga simply gives Loki a look that clearly says I don’t care if you are spymaster or not, you are a prince and sarcasm is not princely.  Loki sighs inwardly and kisses her cheek to say goodbye.  Out of the corner of his eye he sees Fandral surreptitiously divest himself of the hat and the Warriors Three and Sif say their goodbyes to Thor. 

Frigga says one more “be careful or you will regret it” and leaves the observatory.  Thor lingers a moment longer, patting Loki’s shoulder in a comradely way. 

“Do try to stay out of trouble, little brother,” He says, just loud enough for Loki to hear. 

Loki grins a grin that is all Liesmith and not at all second Prince.  Thor sighs before the Liesmith can make good on his name, waves awkwardly at Sif, and leaves Heimdall’s observatory.

Loki’s grin slips from his face as he glances around.  The Warriors Three don’t look any more friendly, but Sif gives him a grim little nod.  She is with him.  Heimdall recites his appeal for caution, and then the five are hurled through the cosmos towards Nidavellir.

Chapter Text

They did, in fact, miss the opening ceremony.  Loki is neither surprised nor terribly disappointed.  Ceremonies are very good opportunities for observing inter-court relations.  There are representatives from both Vanaheim and Alfheim, and their drunken reactions to the Dwarves of Nidavellir could be perhaps influenced by a word or two to help with on-going trade agreements—but no, Loki is here for a specific mission, and he should keep his mind on the smithies, not the courtiers. 

Besides, a ceremony would mean following Sif around like a guard dog.  A very discrete guard dog, of course.  Sif’s honor might be in danger from a few groping Dwarves, but if she knew Loki worried about that, the Dwarves would not be the only ones in danger of losing some of their more important bits and pieces.  And the honor in danger would not be her chastity but her honor as a warrior.  Loki has seen Sif best the fiercest warriors of Asgard, including his brother.  He has no doubts that she can defend herself in the event of any untoward actions on the part of the Dwarves.  Loki is more concerned that Sif might carve a few pieces off of one of the royal family and thus create an incident which would just be more work for Loki.  It is more a protection for the Dwarves than for Sif.

And Thor would kill him if she ever came to harm and he is to fault.  Again.

Really it was a relief to skip the pomp and circumstance and simply set up the tents and relax while watching Sif soundly defeat the Warriors Three in their practice bouts. 

The tournament would begin tomorrow and Loki wanted to start his investigation of the smithies tonight.  That meant sleeping as much as he could now, since between his spying at night and his princely duties during the day, he would probably be subsisting on catnaps for the rest of the week.  He sprawls in the sun on a hill overlooking the practice field and is halfway asleep when a shadow falls across his face.  Loki sits up to see who it is.

The Vanir Minister of Finance.  Lovely.  What was he even doing at a tourney in Nidavellir?  Oh, the Vanir were using this as a cover for a secret meeting negotiating the release of a hostage from the last surge of conflict between the two realms.  That had crossed his desk a few weeks ago.  Really, was anyone actually here for the tourney?

“Minister Freyr.”

“Liesmith.”

Loki almost sighs.  Freyr’s official title may be Minister of Finance, but he also doubles as a sort of spymaster for the Vanir as well.  As such, he knew Loki occupied a similar role for Asgard and their paths had crossed a number of times.  Sometimes, indeed their paths had been diametrically opposed to each other and there had been…conflict.  Loki generally got out ahead, but oftentimes it was at a certain cost.  In the case of the incident in Muspelheim, the cost had been a good deal of flesh from his back and week spent in the Healer’s rooms.  Loki’s shoulders still itched when it rained.  He is not, in any way possible, fond of the good minister.

He smiles, friendly, and gestures at the grass beside him for the Minister to sit.  It isn’t a friendly gesture at all, since Freyr can either sit, and risk crushing and staining the elaborate silken robes he is wearing or continue to tower over Loki and give himself a neck ache and offend the prince.  The Vanr sits. 

“I assume you know why I am here, Liesmith.”

Loki shrugs. 

“A day watching sweaty men flex their muscles in the sun?  I cannot imagine you missing the spectacle.”

Freyr’s jaw tightens.  It is always good fun to wind him up, Loki thinks.  The man is too used to those around him cowering lest he dredge up their secrets.  Loki knows just as many secrets as Freyr does, and exactly how to wield them to draw the most blood. 

“I am here to negotiate a deal with the Dwarves, Liesmith.  You know this, I am sure.  Of what you are not aware is that should you interfere in our negotiations in anyway, Muspelheim will be a fond memory compared to what I will do to you.”

Loki is quite surprised that Freyr is threatening him so openly.  Was this hostage of greater importance then he had originally though?  The name hadn’t rung any bells and Loki had dismissed the whole affair as fairly low level information.  Perhaps of use to antagonize the two realms into war, should Loki need to, but mostly general background information.  Nothing of importance.  But apparently it held more significance than he had originally expected.  He’d have to look into that when he was done with his other work. 

Loki yawns. 

Freyr’s eyes narrow.  But before he can continue the conversation, a shout comes from the practice field. 

“Loki!  Are you going to lounge in the sun like a maiden all the day through or are you planning to make good on the assertion that you are a warrior and join us on the field?”  Fandral shouts, waving his rapier lazily.

“Fandral,” Hogun says in a stern voice, “Stop teasing the ladies and face me like a man.”  He looks closer at Loki.  “Oh excuse me, Prince Loki, I did not recognize you” he says, deadpan.

Loki steadily wills his face red.  Loki Liesmith is not particularly offended by taunts directed at his masculinity, but Loki, second prince is.  Freyr smirks at their gibes.

“Yes Loki!” shouts Volstagg.  “Quit flirting with the handsome Vanr men and fight.  We would not want to return you to Asgard sullied.”

It is then Loki’s turn to smirk, though he turns his head so only Freyr can see it. 

“I am afraid my comrades call me, my dear Minister,” He purrs.  “But until we meet again.”

He blows a kiss at Freyr and turns towards the practice field, his face a mask of indignant pride, to join Sif in defeating the Warriors Three until dinner. 

Chapter Text

Dinner was a loud, boisterous affair.  The Dwarves certainly do not do anything in halves, and Loki had had his hands full between his duties as visiting royalty and running interference for Sif without anyone, especially Sif, finding out.  By the time the feast ends, the Warriors Three are so deep in their cups Loki wonders whether any of them will be capable of holding weapons tomorrow, Sif has retired to her bed (alone) and he just wants to curl up in the luxurious suite in the Dwarf stronghold (though the bed was about three feet too short for his frame) and sleep until Ragnarok.  But he cannot.  He has work to do. 

                After bidding goodbye to the King Hreidmar and his thirty-six concubines (one of whom had been his dinner companion and had a surprisingly extensive knowledge of the King’s treasury that was only part-way helped by his judicious administration of a drop of truth serum), Loki leaves the great hall and made his way to an alcove to build his disguise. 

                As a shapeshifter, disguises are something of a specialty for Loki and he has given a great deal of thought towards what shape would be best suited to this place.  The optimum choice would probably be that of some small animal that could sneak undetected into the smith shops and crawl through tiny cracks in the walls.  The problem with taking such a shape is the natural urges that are inherent to it.  And he has been bitten by those urges before.  It did not end well. 

For instance, if he became a mouse, about halfway to the smithies he would most likely be distracted by a whiff of cheese and head for the kitchen instead, and then likely be lured into some sort of mousetrap and die a horrible death.  So maybe he will leave that as plan B. 

Instead, he would have to take a shape that had the intelligence needed for his role, and could pass by the guards without throwing suspicion onto Asgard.  A Dwarf would be best, but the Dwarves all knew each other.  It was not quite a hive mind, but a sort of collective unconscious was closer to the conscious in their species then many others in the nine realms.  But there were two other races visiting that Loki could imitate and cast blame upon.  And he knew exactly the one he was going to choose.  Loki grinned as he contemplated his new shape. 

***

                Sindri was a typical Dwarf and very proud of it.  He liked working the forge during the day and working the pubs at night.  So the addition of nightly guard duties upset his careful balance of work and fun.  Not to mention the fact that no one would tell him exactly what or why he was guarding an empty smith three bells after midnight when he could hear the revelers over by the tournament ground.  It just was not fair. 

                So when the leggy lady Vanr ducked through the low-ceilinged tunnel that led to the smithy part of the underground city, Sindri was pleasantly surprised to have some company of the female persuasion. 

                “Hello, beautiful.”  He says, trying to pass his leer off as a friendly smile.   “What’s a lovely lady like you doing down in the pits?  Surely you want to be up with the knights at the tourney.”

                The beautiful woman wrinkles her nose.  “I can appreciate a strong man, but I prefer those that labor at something worthwhile rather than waving a bunch of sticks around where there is no risk of any danger anyway.”

                Sindri puffs out his chest.  Her’s is certainly a sensible viewpoint.  After all, guarding a potentially empty smithy is surely ten times more honorable than playfighting like children. 

                “You strike me as a particularly sensible woman, my lady.”

                “Oh, I would not go that far...”

                “Sindri.”

                “I would not go that far, Sindri.  I suppose I simply have grown tired of seeking value in the men at court.  And surely if the men at court have little value, the next logical step is to look outside of court, do you not agree?”

                “Absolutely, my lady,” Sindri’s heart flutters in his chest as he looks her ample body up and down again.  She really is a beautiful creature.  She must be related to the Minister of Trade of the Vanir, though, because her dark curls and blue eyes are almost exact replicas of Freyr’s.  Not that Sindri minds. 

                “But I should not, of course, risk my virtue with just any man.”

                “Of course,” Sindri says, his heart sinking.

                “I must test the virtue of any man who would court me.” 

                Sindri’s heart rises again in his chest and he smiles. 

                “My lady, I would gladly brave any test you would lay before me,” Sindri says gallantly.  “But I would have your name first, so I could treasure it in my heart whether I pass your test or fail it.”

                “My name is Freya,” Loki smirks. 

***

                It was, Loki thinks as he finally falls into bed at four bells past midnight, quite petty of him to have his disguise mimic Freyr so closely.  From the physical similarities to wearing Freyr’s colors and even choosing an alias so close to the Minister’s name, Loki knows that it is a gesture of adolescent shallowness to do so.  His mother would lecture him on the small mindedness of letting a rival force him to stoop to such measures.  But Loki’s mother is not here, so he can indulge his irritation at Freyr in peace. 

                Freyr has been a thorn in Loki’s side since some of his first excursions into the world of espionage.  But really, so is Gangleri, the spymaster of Alfheim, and Eitri, the Dwarves’ own spymaster, who is luckily currently snooping around Vanaheim while Freyr is absent.  The difference between these rivals and Freyr is Freyr’s damnable ego.  Loki is quite familiar with the vice (his brother has it in spades, and he himself possesses a goodly portion) but Freyr’s pride has threatened Loki’s life so many times that he feels entitled to a bit of spiteful trickery.  Especially if said trickery may lay the blame for his later crimes on Freyr’s doorstep. 

                Not to mention that laying such suspicion would suggest that Freyr would use a female form as a disguise, perhaps (with a few choice words from a silver tongue) leading to questions of how Freyr might use this disguise in the recreational aspects of his life.  That would be incredibly petty. 

                Loki smiles at that as he drifts off to sleep. 

Chapter Text

                At breakfast the next morning, Loki ignores the rumpled and hung-over Warriors Three (except for Fandral, who is participating in the Sword events of the day) to reflect on the information he had gathered the night before.  Despite the fact that the character of Freya and her resemblance to Freyr were incredibly and childishly spiteful, Loki had to admit that she served her purpose admirably.  Sindri had not been able to reveal much about what he was guarding, but Loki had no doubt that with a little more flirtation and empty promises he, or rather she, could persuade the Dwarf to admit her into the smithy to see this secret weapon for himself.  Or herself. 

                Loki takes a sip of the Dwarvish tea and idly watches as Volstagg gorges himself on the roasted boar.  It would not be enough, he knows, to just see the weapon for himself.  Loki knows through his spies the basics of the weapon.  What he needs to see is the magic that surrounds it.  That is the trickiest part of the mission. 

                He is so wrapped up in plotting out his next move, and then counter moves and contingency plans, that Loki nearly jumps when Sif sat her tray down beside him.  He disguises the motion by standing politely, as she is technically a lady, and he was raised to be a gentleman.  Sif gives him a knowing look and they both sit.  After the usual exchange of pleasantries, Sif gets to the point.

                “You never did tell me why you are here,” She says in a low voice. 

                It is not a question.  She must have picked up the habit from the Allfather or Thor.  A commander never asks a question to which he does not know the answer nor gives an order when he has doubts it will be obeyed. Loki has never had need of this advice, but it is wise of Sif to take it. 

                “Why I am here to watch the warriors of the realm acquit themselves upon the field of combat and perhaps find a knight willing to make an honest woman of me.  And you?”

                “Loki.” She wants him to be serious, but there are so few people with whom Loki can truly joke with, not insult cattily, or verbally eviscerate, but truly joke, that Loki is not willing to let up yet.

                “Do you not yearn for a token of my favor to tie to your shoulder?”

                  “Loki.”

                He flutters his eyelashes at her and she rolls her eyes. 

                “Loki, tell me why you are in Nidavellir and why you thought I should come.”

                Sif is much too smart for friends like the Warriors Three, Loki thinks.  He drops the blushing maiden act he had put on earlier.

                “Thor really should marry you at the earliest convenience, Sif.  You might succeed in beating some suspicion into that sweet, but still thick skull,” He says instead of answering her. 

                “I have a mind to beat something into your thick skull if you do not answer me, Loki,” She says, pointedly ignoring the remark about marriage. 

                Loki sighs and maneuvers his chair closer to her and lowers his voice, instinctively casting a ward against eavesdroppers. 

                “There have been rumors that the Dwarves have been forging some kind of magical weapon that can not only harness the natural magic of the wielder, but can amplify it by ten-fold. Such weapons are not unheard of, obviously, Gungnir does something similar, but it is of such ancient magic that it has never been successfully mimicked.  Apparently this weapon can do what Gungnir does and moreso.”

                Sif raises her eyebrows in interest.  She does not often have interest in Loki’s work, political as it is, but a weapon like the one that Loki describes is something that Sif can truly appreciate.  “That is indeed something of interest.”

                “Especially when the bidders are Dark Elves and Frost Giants,” Loki agrees. 

                “Frost Giants?  Surely they have nothing to trade for such a weapon.”

                “I had not thought so either, but my spies tell me otherwise.  This weapon could be as powerful as the Casket of Eternal Winters, and even if it is not, it could help them recover the Casket and return to full-strength.” 

                Sif looks a little pale.  “So you are here to steal it.”

                Loki is a little put-out.  “No, the Allfather did not say so outright.  It would be enough to see that it is in the hands of a realm that is less antagonistic towards Asgard.  Theft is only a last-resort.” 

They had argued quite bitterly over that point.  Loki thought it would be best to attain the weapon for Asgard.  They could bid for it openly or through a proxy, and the weapon would be safe in the vaults of the Aesir and they need no longer worry themselves over it.  Doing so might, however, reveal sources of information that could still be mined. 

Theft, then, Loki had suggested.  He was again overruled, this time for the risk to himself, rather than his spies.  The Dwarves did not take kindly to thieves. 

Neither did they take kindly to spies, but the Allfather was not swayed. 

“So you are here to steal it.”  Sif repeats. 

Loki grins. It is so nice to have someone with a healthy suspicion as a companion. 

Sif sighs.  “And I am here because…”

“You are the muscle,” Loki says casually enough for Sif to doubt it casualness. 

“What manner of weapon is this?”

Loki takes a nonchalant sip of his tea and says, “It takes the form of a giant metal hammer.”

Chapter Text

Loki leans his chin on his hand and tries not to fall asleep in the middle of the sword events.  It could be the lack of sleep the night before, but Loki prefers to think that Fandral’s chosen weapon is just inherently dull* and would lull him to sleep whether he had rested earlier or not. 

                Loki is seated in the royal box, with another of King Hreidmar’s concubines on his left and the Dowager Princess to his right.  The Dowager Princess seems to have the same opinion of the sword events as Loki, as her attention has been with the book in her lap, rather than the field of contest.  Loki has been slyly reading it out of the corner of his eye (a sappy romantic comedy featuring a comely Dwarf maiden with a healthy growth of beard and a roguish Dark Elf who finds facial hair to be quite the aphrodisiac) and thinking that despite its plot-holes it was better entertainment than the tourney when he heard a throat being cleared beside him.  Loki turns to meet the eyes of his other seating partner. 

                King Hreidmar’s concubines are something of a legend among the Nine Realms.  Hreidmar is less concerned with their looks than the effort he puts forth to lure them into his bed.  For example, the most beautiful and lusty women from his own realm are often overlooked because of their convenience, while a rather homely maiden whose father guards her chastity with a hundred highly armed eunuchs and whose mother has placed a dozen spells of protection upon her is pursued relentlessly.  And oftentimes, as soon as Hreidmar acquires the girl, she is immediately forgotten for the next chase. 

                The concubine to Loki’s left is really quite beautiful in his opinion, but in a quiet sort of way.  It had been quite easy to ignore her in favor of the Dowager Princess’ book after the first quick once-over.   Of course during that once-over Loki had catalogued her hair color and eye color (quite difficult considering the fashionable veils that obscure most of her features), nationality  (Vanr with mixed blood…parent from Alfheim?), height, weight, as well as her the likelihood she knew valuable information (not very considering he could tell she had been added to the harem only a week ago), had valuable treasures (possible, but unlikely for similar reasons), and whether or not she might win in a fight against him (almost definitely not with such an impractical dress but he noticed a few slim blades tucked into sleeves and shoes). 

                “My Lady,” He says, questioning. 

                “Prince Loki.  Or should I say Liesmith?”

                Loki starts, and then holds very, very still, as he feels the prick of one of those thin blades against his ribs.  She was good.  And Loki was feeling incredibly amateur.  Stupid stupid stupid.  All the clues had been there and he had been so occupied with the damn hammer* he had not put them together.  No wonder Freyr had been so openly hostile.

                “Lady Sigyn, I did not recognize you outside of Vanaheim.  It is quite a surprise to see you amongst the King’s Harem.”  Loki smiles at her cheekily, while he continues to berate himself.  Freyr is here to negotiate for a hostage, Hreidmar has recently acquired another hard-won girl, Freyr is adamant that Loki stay far away from the talks—damn it Loki is only five hundred years old how is he already losing his touch?

                “I, too, was surprised, but I have moved past it to anger and I do not think you would like to test it,” the Lady practically growls at him and digs the knife into his ribs just a little deeper. 

                “I do not know, my Lady, I think I would suffer even greater pains to be near you,” Loki says with a leer because if he is going to be stupid today, he might as well embrace it.           

                Lady Sigyn digs the knife in again, and Loki is beginning to wonder if he is getting blood on his new doublet when a cheer goes up from the crowd.  On the contest field, Fandral is holding his sword aloft in triumph, and though his hair and moustache are drooping with his exertions, there seem to be plenty of women in the stands willing to smooth it for him.*

                Loki takes advantage of the momentary lapse to work a quick and invisible spell that should keep her from actually harming him, while still allowing her to think she has the upper-hand on him.  It would seem odd that a prince of Asgard should be so easily threatened, but none of Loki’s jewelry has any protective spells laid upon them. At home he has a drawer full of defensive charms in the form of bracelets and necklaces and rings given to him by Frigga and Thor, but charms like those often are far from discrete.  The less powerful ones have been known to throw the assailant across the room and Loki knows at least one of his mother’s necklaces has completely disintegrated an attacker.  Not an event one needs when one is on a covert mission.  Instead, Loki depends on his knives and magic to protect him.  It is only by surprise that the Lady Sigyn has come close to harming him. 

                  The lady reapplies her attention to him as Fandral is awarded his prize by King Hreidmar. 

                “I have a few private words for you, Loki-Prince,” she hisses.  Loki waggles his eyebrows suggestively and the Lady pokes him with the knife again and rolls her eyes. 

                She obviously has her father’s sense of humor.  Freyr could never stand Loki flirting with him either. 

Chapter Text

Sigyn stands and leaves the tournament grounds with the Liesmith still at the end of her dagger.    She had known him as soon as he showed his face in the box.  Her father had many, many things to say about the Liesmith of Asgard.  Most of which were not appropriate for the ears of a proper young lady.  Not that Sigyn had really ever been proper.  She could play proper, of course, pouring the tea for her father’s clients while sprinkling a little poison in with the sugar.  It was a game of shadows and daggers that she had learned from her father’s knee and when Hreidmar had set his sights on her, he was sorely mistaken if he thought she would be an easy conquest. 

                And she hadn’t been.  It had cost him half a dozen mercenaries in the initial assault and if her damnable servant girl hadn’t gotten herself caught, Sigyn would probably be at home drinking tea and decoding the newest reports from Niflheim. And once she had finally laid down her blades and they brought her and her maidservant (holding a hostage to hold another hostage, how droll) to Hreidmar, did they expect her to give up?  For her father to give up?  That was the most ridiculous part of this charade.  Two and a half weeks of disappearance and Father is already here demanding her release, damn the politics. 

Sigyn knows better though.  Father might be desperate enough to incite the Dwarves into war, but she is not.  Not on her account anyway.  She has time, after all.  All it had taken was a subtle rumor of an unsightly rash about her nether bits to keep Hreidmar’s hands in his lap rather than hers. 

She had soothed her father’s feathers (it had been alternately both heartwarming and incredibly irritating for him to be so upset) and started scheming.  Sigyn had never been one to sit about and wait for some beefy soldier to carry her out of danger like a sack of potatoes.  Neither is she one to wield the sword herself.  What she needs is her father, but any action taken by him will be construed as an official act of war against Nidavellir.

So if she cannot have her father or any of his minions, then surely the most logical choice is be his worthy adversary.

Even if he has hair like a woman’s and an inability to take anything seriously.

With another prod of her knife she directs the Liesmith into an alcove of the Dwarves’ fortress.  The other concubine that had given Sigyn her first tour of the fortress had called it the ‘Kisser’s Corner’ and strongly hinted that should Sigyn take a man other than the king, this was place would allow the tryst to go on undiscovered.  Apparently the Liesmith has heard this name as well because the first words out of his mouth were, “Lady Sigyn, really!  I am not that kind of man!  Surely you should take me to dinner first?”

Sigyn rolls her eyes.  This is the spymaster who has thwarted her father at every turn?  He is barely more than a boy, laughing at danger and forgetting the consequences. No doubt his father has to extract him from every little snare in the game. 

How many of the plans she had encountered truly his, she wonders as she looks the Asgardian up and down, and not the wily old Allfather hiding behind his youngest son.  Surely that is the only explanation.  Sigyn has seen him with his warrior ‘friends’ from her father’s table in Vanaheim.  They had bickered like school children and the Prince always retreated from the arguments with a face red with embarrassed frustration and his fists clenched with suppressed rage.  Not the cool calculated spymaster she had envisioned. 

The same warriors barely seemed to notice him, here on Nidavellir.  Without the older Odinson as a go-between, only the lady warrior speaks with him with anything other than derision.  He is his father’s puppet.  A boy in spy’s clothing.  Just another of the Allfather’s tools.

But a dangerous tool when wielded by one with the proper power. 

“Liesmith, I have a proposition for you.”

“Lady Sigyn, I must protest, we have only known each other a few minutes.” The fool even goes so far as to flutter his eyelashes at her. 

This is sorely testing her patience.  She takes a deep breath and decides that stabbing him would be far too messy.

“Enough, Liesmith.  I have a deal for you.  You help me, I help you, and we get off this gods-forsaken realm alive.”

***

                 Loki likes this crazy Vanr woman.  She is clearly more than what she had seemed when he first met her in Vanaheim. Namely another simpering court lady to make nice with whilst palmed the silver and stole the state secrets. She is certainly not that.  No, Loki is done underestimating Lady Sigyn Freyrsdottir.  Not many people can surprise Loki Liesmith. He is duly impressed that she not only recognized him for a spy, but also caught him unawares first with a knife and now with her words. 

A collaboration?  He can never consider it from anyone so fundamentally opposed to him.  She is Freyr’s daughter. As well as a spy in her own right if his hunch is correct.  It would be foolish to link their causes together and expect anything other than complete and utter chaos. 

Loki grins. 

“What is this deal of which you speak?”

Chapter Text

                Sif is worried.  Loki had told her to meet him after dinner to talk over her part in his plan and he isn’t here.  It is not especially unusual for Loki to be late to a meeting.  He is by his very nature a flighty being.  But this is his work.  This is his duty. 

                Sif has known Loki for nearly all of her life.  She was brought to court when it was decided that the princes needed friends of noble birth with which to surround themselves.  Sif was trussed up into the most hideous pink taffeta garment, her hair pinned up within an inch of its life, and shoved towards a cheerful Thor and a dubious Loki. 

                Thor had played the gentleman under the eyes of Frigga and the princes’ nanny, bowing over her hand in his pristine velvet doublet and breeches.  Loki had eyed her from his mother’s side, half behind the queen and forever circling to keep Frigga between them. 

Sif remembered quite clearly not liking the princes one bit.  The elder was too much of a show-off, galloping his pony before her, while she was forced to remain sitting like a lump on a log on the veranda.  He wasn’t even a decent rider.  And as for the younger…well he was too young and too shy and too smart for anyone’s good, especially his own.  Of course she wouldn’t learn the last part until much later.  Sif, on the whole, counted the entire experience as two parts boring and one part irritating. 

The next day, she was again strapped into a ridiculous dress and again pushed upon the princes.  This time the queen was not present, and only the nanny was there to watch the three children.  Thor hadn’t bothered with the gentleman act and had gotten right down to business. 

“Loki says you like the sword.”

The statement had caught Sif off-guard.  Prince Loki hadn’t spoken a single word to her the day before, and she had been forbidden to converse on the topic of swordplay or warriorships for women by her father. How on earth had the little runt known she liked sword?

“I do…” She answered hesitantly, looking at Loki with what had probably been the first in a long line of bewildered and slightly apprehensive looks from the Lady Sif. 

“Then I suppose we should get started,” the elder prince had declared.  He had turned on his heel and marched off. 

Sif had stood, still quite stunned, until Loki had tugged her sleeve and the two of them had followed in the wake of the Heir of Asgard. 

That had been the day of her first formal sword lesson. 

                It had taken three more days for Loki to actually speak to her. 

                Six more weeks before she allowed herself to ask him how he had known. 

                And it hadn’t been until several years later that she had really gotten an answer. 

                “Well, my lady, I suppose I already knew that I would be looking after Thor for the rest of my life, but I figured I had better get someone else trained up just in case.”

                And that had been that.  The Prince of Asgard had spoken.  Sif was to be a warrior and a body guard and confidant of the Crown Prince.  She knew her place. 

                And Loki knew his. 

                Well, now he did.  For a very long time he did not. 

                Adolescence had been a difficult time for the second prince of Asgard.  Though he is nearly the same height as Thor now, at that time he had been so scrawny he always looked at least a decade younger than his true age.  Added to that was his love of magic, a dubious interest for any man, and doubly so for a prince of the realm. It would have been a difficult time with just that, but then there was Thor. 

                Loki loved his brother dearly, but where adolescence had seen fit to take from Loki, it gave to Thor.  It seemed like just overnight Thor was taller than the Allfather.  His talents had always been those of the weapons yard and the realm approved.  This is what a prince should be. 

                It would not have been half so bad had the Warriors Three not come to court soon after.  Or had Thor made more of an effort to include Loki with them.  Maybe Loki would not have thought of their arrival as stealing his brother away had events played out just a little different.

                Neither would it have been half so bad had Loki just been a bit stupider.  He would have never heard the whispers of the realm disparaging of the younger prince whilst praising the elder.   He would never have seen his brother’s ego grow to ever greater heights.  If he had just not known, then the seeds of jealousy would not have grown so quickly, Sif thinks.

                But the seeds were sown into the fertile soil of Loki’s mind and a vine of distrust and anger grew until Sif didn’t recognize the shy boy who knew his duty was to stand by his brother no matter what. 

                It had started with the pranks.  Snakes in Hogun’s bed, Fandral with pink moustache and purple hair, Volstagg finding his meal to always be a rather intriguing shade of green. 

                But they had escalated quickly; a illusionary wolf in Tyr’s wardrobe when he mocked Loki’s use of magic on the practice field, transforming into a horse to trick a wall builder out of payment when he had scorned Loki’s attempts to help with magic.

                And then there was The Incident. 

                It must have seemed to the Allfather that one day his sons were the picture of a happy family and the next, the entire realm was after his younger son’s blood.  Really what was he meant to do?

Chapter Text

The Allfather had had to act.  The realm was up in arms over his son’s tricks and justly so.  Sif thinks that perhaps the Allfather had not really known how to handle a son like Loki.  Thor would be easy to raise, because if something had hurt or pleased or upset Thor, then he would tell you in minute detail.  If something had hurt or pleased or upset Loki, then he would show you…if you knew how to look and when to look and had a map of his mind.  And a compass for his emotions.  And didn’t stop for directions from his subconscious.  Sif shakes her head.  Loki is just more difficult to deal with in general.

                It had taken The Incident to shock the Allfather into action.  He must have known that his younger son was not suited to the duties and activities of his elder.  That much was obvious.  Thor was a soldier born and bred, with all the virtues and vices that it implied.  He was relentless, strong, forceful, determined, but unsubtle, unquestioning and arrogant.  Loki was tough, rather than strong, and skilled in the arts of war, but he shone in strategy, analysis and diplomacy.  He would be a good commander if he were of the disposition to do so. 

                After his punishment for The Incident, the Allfather must have come to a decision regarding his second son.  It was not long after that that Loki was given a new task.  A task that would later lead to his post as spymaster.    

                The change was not immediate, at least not to Sif’s eyes.  The pranks seemed to reduce in scope and frequency until it seemed like Loki was only doing them to keep up appearances.  He withdrew further, but now his withdrawal had less of the stink of self-pity and a purposefulness that Sif could not mistake.  He continued with his barbed comments, but his persona of anger and childishness slowly sloughed off him like a snake shedding skin, until it was wholly apart from him.  Just a mask to be worn. 

                Sif had needed to know the source of this change in him.  But she was like Thor.  Subtle as a bull in mating season.  She had cornered him like an animal in the library. 

                “What has changed, Loki?”

                It was a time before she had learned better than to question him.  Questions reveal more about the questioner than the person questioned.  She knew that now. 

                He had sneered.  When had he started that?  Had it been before or after the change?  She couldn’t remember.  Perhaps more aspects of his persona were manufactured rather than repurposed from old feelings.

                He had sneered and scoffed and thrown caustic comments at her.  He evaded, diverted, distracted and finally, he gave in. 

                The Allfather had given his son the task of preventing the marriage of a wall builder and a noble woman.  Sif never did know why the marriage was so important to the Allfather, but she had an inkling that it was the collection of a very important favor. 

Loki had succeeded in preventing the wedding, but disappeared shortly after.  When he had returned, it was with Sleipnir, still a colt, at his side.

Sif knows that story well enough, though it was not common knowledge. The second prince had gotten pregnant in the form of a mare and produced a magical eight legged foal. 

The Allfather had been, Sif cannot say confused about someone as powerful and wise as the Allfather.  His reaction had been…complicated.  The King and Queen loved their boys, but for the most part they were occupied with their royal duties.  It was understandable that Odin would fail to see the desperation in Loki’s need to please him.  To prove himself as useful and worthy as his elder brother. 

The birth of Sleipnir certainly proved that desperation to the King. 

Loki was confined to the palace for a decade after.  It wasn’t a punishment, according to Thor.  It was a need to prove his safety to Frigga. 

Sif thought perhaps it was really to reacquaint the Allfather with his sons. 

Afterwards, Loki’s duties had grown exponentially.  And he had seemed so much happier.  He had a purpose.  The Allfather listened to his counsel, and gave his own on Loki’s duties.  Asgard’s view hadn’t changed, nor the Warrior’s Three, nor even Thor’s, but it wasn’t from them that Loki needed approval.  The Allfather’s was enough. 

Every mission was another building block for his confidence, and though he was still reckless, even now, it was not the desperate reckless that had produced Sleipnir. 

***

He is reckless, nonetheless, and Sif is worried.  She hasn’t seen Loki since the sword events of the morning, and neither have the Warriors Three.

“Maybe the Dwarves mistook him for a lady,” Fandral had said, thrusting his hips in a suggestive way. 

“I saw him sitting with one of Hreidmar’s concubines,” Volstagg had said. “Perhaps the King has decided us to rid us of his company.”  Volstagg’s hand gesture was more violent.

“Or just his hands,” replied Hogun.  “I hear that’s the punishment for touching what should only be looked upon.”

The Three of them had laughed.  Sif had forced a twitch of her lips that could be interpreted as a smile.  She is not Thor.  She cannot defend Loki to her friends and he wouldn’t want her to do so.  They had made a pact, long ago, that they wouldn’t be that to each other.  Loki would not play the chivalrous gentleman, guarding her virtue and beauty, and Sif would not play the swooning maiden, biting her nails in anxiety when he was in danger. 

Sif catches her hand as it rises towards her mouth with a frown. 

She is still frowning at her nails when Loki finally walks through the door of his chambers towing one of the King’s concubines behind him. 

Sif barely lets him through the door before grabbing his arms and checked the sleeves.  Two hands, ten fingers, all in order. 

She slaps him across the face. 

Loki seems to have expected it and doesn’t even cry out as it carries him to the ground.  They understand each other.  She had worried.  He is sorry.  It is settled.

The concubine looks on in… amusement or bemusement, Sif can’t tell. 

She holds out her hand to shake. 

“The Lady Sif, at your service.”

Chapter Text

Sigyn only just manages to keep a smile off her face at the sight of the Liesmith of Asgard laid out by his beefy female companion.  It would be rude to grin at his humiliation and she needs him feeling charitable towards her. But there is something so satisfying about seeing the cocky bastard put in his place so soundly.  Of course the Liesmith does not seem to be phased by the treatment, and only picks himself up off the floor and crosses the room to the wine table.

She shakes the Lady Sif’s hand.

                “It is a pleasure, Lady Sif.  I am Lady Sigyn.”  She bites off the automatic addition of “Freyrsdottir”to her name.  It does not matter whether the information is valuable, or will be revealed at a later time, her father always said, it is always best to be greedy with your secrets, even the seemingly inconsequential ones. 

                Sif nods an acknowledgement and the ladies go to sit in the big leather armchairs by the fire.  Sif turns to Loki.

                “Bringing your host’s concubine to your chambers is not an advisable course of action, my prince.”

                Loki shrugs as he pours wine into three finely etched silver goblets.  “I was kidnapped.  The lady may look like a delicate flower, but she is a brigand and a thug.  I would not be surprised if she ruined my doublet in her enthusiasm to get me alone.”

“I am sure it would not be the first doublet ruined in such a way, my prince,” Sif says with a sly little smile on her lips.  “I trust I am not interrupting any…intimate intentions you have towards the lady.”

Sigyn carefully does not react to that. Intimate intentions?  He’d better wear a codpiece of steel if he thought of trying any of those on her.  She may have been raised to get information by many slippery means, but that had certainly not been one of them.  Particularly not with the Liesmith, puppet of the Allfather and simpering prince. 

Something of the disgust she feels must slip past her guard, because the Liesmith grins at her from the wine table.  “You needn’t look so repulsed, my lady.  I have been told I am very skilled in the, what did you call them again, Sif?  Intimate arts?”

Sigyn scowls at the prince.  “I am sure all the men that have taken you to bed have found you exceedingly pleasing, my prince,” she snaps before she can think better of it. 

But again, the Liesmith surprises.  He only chuckles at the slight.

“I assure you, Lady Sif, that all intentions I have toward the Lady Sigyn, while not entirely honorable, do not include those to which you seem to be referring.” 

Loki returns to the fire and distributes the goblets of wine to each of the ladies.  He meets Sigyn’s eyes as he takes a deliberate sip from his goblet.  As if he wouldn’t have a dozen tricks for slipping her poison nonetheless.  But she also knows that he is aware of the consequences should any harm befall her at his hand.  Freyr had condemned him to a horrific torture in Muspelheim for nothing more than a petty annoyance. 

The penalty for hurting his only daughter would be infinitely more painful.  And creative. 

Sigyn holds the Liesmith’s gaze as she takes a sip from her own goblet.  He smiles and takes a seat on the ottoman with his back to the fire. 

Sif raises an eyebrow at the two of them. 

“What intentions do you have towards the Lady if they are neither honorable nor dishonorable in the usual ways?”

“It is more the intentions she has for me, my Lady.  The Lady Sigyn has formulated a little plan in which I play a rather large role.”

Sif glances at Sigyn and leans forward in her seat.  “She has, has she?”

“Indeed I have,” says Sigyn.  It seems that the Liesmith wishes to share the plan with his lady warrior.  Sigyn would not have thought them close enough, personally or professionally, but it seems that they are of an accord in this enterprise.  “I have been made aware that Asgard would like to acquire a certain weapon the Dwarves are developing in the smithies at the moment.  I can deliver this weapon, but I require a boon in return.”

Sif nods for Sigyn to continue, but she finds herself unwilling to divulge the secret of her parentage to a perfect stranger. 

“I am a recent addition to Hreidmar’s household, and I would like to return home before I become a permanent fixture.” 

“Certainly.  We wouldn’t want your father worrying over you.” 

 Of course the Liesmith wouldn’t let the omission stand.

“Her father?”

“Oh yes, you remember Minister Freyr of Vanaheim, don’t you?”

Sif raises an eyebrow and looks over Sigyn speculatively. 

“The man who had you mutilated in Muspelheim.  Your mother swore to poison him the next time he ventured into Asgard.”

The Liesmith winces and wriggles his shoulders minutely.  Sigyn suppresses a smirk.  It seems he remembers that episode quite clearly.  Though she might have to warn her father about travelling to Asgard in the near future. 

“The same.  The Lady Sigyn bargains a return to her darling father for the delivery of the weapon.”

Sif is still giving Sigyn that look like she is weighing her worth, body and soul, against a measure of Sif’s own choosing. 

“I do not see why we need make a deal when it is simple enough to take the weapon ourselves and leave her where she lies.” 

“I know about your intentions towards the weapon.  I will tell the Dwarves of it and you will be caught.”

Sif shrugs languidly.  “Then perhaps we will simply slit your throat and take the weapon while you lay in your grave.”

“But Sif, where would be the fun in that?”  The Liesmith interrupts.  He is wearing a very different smile than the one that Sigyn is used to seeing on him.  It holds no childishness or arrogance.  It is a wolfish, predatory smile.  A smile that looks oddly familiar and she only realizes later of whom it reminds her.

It is a smile she knows quite well, because she sees it every time that her father brings in a mark for the final time and the servants are ordered to dig another unmarked grave in the valley. 

Chapter Text

After Sigyn leaves, her throat still intact thanks to Loki’s insistence, Sif spreads herself out on Loki’s bed while he begins to scratch out a transcript of their talk. 

Despite everything, Sif almost likes Loki’s concubine friend.  She’s not fond of the idea of Loki having a concubine friend, (she thinks his mother will probably lay the burden of his unfit company at Sif’s feet) but she quite likes the idea of a woman like the Lady Sigyn.  She’s got a head on her shoulders and a devious mind that makes Sif think she is very much like Loki. 

                Too much like Loki.  It worries Sif.  Sigyn does not just have Loki’s intelligence; she also has his devious nature.  Sif saw their silent conversation of looks over the wine.  Loki practically dared Sigyn to take a drink of the possibly poisoned wine and the idiot girl had called him on it.  The two of them could goad each other into an early grave.  Probably with Sif right along with them.    

                Not to mention the fact that she’s Freyr’s daughter.  She already has a grudge against Loki and he’s allying himself with her?  Sif can see a cold calculation in the Lady Sigyn.  She has a ruthlessness in her to protect herself.  Sif doesn’t want to see Loki sacrificed to that. 

                There is one redeeming feature of the Lady Sigyn. 

Sigyn thinks of Loki the way the Warriors Three think of Loki.  Any victory, no matter how glorious, is acquired by luck or tricks, any failure a reflection of his inadequacies.  It is a ridiculous idea to have; surely no one could be so lucky and surely his tricks would run out eventually, but still the idea remains, both in Asgard and apparently here as well.

Sif looks over where Loki is bowed over his work.  Sigyn better be underestimating him.  Sif cannot imagine turning witless over the first pretty face he meets.  That is another thing she would rather not explain to Frigga.

“Sorry, my queen, I was with him, but he got silly in love with a Vanr concubine and then died because she’s as snakelike and sneaky as he was.”

That would go well.

She’s still thinking of explanations for the Queen of Asgard should Loki die horribly on this mission when the man finally looks up. Sif heaves a sigh of relief.  On his face is the curly smirk of the Liesmith.  He has a plan.  One that will hopefully double-cross Sigyn into a barrel full of eels. 

Sif may like the girl, but she likes being alive better.

“You have a plan, my prince?”

He rolls his eyes at the title.  She usually only applies it to him when there are people about who should know that Sif respects his authority.  Such as the Lady Sigyn.  It was always beneficial for enemies to know that the muscle will kill them should the brain direct it to do so. 

“I have a plan.”

He makes no move to elaborate and Sif wonders if she will have to beat it out of him like she did when they were children.  The temptation must show, because he begins to explain. 

The Lady Sigyn’s plan was to send the Vanaheim and Asgard envoys back to their realms early, while keeping the Alfs on Nidavellir.  She would then steal the hammer and secret it amongst her affects.  The Dwarves would suspect the Alfs, and while they were busy tearing apart those guest rooms Sigyn would make her way with the hammer to the Bifrost site and travel to Asgard that way. 

It was not a plan without its flaws, but Loki had heard her out and agreed almost immediately.  It had taken all of Sif’s will power not to look at him incredulously.  If she could see at least five issues with the plan, then surely Loki could see at least twenty. 

Yet he had pleasantly agreed and Sigyn had nearly skipped the whole way to the Harem rooms. 

But that smirk on Loki’s face tells Sif that Sigyn is wrong to think herself victorious so soon.  Loki gets that look every time he is about to coax Fandral into a wild slash of his sword and use the momentum to flip him onto his ass.  Really will anyone ever learn not to underestimate him?

Sif isn’t sure she’d like to find out.  It is a valuable weapon in the Liesmith’s arsenal. 

“We cannot go through with Sigyn’s plan, she is sure to have countless ways to betray us,” Sif says when Loki is silent too long.

“Doubtless.  Yet it would be advantageous if we allowed her to believe she has the upper hand.”   

“Overconfidence is the seed of defeat,” Sif quotes.  Loki’s mouth quirks.  He remembers that lesson.  Their weapons instructor had spent all afternoon trying to knock it into Thor’s head. 

“Exactly.  But her plan does have some good points.”  Sif frowns.  As far as she had seen, the plan was a series of foolhardy ideas wrapped in the temptation of stealing the hammer. 

“Part of Sigyn’s plan is to send the Vanr embassy home.  Taking Freyr with it.  And he is sure to leave if it is his daughter asking,” Loki explains.  Sigyn no doubt thought that sending the Vanr home would remove the suspicion from her father.  “Once he is out of the way, we can put into place our plan.”

“Are you forgetting that we, along with the Vanr are supposed to make our quiet way home and wait for her to show up with the hammer?”

“Of course not.  I will seem to go home, but remain here in disguise.”

“And I suppose you want me to go home with the Warriors Three and meekly stay in the palace like a good maiden?  It will not happen Loki, you are rash enough without—“

“Oh you won’t be leaving at all, my lady.”

Sif frowns.  “And how do you propose I stay?”

“Well, I’m sure King Hreidmar would love the addition of a Lady Warrior to his—oomph.“

Loki was interrupted by a sudden punch in the gut. 

Chapter Text

                Loki rubs his stomach as he makes his way to the smithies.  Was it really necessary for Sif to convey her displeasure through physical means?  Hadn’t they reached a point in their friendship where she could just say that something he said was offensive rather than hitting him?  Especially when she hadn’t given him a chance to explain.  She’d agreed to the plan readily enough when she’d heard it in its entirety.  He supposes she’s just one of those people (like Thor) who need to show everything through their actions.

                Loki grumbles and ducks under a low arch.    He needs to plant the idea of “seducing” Sif into the royal harem in the mind of Hreidmar.  You would not think it a difficult task. After all, Sif is quite beautiful (all the warriors say so) and she is also untouchable, in both her status as a warrior, as well as the protection of Asgard. There was, however, an incident about half a century ago in which Hreidmar was rebuffed quite hardily. An incident which might have involved Thor defending Sif's honor. A situation that may have left Hreidmar with a sudden appreciation of the prince's athleticism. A situation that may have ended with a duel between Sif and Thor because she found his lack of faith in her athleticism even more insulting then the kidnap attempt itself. A situation that left Hreidmar with an appreciation of Sif's abilities as well, Thor with a scar on his chin, and Loki with enough blackmail material to get Thor to do his court duties for almost a year. So Loki must convince Hreidmar to ignore these things. He must put the desire at the forefront of his mind, rather than self-preservation. He cannot, of course, simply go to Hreidmar and tell him so, or even plant it into his mind directly.  Loki knows better than to cross the dwarves that obviously.  But he can take advantage of one of the quirks of their realm and hope that the subtlety will succeed.

                He pauses outside the door of the same smithy he visited the night before and drops his cloaking spell.  The Dwarf Sindri is on patrol again, leaning against the wall will his hand on his ax.  He looks bored beyond belief.  Well Loki can make the evening—no, morning—more exciting for him. 

                “Hello, Dwarf Sindri.”  Loki smiles seductively as he slips into female form.  This one is not quite as well modeled on Freyr.  Her hair is darker and the eyes narrower.  It is a form closer to that of Sif than that of Freyr and Asgardian as well.  But with the help of a little spell, Sindri will remember her as exactly the woman to whom he spoke last night. 

                “Freya!  I have wasted away in your absence!  Why did you not come sooner?  My shift is almost over.”

                “I apologize, my love.  I was detained by that horrible band of Asgardians.  The witless three?”

                “The Warriors Three?  Did they accost you?  Are you hurt?”  The Dwarf is indignant.  Chivalry truly is one of the best persuaders.  Really it should be banned for the sheer stupidity it provokes in men when they are faced with fluttering eyelashes and a pair of breasts. It does make things easier for Loki, though, so he shouldn’t complain. 

                “Do not worry yourself.  I am unharmed.  It was but their words that have cut me to the quick, rather than their weapons.”  Loki wonders if perhaps she is laying the romantics on too thick, but the Dwarf seems to be lapping it up.   She leans in closer, “I wish there was someone to take me away from those horrible people.”

                It’s not subtle at all, this statement, but Loki is beginning to think that the only way that Sindri will truly buy into this little con is if he commits to the schmaltzy foolishness of a romantic novel. The whole of Nidavellir must be addicted to the damned things. 

                Her hunch pays off as Sindri puffs out his chest with pride and hot-air (two qualities the dwarves all have in common it seems) and says, “I will rescue you, Freya.  Come away with me!  I have a little house on the edge of the lava pits. It’s not much, but it’s home.  And I can protect you from those voracious knights and you can cook and clean and bare me babes—“ 

                Loki barely restrains herself from rolling her eyes right out of their sockets.  What a lovely picture of domestic bliss.  And “voracious?”  How does Sindri know words with three syllables? 

                “It sounds like perfection, my love.  But surely you wish for a Dwarvish girl, not a little old Aesir like me?” 

                Now Loki is practically quoting the Dowager Princess’s book of romance.  But he needs Sindri to say it.  Linguistic confirmation should seal the deal. 

                “Of course I want you my flower!  Asgardians are beautiful and graceful race, and some say the most desirable in the nine realms.”

                “And what do you say, my gallant knight?”

                “I say that an Aesir lady is the only one for me.”

                Perfection!  Loki lets Sindri kiss her before promising to return tomorrow night with her things so they can run away together.  They say their farewells and Loki starts the hike back to his room with a feeling of triumph. 

                The Dwarves have a weak sort of hive-mind, in which a certain amount of information is transmitted from the individual to the group.  It is not specific; in that one cannot tell a Dwarf that an apple is yellow and expect the rest of the Dwarves to know this.  However, you can tell a Dwarf that an apple is yellow and then ask other dwarves what the color yellow reminds them of and nine times out of ten, they will say an apple.  It is not thoughts that are truly transmitted, but feelings. 

                Sindri now has a feeling that Asgardian women are the most graceful and beautiful.  That they need to be saved from their “voracious” companions.  That only an Aesir lady will do when one is looking for one’s next conquest.  Loki is fairly confident that these feelings will be transmitted to King Hreidmar.  And funnily enough, there is only one Aesir woman on Nidavellir at the present.  The Lady Sif should be kidnapped within the next few hours. 

                Loki is still grinning when an arm wraps around his neck and he is pulled into a dark alcove. 

                “I think we should have a talk, you and I,” Freyr hisses. 

Chapter Text

At some point in any spy’s career, one finds oneself growing quite blasé towards dangerous situations.  After all, constant danger is somewhat of a staple of the spying life.  Loki himself has been tortured, starved, imprisoned, and left to die more times than he can count.  After living through each of these extraordinary situations, he finds himself somewhat unmoved with simple and straight-forward threats.  The knife Lady Sigyn used to coax him away from the tournament, for example. 

Loki knows this, and he suspects that Freyr must know this as well, because it is not a simple and straightforward knife that he now has pressed against Loki’s backbone, but a wicked obsidian dagger with enchantments so strong Loki can practically smell the Dark Elf sorceress who made it.  Such a weapon could not only puncture the disguise Loki still wears, but probably cripple his magic as well.  Even Idunn’s apples might not revive him from that. 

                “Illusion, Liesmith.” 

                Loki drops his female form.  He wants to make a comment about Freyr liking him better as a man, but not with that dagger to his spine, not with Freyr’s tone of voice that dark. 

                “I will say this once and only once.  My daughter is more important to me than Yggdrasil herself.  By the Norns, should harm come to her while she is in your care, I will visit a pain upon you that makes the events of Muspelheim feel like a slightly too warm bath.  I will abandon Vanaheim, suffer the wrath of the Allfather, and fight the mighty Thor, but I swear to you that for every pain she suffers, you will suffer a thousand.  Do we understand each other?”

                Loki swallows and nods.   Yes, as a spy, one gets bored with many painful and threatening situations.  Yet somehow Freyr always manages to keep it fresh. 

                Loki has known Vanaheim’s spymaster for a very long time. In fact, Loki’s first mission after the birth of Sleipnir had been on Vanaheim.  And it was Freyr’s actions that had woven Loki’s fate to this point in his history. 

He had recovered greatly in the decade he was confined to the palace by Frigga, but his confidence was rather less than it had been before the birth of his son.  Loki knew in the logical part of his mind that the confinement had not been a punishment, but a way of confirming his health to his mother.  He also knew that Sleipnir was a horse and by his very being, he would be outcast among the Aesir.  He even knew that Odin making Sleipnir his war steed was the best protection he could hope for. 

                But a dark part of Loki’s mind couldn’t help but question it.  Did his mother truly need a decade to assure herself?  Or was it a way of keeping him under surveillance?  Was Odin enslaving or protecting his grandson? Did the Allfather even acknowledge Sleipnir as kin, or was the king’s leniency dependent on Loki’s good behavior?  What if Loki should fail his father?  His desperate need for approval was now a desperate need to avoid disapproval lest his son reap the benefits of his mistakes. 

When Loki left for Vanaheim his anxieties concerning his son, his position, even his very existence had made a turmoil of his mind.  Oddly, it had taken Freyr to settle it. 

Loki had been sent to Vanaheim when the king was suspected to be lying about the amount of grain his crops produced.  Asgard received a percentage of all that Vanaheim grew in exchange for the use of the Bifrost and protection should another realm attack. For several decades, the crops from Vanaheim had dwindled to almost half what they were before.  It was unlikely that a blight or drought would last so long, yet each shipment was smaller than the last. 

Loki had investigated and found that the fields were as plentiful as a century before, but the population of Vanaheim had grown so much that it could not afford to send Asgard the set percentage.

That left Loki with a bit of a problem.  The Vanr king certainly wasn’t going to let his people starve for Asgardians and the Allfather demanded an explanation for the fraud.  Loki couldn’t let his father down.  He couldn’t go back without the grain.  He couldn’t tell the Allfather he had failed.  He couldn’t risk disapproval.  Not with Sleipnir hanging in the balance. 

So Loki had done a stupid thing.  He had demanded the crops from the Vanr king in his persona as Second Prince during the day while stealing the grain’s equivalent worth in gold from the treasury.  The plan had seemed logical at the time.  He would be his own distraction; keeping the eyes of the Vanir on the fields and silos and away from the city.  He hadn’t counted on Freyr. 

Freyr who’d caught him neck-deep in gold and diamonds, still in disguise as a Dark Elf.  Freyr who’d ordered a rather in-depth interrogation.  Freyr who’d nearly convinced the king to decapitate him after he’d realized all he’d get from Loki was blood.  Freyr who the Allfather knocked to the ground with a kick to the chest when he swung off Sleipnir’s neck to scoop Loki off the ground and take him home and scream himself hoarse over how stupidly reckless Loki was and then nearly suffocate him with a hug. 

“You expect me to trust you, Liesmith?”

Freyr punctuates his words with a dig of the dagger into Loki’s vertebrae.  “I will have a blood oath from you.”

Loki turns and holds out his hand silently.  Freyr’s brows rise in surprise, but he slashes his dagger swift and sure, and they hold their hands together as they murmur the oath. 

Freyr slinks back into the shadows with a last suspicious glance at Loki.  He thinks the Liesmith has a loophole.  He thinks Loki will find a way to wiggle out of this oath and double cross his daughter. 

Loki closes his hand on the sluggishly bleeding wound and thinks about horses. 

Chapter Text

Sigyn arrives late to breakfast on the morning of the glaive and axe events.  She had stayed up late the night before explaining the plans to her father and convincing him to leave this morning.  It had taken longer than she would have thought. 

                “He is not the boy you think he is, Sigyn,” Freyr had said.  “He hides behind a mask of shallow idiocy, but the Liesmith is a weapon as powerful as that hammer.  Do not presuppose your victory based on the assumption the opponent is weaker than you.  I taught you better than that.”

                It was difficult to see anything but Asgard’s second prince as an arrogant little bastard.  Yet he had survived Freyr’s wrath on a number of occasions.  He had even beaten him.  Surely that was proof enough the Liesmith was a force with which to be reckoned. 

                “But surely his father…”

“The Allfather is as cunning and conniving as his son, but even he could not orchestrate such intricate schemes from realms away.  No—do not fall into the trap of believing him to be a puppet.  I believed that once, and I nearly paid dearly for it.

“Did I tell you of Muspelheim?  When he implicated me so thoroughly I was almost beheaded the moment the Dark Elves saw me?  It was only luck and leverage that saved me, Sigyn.  And that is only one brush with that damned boy.  He is intelligent and deceitful and sly and if I thought his loyalties could be swayed I would recruit him for Vanaheim.  I would insist upon it.”

Looking down the high table at the second prince, Sigyn tries to look upon the Liesmith with the eyes of her father.  He is in need of new handling.  If her father is correct, she cannot lead him around by the nose like mule.  She must rethink her methods.

He is again with his female warrior.  (Lovers perhaps?  Something to be investigated and used as leverage).  It seems the Liesmith was up late last night as well, since between each bite of his breakfast he leans his weight on the Warrioress (Sif, she remembers) and pretends to catch a few seconds of sleep.  He even goes so far as to snore loudly into her shoulder guard, startling a passing serving girl. 

The Warriors Three laugh at the second prince’s antics, asking if some man kept him from sleep last night, accompanying their comments with crude gestures.  The Lady Sif also laughs, but it is a kinder one. 

“At least the drool will give my armor a spit-polish,” She says smiling. 

Loki pretends (and she can now see it to be a pretense) to be indignant, puffing up his chest like an offended crow. 

“I will have you know that in some parts of the universe, there are people who would give their first born for a prince of Asgard’s saliva!”

“Really?”  Fandral says, “What was his name?”

“And what did Loki do with the child?” Hogun answers in a stage whisper. 

The guffaws follow Loki as he leaves the dining hall, his ears red with embarrassment and his pace quick and stiff.  His act is very good.  She cannot think of anyone who could do it better.  How in the Hel did he make himself blush? Even Freyr’s best operatives can’t overwhelm involuntary biology. 

She replays the conversation in her mind.  The damned man had set up that joke.  He orchestrated the entire exchange. 

Sigyn quickly excuses herself to the other concubines with whom she was breakfasting and follows the Liesmith out of the dining hall and into the corridor.  She wants to see if he will uphold his act the whole way to his bed chambers. 

When Sigyn turns the first corner, she finds that the Liesmith is waiting for her, grin firmly in place. 

“My Lady Sigyn!  Did you enjoy the show?”

He looks utterly careless.  Just a young gentleman escorting a lady through the fortress of the Dwarvish empire.  Completely normal.  Not like he had been humiliated and run out of the dining hall just a few moments ago. 

Sigyn needs to revise everything she has assumed about the Liesmith.  Thoroughly.

“It was quite a performance.”  She allows him to take her elbow and escort her through the tapestry lined halls.

“Complementing me on my performing is something I thought we’d work up to, my lady,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.  Sigyn gives him a look and he sighs. 

“Is there something in the air on Vanaheim that prevents a sense of humor from taking hold?  Every Vanr I’ve met—you, your father, the king—none of you can take a joke.”

“We have a sense of humor.  You might not recognize it because unlike Asgard, our humor is based upon wit rather than innuendo.”

The Liesmith laughs.  It is an odd sound to hear from him, and she looks at him out of the corner of her eyes.  He looks…different.  All the imagery that comes to her mind is rope-based.  He looks freer from the strings of obligation.  Like someone has cut his ties to his old self and he is no longer dragging it along like a waterlogged cape. 

Sigyn wonders if he hates the mask her father says he hides behind.  She knows that she would hate being someone else at all times. He must keep this charade even on Asgard. Sigyn doesn’t believe the Warriors to be actors talented enough to have fooled her.  They truly believe in that spoiled brat of a prince they teased.

 “Perhaps I could learn this ‘wit,’” he says, drawing the word out as if its pronunciation is foreign to him. 

“I think it might be too late for you, my prince.”

“Perhaps,” he says, tapping a finger on his lips.  Suddenly the laughter is gone from his eyes.  “We must speak, my lady.”

                Sigyn nods.  Now that she knows his face cannot be trusted to reveal anything, she finds the rapid movements of it to be dizzying. 

                “The plan, as it is, is unsatisfactory.  I have already taken steps towards its improvements, and since the game has changed, I find it necessary to inform you of several of these changes.”

                Sigyn nods again. Slower this time.  She knew this would be coming since her talk with her father.  He was going to take back control of the scheme.  She expected him to continue to play her for the fool.  She had expected to have to counter every subtle shift he made.  This is straightforwardness is a surprise. 

                “My Lady, have you considered marriage?”

                Loki manages to duck the blow.  Really, what is with all these women slapping him?       

Chapter Text

Loki rubs his chest.  He may have dodged Sigyn’s first swing, but the second hit him solidly in the solar plexus.  His motion brushes the sleeve of Sif’s tunic.  They’re walking very closely together, so Loki doesn’t have to strain himself to maintain the spell of invisibility they’re using to sneak back into the smithy with the hammer. 

                This should be the easiest part of this mission.  The hammer is guarded, and very difficult to move from one place to another, especially covertly, but it is not getting the hammer out of the smithy that concerns Loki.  It is getting the hammer, Sif, Sigyn, the Warriors Three and himself off realm safely (and preferably without suspicion) that concerns Loki.  But he has a plan for that.

                The corridors and rooms are deserted.  On any other realm, it would be the sword events that gathered the largest crowds, but the Dwarves love their axes.  There aren’t many willing to miss the spectacle of the greatest of the Dwarfish axe-wielders fend off the champions of the other eight realms. As such, Loki is quite surprised to see two guards speaking in front of the doors.  And one is Sindri.

                “Are you really sure, Sindri?” Says the other dwarf.

                “Yes, I am waiting for my lady love.  Go enjoy the festivities, she only knows to meet me at my post.”

                “Sindri, you old romantic you.  Thanks.  And good luck with your lady.”  

                The second dwarf walks off, leaving Sindri alone in front of the door.

                 “I thought you said they’d all be at the tourney,” Sif hisses in Loki’s ear.  Loki shrugs his shoulders at her.  What can he say?  When he seduces someone, they stay seduced. A fact made obvious by the fact that Sindri seems to be composing a sonnet to him.  He leans towards the dwarf under the cover of the invisibility to read the last couplet and almost barks a laugh at it. 

                “My love, she is a beauteous flower

                I mind not at all her lack of a dowr—y”

                What a lovely sentiment, Loki thinks. And an even lovelier rhyme.  Perhaps Sindri’s exposure to his cover identity could have a positive effect on the dwarf’s mental health.  After all, it has encouraged him not only to take initiative at his employment, but he has delved into the arts.

They carefully edge past Sindri and through the door to the fire-lit smithy.  The room is strewn with various weapons in various states of construction.  Tools line the walls, each neatly hung in on hooks in careful rows.  But what draws the eye is not the tools or the half-finished arms.  It is the hammer. 

It stands in the middle of the smithy, resting against an iron anvil.  It’s an enormous weapon*, carved all over with runes and magic-enhancing spells.  It’s a masterpiece of magic and metal craft.  Loki almost feels guilty for stealing such a beautiful piece. 

“Gods above, that thing is massive!*” Sif says in a whisper.

“Hush.  You can lift it, can you not?”

                “We will learn that soon enough I suppose.”

                Sif leans forward to touch the hammer, but Loki makes a forbidding gesture.

                “Wait, it will have wards.”

                Loki leans forward over the hammer and extends his hand over it.  He opens his sight to see the true guards of the hammer.  The magic stretches over the weapon in red bands, crisscrossing in a dome over the hammer like a birdcage.  Wonderful, it’s a Serrurism Spell.  He could pick this in his sleep.  He goes to work, carefully untangling the magic so that the spell will fade out rather than break and set off the alarm.  He lowers his hands and gives Sif a nod.

                Sif steps forward and grasps the short handle of the hammer.  There is short moment of tension.  If Sif cannot lift the hammer, then here is only Loki’s magic to lift it.  And if he must use his magic to lift the hammer, he can’t maintain the invisibility spell. And if he can’t maintain the invisibility spell, then he’ll probably have to kill any Dwarf who might catch sight of them with the hammer. 

                And Loki would so hate to murder his would-be lover.  He was such good entertainment.

                He holds his breath as Sif yanks hard on the handle of the hammer.*    It comes away from the workbench easily.  Too easily.  The hammer continues with the momentum of Sif’s overenthusiastic tug and arcs above the two Asgardians, and it is only Loki’s quick sound-dampening spell that prevents the sound of it hitting the flagstones from bringing Sindri from the corridor. 

                The spell does not, however, prevent the transmission of shockwaves through the floor.  The entire fortress seems to quake with the might of the hammer, the hanging tools on the wall and weapons on the tables shake and clatter with the movement.

                Loki grabs Sif by the arm and pushes them both behind a tall cabinet filled with cutlasses.  Just as the hallway door opens, he throws out the illusion of the hammer he had prepared earlier.   

                Sindri walks into the smithy, his hand on his axe and gives the room a cursory glance.  The illusion of the hammer must be good enough for him because he turns and leaves without a closer examination, humming the bars of a song that Loki recognizes as the Ballad of Grirgi and Sulr, a cross-species romance between a Dwarf and an Asgardian. 

                Loki waits a few moments after the door is closed before he relaxes his hold on the hammer illusion.  He should have known better than to banish his spell of invisibility just because it seemed safe. 

                He crosses to the hammer illusion.  It is good, but a close look will find their colors differ slightly, and it seems Loki overestimated the size of the hammer head.  It will have to do though.  Loki raises his hands and casts the final touch—a Serrurism Spell to protect the copy. 

                “Come along,” he says, taking Sif’s hand in his.  “We’ll return to my chambers and make the switch.”

                “I still say we should wait—“

                “Now is not the time to be altering plans, Sif.  Let’s go.”

                He casts the invisibility over the two of them and their loot and they leave the smithy as quietly as possible.  

Chapter Text

Sigyn waits impatiently for Loki and Sif.  After her chat with Loki, he and Sif had departed to collect the weapon, while she went to see her father off. 

                They had both endeavored to be brave for the other, trading hollow smiles and confident platitudes.  The illusion was shattered when, as the sounds of the Bifrost approached, Freyr had wrapped Sigyn in a bone-crushing hug that had squeezed out the sob she had been holding in her chest.  His eyes hadn’t been entirely dry either when the Bifrost had whipped him away to Vanaheim. 

                Now, waiting in the alcove that leads to the tourney ground, Sigyn’s eyes are dry and she runs over the plan once more in her mind.  The two Asgardians stole the hammer.  They would hide it in Loki’s things (she had suggested her own luggage, but Loki seemed to think the thing safer with him, surprise, surprise) and negotiate Sigyn’s release.  She was still fuzzy on exactly how that was going to work, but the Liesmith seemed very confident. 

                Then they would leave the realm by way of the Bifrost, hopefully before the illusion of the hammer was discovered to be just that, and if Sigyn never again saw dwarves or Nidavellir, it would be too soon. 

                Everything would work out fine. 

                All Sigyn had to do was trust the Liesmith and everything would work out fine.

                Sigyn leans her head against the stone wall with a dull thunk.  She was doomed.

***

                “I am not at all certain this is going to work,” Loki says.

                “The plan is a good one,” Sif replies.  She smooths her hand over the silken material of her rather more ornate than usual battle garb.  It is designed to be both very practical, and also show off her woman’s figure and compliment her hair and eyes.  She will be fighting in the glaive bouts in just a few moments, and it is a spectacle that must impress Hreidmar for their plan to work.

                Loki eyes her with a practiced eye and adjusts the shoulder armor.  “You should have had a squire help you dress.”

                “That’s what you’re here for, my prince.”

                Loki laughs.  “Remember, this is a tourney, blood will get you disqualif—“

                “I have fought in tourneys before.  Stop worrying and go and sit with Sigyn.  I’ll be done soon enough.” 

                Sif gives Loki a peck on the cheek and swaggers through the tent flap.  Loki hears the roar of the tournament crowd and sighs.

***

                Sif’s first match is against the Nidavellir’s champion.  The glaive is not as popular a weapon in Nidavellir as the axe, but its long reach is valued by the species.  Their diminutive height leaves them at a disadvantage when using short handled weapons and the long handle of glaive allows for a reach rarely afforded to them.  It is probably this rarity that allows Sif to beat the Dwarf in the same minute he walked onto the field.

                Up in the stands, Loki and Sigyn cheer, and Sigyn wonders about the look of relief on Loki’s face.

The next contender against Sif is the champion from Alfheim.  Like most Elves, he is tall and rather more lithe than bulky.  The first round they spend circling around each other, their blows constrained to mere pokes with the blades of their weapons as each one tests the other’s reactions and style.  By the second round the Elf is impatient with the leisurely pace.  While Sif still continues to circle and prod, he begins to adopt more elaborate moves.  Each is blocked easily, but still Sif feints rather than adopt a different mode of attack.  No points are scored.  By the third round, the Elf is annoyed enough to shout: 

                “Will you not attack me, girl?  You do know this is a tourney and not a dance contest, do you not?”

                He accompanies the gibe with a wild swing of his glaive, which Sif ducks with more speed than she had shown all match.  She reaches up with the blunt end of her weapon and hooks it under the Elf’s armpit and uses the momentum of his swing to flip him on his back and send his glaive clattering across the field. 

                The victory horn sounds and Sigyn sees Loki lean forward out of the corner of her eye.  She thinks she knows why.

                Though most of the Vanir party departed with Freyr, the glaive champion had insisted upon finishing his event.  He is relatively young, only four-hundred years old, but has remained undefeated in both broadsword and glaive.  The only reason that Fandral claimed victory yesterday was because the Vanr had found the prospects in the sword events too easy. 

                Sigyn doesn’t see why Loki should be worried, though.  From what she has seen of Sif’s style, she can tell that the warrioress is a canny and patient combatant.  She should at least give a good showing. 

                The match begins and the fighters circle each other slowly. Like the match with the Elf, both Sif and the Vanr test the waters, trading feints and parries for the first round.  And like the Elf, by the second round the Vanr is impatient.  He begins to put more force into his hits, and again, Sif continues to block without actually attacking.

                Suddenly, the Vanr launches into a complex attack, backing Sif into a corner of the field, keeping her on the defensive and just keeping up with her guard.  Just when it seems the Vanr will disarm Sif a bell rings. 

                “Foul!”

                Both combatants look over to the referee.  The dust of the tournament field is enchanted so that any bloodshed, and whose blood it is, is registered.  The referee walks onto the field and points to four drops on the ground. 

                “Blood!  The Vanr champion is disqualified!”

                Cheers and boos echo throughout the stadium.  The Vanr agrees.

                “I didn’t harm her!”

                Sif holds up her hand, where a gash has opened from thumb to heel. 

                “The Asgardian is victor!” 

                “That’s an old wound, she’s cheating!”

                King Hreidmar stands and the crowd falls silent. 

                “I will decide.”

                Sif is led to the Royal Box.  Loki nods to her as she passes but she doesn’t acknowledge him. 

                “Give us your hand, my dear.”

                Sif holds out her hand.  It is a clean wound, but obviously at least an hour old.  King Hreidmar tuts.

                “A nasty cut, my dear,” he says in a low voice.  “But not, I think, a victory-securing one.” 

                Sif looks into his face and the old king grins. 

                “I could, of course, be persuaded.”

Chapter Text

Sigyn is worried.  Something is wrong.  Loki’s plan, which he had, of course, neglected to give Sigyn a detailed overview of, cannot possibly take into account Sif being accused of cheating.  It is a ridiculous accusation.  Sif was as honorable and noble as any man.  Well, any man who is not Loki. 

                When King Hreidmar sends his men to fetch Loki, Sigyn goes with him.  She is not strictly invited, but no one questions her when Loki puts her arm in hers and escorts her to the throne room. 

                Sif is already there.  She stands beside the throne, and there is an odd look on her face.  At first, Sigyn has the strangest thought that Sif looks smug.  But she must be mistaken.  Why on Yggdrasil would Sif be smug?

                “Prince Loki!  I must have words with you,” King Hreidmar says.

                “Dwarf-king.  Why have you abducted one of my warriors?” 

                Sif seems to frown at the wording.  Sigyn thinks perhaps she doesn’t like the idea of being referred to as Loki’s warrior. 

                “The Lady Sif has been caught cheating in the tourney.  I have agreed to allow her to go unpunished if she accepts a place in my harem.”

                Sigyn raises her eyebrows.  The idea is laughable.  But no one is laughing.  Sif just stands there, with that odd look on her face.  And Loki has another peculiar, inscrutable face on.  He looks nervous.  But neither of Loki’s personas have ever shown even the slightest glimpse of nervousness. 

                “I cannot allow this, King Hreidmar.”

                “I do not need your permission, Loki-Prince.  I am simply informing you as a courtesy,” King Hreidmar replies.  “And the Lady Sif has already accepted my generous proposal.”

                Sigyn refuses to gasp.  She wants to, but she will not.  Surely no one would sell themselves to Hreidmar.  Certainly not for something as simple as cheating at a tourney.  It is dishonorable, yes, but not worth sexual slavery. 

                “Has she?  Well, it is her choice, after all,” Loki says slowly.  He must have a trick up his sleeve.  “I cannot let her go without a fight of course.  My brother is very fond of her, and she is a valuable member of court.”

                It must be part of a plan, Sigyn thinks. 

                “Perhaps a trade would be best,” Loki continues.  Trading women, Sigyn thinks, how very enlightened.  Sif doesn’t look bothered, though.

                Hreidmar just looks intrigued.  “What would you have of me?”

                “Not what, but whom.  I could consent to leave Sif in your charge if you could see fit to allow one of your concubines to depart with me to Asgard.  Lady Sigyn, perhaps.”

                Loki gestures to Sigyn like she’s a piece of meat on display.  This whole conversation is making her sick, but it seems there is a plan after all.  Sif will escape later, and Loki and Sigyn will return to Asgard?  That must be the plan. 

                King Hreidmar cocks his head to one side and Sigyn rolls her eyes.  He doesn’t recognize her. She’s been in his harem a week and he doesn’t recognize her.  She’s not sure if she should be offended or relieved. 

                “I do not think that would be altogether proper.  I would hate for you to besmirch Lady Surtur’s good name.”

                “I doubt that you concern yourself with the Lady Sigyn’s name, considering you cannot even remember it.  But no matter.  Would you agree if I were to pledge upon my good name as a Prince of Asgard that I will marry her lawfully and legally?”

                Sigyn tries not to wince.  She knew this was coming.  Loki had said his plan depended on a faked marriage.  It is still difficult to hear.

                “I would believe nothing less than a blood oath from you, Loki-Prince.  Lord Eitri seems to think you a very slippery character.”

                A blood oath.  An unbreakable blood oath!  He is going to say yes, too.  She can see it in his eyes.  And she can’t say anything.  She agreed to his plan, and if she doesn’t go along with him now, she’ll never escape this gods-forsaken rock.  She’s going to have to marry one horrid man to get out from under the thumb of another. 

                “As you wish.”

                Sigyn’s breath is quickening dangerously.  It feels like the beginnings of hysteria.  She tries to think calm thoughts.  Vanaheim recognizes divorce when there is an inability to produce an heir.  And Loki is certainly not going to get any heirs off of her.  She’ll castrate him the moment he tries.  It will be fine.  Everything will be fine.

                He holds up his hand for the ceremonial knife to slice from the base of his thumb to the heel of his hand.  Sigyn winces as the King does the same. 

                “I swear on my name as Loki of Asgard, Son of Odin Allfather, to lawfully and legally marry Sigyn of Vanaheim on the condition that the Lady Sif of Asgard be protected and treated befitting her position and breeding.” 

                The two men press their hands together and swear. 

                Sigyn looks up at Sif, still standing behind Hreidmar. 

                Sif looks odd.  Confident.   She’s being sold like an ox at market.  They both are.  Yet Sif looks like she’s was dealt the winning hand at cards.  Like she knows something that everyone else in the room has missed.   It is a look very out of place on Sif’s lovely face.   Something is off and Sigyn doesn’t understand what it is. 

                Sif sees Sigyn looking.  She looks back, staring Sigyn right in the eye.  The smirk that appears on Sif’s face does not belong to a warrior-woman.  It does not belong to a person bound by honor and versed in weapons.  It belongs to a shadow-walker, a thief, and a spy. 

                Sif smirks and Sigyn finally sees through the illusion of Sif to the Liesmith underneath. 

Chapter Text

Loki smirks at Sigyn from King Hreidmar’s side.  He cannot help it.  Everything is going to plan and it is just fun. 

                Yes, it started problematic.  The timing was the worst part.  They had to switch before the glaive events.  It was the only way to get everything on the right timetable.  Which was unfortunate since, while Loki is an accomplished fighter, he has never excelled in the ring. Certainly not with the glaive.  Add in the fact that he would be fighting with someone else’s body (even though Sif’s muscles are far more…substantial than his, he has never fought with them and they are more a hindrance than a help), and he was very, very lucky to have pulled of that stage of the plan.  But it couldn’t be helped, so he had put on the most revealing of Sif’s combat costumes, and tricked and cheated his way into Hreidmar’s harem. 

                That had been the crux of the plan.  The cheating.  Loki loves cheating.  It is one of his passions, finding those little technicalities, exploiting the tiniest weaknesses in defense.  It really is such a shame that he had to turn himself in this time.  And it was a feat to open that old blood-oath wound while simultaneously fighting off the attack of that oafish Vanr warrior and making sure that he noticed. (And that is another debt Loki owes Sif: the chance to defeat the Vanr champion.)  Really, the lengths one has to go to in order to be caught cheating these days. 

                And the cheating had been so important.  It really cemented the deal with Hreidmar.  Sure, his little conversation with Sindri sowed the seeds of desire, but it was the cheating that gave the entire deal the illusion of legality.  It provided Hreidmar with the upper hand over “Sif” while releasing Sigyn and assuaging everyone’s doubts…it was just genius. 

                That’s why he should have known everything was going to go to Hel. 

                He’d instructed Sif to make the blood oath (and really what was with these people not trusting him?) and take Sigyn and the hammer directly to the Bifrost.  They could be safely in Asgard by dinnertime and he would follow as soon as Hreidmar’s back was turned. 

                That was the plan.  And it was such a good plan.  Loki should have known that he would never see it to fruition. 

                Because it is at that moment, when Loki smirks at Sigyn and reveals his illusion; that the Captain of the Dwarvish Guard bursts into the throne room with an urgent message for the King.

***

                Sif shifts nervously in her borrowed form.  She’d hated this plan the moment she heard it.  It did not matter that she wasn’t really going to become Hreidmar’s concubine, or that Loki wouldn’t really marry Sigyn.  Too much of this plan relied on Hreidmar agreeing.  Agreeing to take Loki as concubine, agreeing for Sigyn to leave, and agreeing to let the Asgardians go home without a fuss. 

                And it required her to practice her acting skills and Loki to practice his fighting skills.  Not really playing to their strengths. 

                So when the Captain of the Guard walks into the room and has a short and quiet conversation with the King, she is not surprised to find suspicious looks coming her way.  In fact, she’s quite expecting it. 

                “Loki-Prince, I’m afraid that there might have to be a delay in your departure.”

                “Why is that, King Hreidmar?”  Sif channels as much of Loki’s haughty second-prince attitude as she can.  “I am anxious to get my new bride home as soon as possible,” she tacks on because it seems like something a man would say.

                “Something seems to be missing from our smithies.  You will excuse us for being suspicious of your sudden desire to leave.”           

                Damn it, damn it, damn it to Hel!  They weren’t supposed to find the illusion hammer until Sif and Sigyn were already in Asgard.  She glances at Loki, but his (or is it her?) reveals nothing.

                “It is not a sudden desire, Hriedmar.  I have wished to leave Nidavellir since my boots touched soil,” she says in her most snotty manner.  “I cannot be held responsible every time you misplace an anvil.  I will leave now.”  Sif puts outrage into her (or is it his?) voice and moves as if to leave.  “I am a son of Odin and I will depart this realm when I see fit, not a second after!”

                She almost winces at her own words.  Really, this is channeling more Thor than Loki, but this wasn’t part of the plan, gods damn it.

                The mention of Odin seems to have done the trick, though.  Hreidmar gives the ceiling a sudden glance, as if the Allfather were to crash down from the stars that very second. 

                “I meant no offense, Prince Loki,” he says with an even mixture of stiffness, anger, and formality.  “You of course will leave as soon as possible.  But surely you cannot fault me for the need to search the belongings of your companions.  It could be that they have accidentally taken the device.”  Hreidmar casts around for someone to blame that will not offend the prince.  His eyes fall on Sigyn.  “Your wife-to-be, indeed, is the daughter of a spymaster!  I would not put it past her to take it with her.”

                Sif glances at Loki.  Perhaps if he can remove the hammer from their luggage, she and Sigyn and the Warriors Three can leave and Loki can bring it with him when he escapes the harem.  Loki gives the most miniscule of nods. 

                Sif looks over at Sigyn as if she were weighing the likelihood that she could be a thief.  Sigyn looks back with a shocked innocence so well-crafted Sif almost believes it.  Really, why hadn’t she switched with Loki?  It would have made things much easier.

                “I suppose that will have to do, Hreidmar.  I do not wish to cause any diplomatic tension between our realms.  You may send your guards to the Bifrost site.  They can look through the bags there.”

                “It is agreed then.”  Hreidmar looks relieved. 

***

                Loki, still standing at the front of the throne room, maintains a still-as-stone expression while cursing the luck of the Dwarves.  

                Damn it, damn it, damn it!

Chapter Text

                Loki keeps his expression ruthlessly still as he reviews his options.  First things first: He needs to move the hammer.  At the moment it is in his luggage, waiting to go back to Asgard with Sif.  All he has to do is sneak out of the Harem, move the hammer to a better hiding place and then Sif and Sigyn can safely depart for Asgard.  Then all that will remain is for him to collect the hammer and leave himself.  Simple. 

                Of course now that the Dwarves know the hammer is missing, they will all be on the alert for any suspicious activity.  Of course the hammer is so heavy he’ll have to lift it with magic and sacrifice his disguise.  Of course with Sif gone he will have no fail-safes and no back-up. 

                Damn it all to Hel.

                At least Sif had bought him some time with that Bifrost comment.  Hreidmar won’t be able to search the luggage until it’s made its way the whole way through the fortress to the Bifrost site.  He can steal the hammer some time during the transport. 

                Hreidmar continues to speak.  “When will you be leaving?”

                Sif’s eyes flick over to Loki.  “After dinner, I suppose.”

                Damn it to the darkest reaches under the roots of Yggdrasil.

***

                Dinner is a boisterous affair.  Apparently Hreidmar wants to show the Asgardians out of the realm in style.  Of course the tripled guard and the rather less than subtle “servants” who seem to trail around any of the foreigners prove just how anxious Hreidmar actually is.  Sif sits at the high table, Sigyn at her side.  Sif isn’t really sure when Sigyn figured out the switch, but from the slightly betrayed glances she catches every few courses, she figures Loki must have clued her in.  

                Speaking of Loki, she wonders how in Hel they are going to get out of this mess.  She glances down the table to where Loki sits next to Hreidmar.  He’s in the veils and floaty dresses the concubines traditionally wear, laughing at something the King has said.  Nothing in his attitude gives any indication that he might be worried about the plan, though he does seem a little green. Perhaps he is more worried than she supposed. Sif sighs and turns back to see the Warriors Three in front of her.  Fully armed and wearing expressions usually only provoked by bilgesnipes and trolls. 

                “Fandral.  Volstagg.  Hogun.  Is there something I can do for you?”

                That, if anything, makes them angrier.  It is Fandral who gathers himself enough to speak.

                “Loki.” He growls.  “I have heard you mean to leave the Lady Sif here, in the Harem of Hreidmar.”

                Sif isn’t sure whether to be insulted or touched.  They want to rescue her but do not believe her capable of fending for herself.  She steals a glance at Sigyn, but her companion gives away nothing.

                “It was the Lady’s choice, Fandral.  She was caught cheating, Hreidmar gave her options, and this is what she chose.  It is not up to me to guide Sif’s life for her.”  Nor is it yours is implied.

                “Sif would never cheat!  She’s as honorable as any other warrior,” Volstagg cuts in, and that really is a lovely sentiment.  “It would not surprise me if this were another of your malicious pranks!  You’ve always been jealous of her interest in Thor.”

                Sif raises her eyebrows.  Loki isn’t interested in her.  This is nonsense. 

                “Sif can take care of herself.  You have no right to interfere.  And as for your other accusation,” She adds in a hiss, “Hreidmar has allowed me to take the Lady Sigyn here as my wife.”

                The three of them look at her with expressions of disgust. 

                “I cannot believe you.” Hogun says, barely audible.  “You sell your brother’s woman for a whore.”

                Sif reaches out without looking and blocks Sigyn’s blow just in time.  As much as she would love to see Hogun smacked for referring to her as anyone’s “woman,” they really cannot afford to start a fight. 

                “You will be at the Bifrost site in one hour or you will find yourselves without a home to which you can return,” she growls. 

                The Warriors Three walk off, stiff with anger. 

                “You could have handled that better,” Sigyn says calmly, and Sif silently agrees. 

***

                Loki walks slowly and casually through the fortress.  He had feigned an illness during the feast (and infected several others to avoid suspicion) and was sent back to the Harem to rest.  Then it was just a matter of sneaking out through the secret door to the King’s chambers and leaving through the less guarded Royal Wing. 

                As a member of the Harem, he meets little resistance, and when a guard does question him, he simply implies that he is waiting for the king.  Then the guard will leave, and quickly, and Loki can continue.  It’s like a magic charm, only even easier.  He should really start masquerading as a concubine more often. 

                He reaches the chambers in which he had been residing and slips inside silently.  Sif and he had stowed the hammer in the special bag his mother had woven him.  It seemed a simple rucksack, and when it was opened it always seemed empty.  Unless one were to pull on the loose thread at the bottom, at which time its hidden contents would be revealed.  Unfortunately, the weight of the bag was generally gave away the game.  Loki was still working on a way to rectify this when he left, but so far he hadn’t found any spells that wouldn’t counteract his mother’s magic.

                Loki opens the bag and pulls on the loose thread.  The hammer is still there.  Good.  He’s just about to lower his illusion of Sif and heft the bag with his magic when the door opens to reveal the Warriors Three.

                “Sif!”  Fandral says with a triumphant grin.  “We were just on our way to rescue you!”

                Sometimes, Loki thinks, the Norns must just point and laugh at me. 

Chapter Text

Loki has had enough.  This mission was never supposed to happen in the first place.  He doesn’t like Nidavellir, he doesn’t like the warriors three, he doesn’t even like the idea of a hammer as a weapon.  (It’s just too easy to make innuendo.)   And now of course they are all colliding to cause a headache the size of Yggdrasil herself.   So when Fandral turns up in Loki’s chambers, his moustache perfectly twirled and his rapier in hand, shouting about rescuing him, Loki is done. 

                Done with Nidavellir, done with this disguise and done with the Warriors Three. 

                He’d always wanted to see what those idiots would look like if the worlds stopped turning underneath their feet.

                So instead of using his Sif disguise to trick them into helping him get the hammer out of Nidavellir, Loki slowly turns to them, dropping his glamour and purrs, “Darlings, did you really miss me that much?”

                Their looks of shock are truly hilarious.  Loki experiences a feeling of joyfulness at the sight of them: Fandral, with his rapier drooping in his slackened grip,* Volstagg, with his mouth hanging wide enough to fit an entire boar (not the first time, mind you) and even Hogun’s eyes have widened a fraction.  It’s enough to warm Loki’s wicked heart. 

                And then they start talking. 

                “You! What are you doing—“

                “Dressed as a—“

                “Is this another—“

                “Shut up!”  Loki hadn’t meant to shout.  Really his impulsiveness is going to get him killed one day.  He should have just let his disguise on and tricked them into helping him move the damn hammer.

                Wait.  No, he would still have to endure their yammering in any case.  Loki rubs at his temples. 

                “Of course you would turn up now, of course you would,” he mutters as he tries to plan, “you couldn’t possibly decide that today would be a great day to drink yourselves into oblivion or bonk the closest tavern wench.  Of course not.  That would be too easy.”

                Fandral looks offended.  “We would never leave Sif to Hreidmar.”

                Loki gives him a look that seems to consist solely of sarcasm.  It is not a look Fandral is used to seeing on the second prince’s face. 

                “Must I remind you of the events of Alfheim, three years ago?”

                Fandral flushes.  “How do you—“

                “No, shut up.  I haven’t time.  I’m thinking.”

                Fandral is again confused and offended.  If Loki weren’t so busy trying to think he’d enjoy the moment.  

                “Now see here, Loki,” Volstagg tries his hand.  “What is going on?  Why were you disguised as Sif?  And who were we talking to at the feast?  And—“

                “Sif and I have switched identities for the night.  Simply a joke.  Scare Hreidmar out of his concubine habit.  Now shut. Up.”

                “That doesn’t make sense.  Sif wouldn’t let you impugn her honor just for a laugh.  First cheating and then becoming Hreidmar’s woman,” Hogun says quietly.  “Tell us the truth.”

                Loki will later blame his subsequent actions on exhaustion.  Over the last three days he has had a total of six hours of sleep, and the prolonged effort of maintaining not only his illusionary disguise, but also Sif’s, has left his nerves slightly frayed. 

                This, and only this, is why instead of shrugging off the Warriors Three, Loki says in a low and dangerous voice, “I am endeavoring to steal a precious weapon of magical origin that the dwarves would rather see in less friendly hands.  The Lady Sif saw fit to allow me to borrow her visage for a short amount of time.  Forgive me for putting the good of Asgard above the vanity of one woman.  A woman who gave her permission to act and whose vanity, again, is her own to dispose of.  A woman who would need no rescue even if it were her who was confined the Harem.  Surely it is not me impugning honor, Hogun.”

                The Warriors Three are silent.  Volstagg even looks a bit chagrinned. 

                “Now,” Loki continues, “I would appreciate if the three of you could run along and see the ladies safely to Asgard while I do my damned job.”

                The warriors turn to leave and Loki is just breathing a sigh of relief when Fandral turns around and says, “A magical weapon, you said?”

                Loki considers it a personal achievement in self-control that he doesn’t turn them all into pigs at that very moment.

***

                When Fandral walked into the Royal Chambers to collect supplies for Sif’s escape, the last thing he expected was to see Sif herself, rummaging through Loki’s luggage.  Well, the second-to-last thing.  The last thing he expected to see was Loki wearing the guise of Sif rummaging through Loki’s luggage.  They had just spoken to Loki not five minutes before.  How in Hel had he gotten back to the rooms before them?  And why would he look like Sif?

                And when he’d turned around…it was like seeing someone up close when you had only ever seen them at a distance.  This was not the same Loki who whined at his brother, who whinged in the practice ring and who treated every feast like a contest of malicious tricks.  This was not the Loki who was the butt of every joke, the shame of the royal family and the constant disappointment to the realm.  This was someone completely different. 

                His whole demeanor was different.  He no longer held himself in that straightened and puffed-up posture that Volstagg referred to as his-royal-highness’-scepter-has disappeared-up-his-bum.  Loki held himself with the sort of poise that Fandral associated with panthers.  Graceful and deadly.  His face had changed as well.  It was no longer caught in that expression of quiet thoughtfulness or complete blankness, but an activeness of thinking.  Like Loki was running an entire obstacle course of the mind. 

                Fandral had never met this strange prince who concerned himself with the good of Asgard and spoke of Sif as if she were a valued friend.  So when they were dismissed, and it was a royal dismissal, another first, Fandral knew he could not leave this strange man alone with his task. 

                “A magic weapon, you said?”

Chapter Text

                “No.”

                “But—“

                “No.  Just no.  Go see Sif and Sigyn home. I’m sure your noblesse will impress them.”

                “We couldn’t possibly leave you here alone.”                                            

                Loki sighs.  The one moment he wants the Warriors Three to think the worst of him, to ignore him and go about their own business they decide it might be best to stick around.  Well, not the Warriors Three in their entirety.  Just Fandral it seems.  Hogun and Volstagg seem to be off one mind with Loki.  They should leave and let him get back to his work.

                “There is no need to protect me.  I’ve gotten myself out of far worse situations.  You seem to forget that I, unlike Thor, do not require an entourage to extricate me from my problems.”

                There.  Maybe the little slight against their leader will offend them enough to leave.  It seems to work on Volstagg and Hogun but Fandral just looks intrigued.

                “What kind of situations?”

                “Fandral, we haven’t the time for this.  Now will you just do as I say and leave the damned realm with Sif and Sigyn?”  It’s like arguing with a toddler.

                “I’m afraid not, my prince.”

                Loki, Volstagg and Hogun all raise their eyebrows.  The Warriors Three have never referred to Loki by his title.  Officially this is because, as friends of Thor and Loki, they are exempt from some of the perfunctory formalities of court life.  However, all involved (except Thor) are aware that it was mostly a subtle sign of disrespect towards the second prince. 

                Fandral just nods at the looks of shock.  “We cannot leave a member of the royal family unprotected.  Especially if, as you say, the realm is in danger.  No, it is our duty as warriors of the realm to protect you and your…”

                “Hammer.  It’s a hammer, Fandral.”

                “Hammer.  Yes.”

                Hogun and Volstagg do not look convinced.  Loki even less so.  Fandral looks at his friends hopefully. 

                “Surely it is best if we help, do you not think?”

                There are a few moments of silence.  Loki crosses his fingers behind his back.

                Finally Hogun speaks.  “What is the plan?”

                Loki rubs his face.  He hasn’t the time to argue this further.  So this is happening, is it?  Well then, he doesn’t have to make easy on them does he?  He tucks the hammer back into the bag his mother made and sizes up the Warriors. Hogun.  Yes, Hogun would be best.  Volstagg is too broad, he will have to remedy that, and Fandral is his best hope for agility, so Hogun it is.  He beckons the man over. 

                “Hogun, would you be so kind as to lift this bag for me?”

                Hogun eyes the simple cloth bag. 

                “Why?”  He asks suspiciously.

                “Because it is too heavy for me and I need to retain strength for my magic.  Now take the damn bag.  I need to write a letter.”

                Hogun gives Loki a dirty look but hefts the bag over his shoulder with an audible groan. 

                “What in Hel is in this thing?”

                “Hmm?”  Loki glances up from his parchment. “The hammer of course.”

                “I thought you needed to steal it.”

                “Oh no, I’ve already stolen it.  I just need to escape with it to Asgard while the dwarves are scouring the realm for it.  The stealing was the easy part.”

                “Oh, of course.”

                “I did not ask you on this mission, you recall.  You have only yourselves and Fandral to blame.”

                Loki finishes his letter and seals it.  He makes a quick motion with his hand and suddenly Sif is standing amidst them.  Before the Warriors Three can ask what’s happening, he goes to the door and hails a passing servant. 

                “Take this to Prince Loki, if you would.  It is of the utmost importance,” He slips a gold coin into the dwarf’s hand and sends her on her way.

                “What was that?” Asks Volstagg.

                “I don’t want Sif and Sigyn staying on-realm any longer than necessary waiting on you.  I’ve told them to leave as soon as possible, now, let’s get this somewhere safe so we can leave as soon as they do.”

                “Why can’t we just leave now?” Asks Hogun.

                “I would rather they be off-realm before we do anything of which they might be accused.”

                There is a sound outside the door like people approaching.  The Warriors turn to Loki, eyes wide.

                “Someone’s coming,” Volstagg says in a stage whisper.  “We must guard the door.”

                “No, that will just tell the dwarves that we’re guilty and where we are.  No, we are leaving.”

                The Warriors look at the door and back at Loki.  There are no other exits.  Not even a window to descend using bed sheets.

                Loki calmly walks over to the huge fire place and extinguishes the fire with a wave of his hand.  The Warriors Three watch in silence as he carefully ran his hands over the carved tiles at the back of the fireplace.  If the books in Royal Library at Asgard are correct…yes.  Loki presses a tile carved with the likeness of a comely woman and another depicting a special cut of ruby (the dwarf symbol of love).

                A door appears in the back of the fireplace, swinging open to reveal a dark and drafty hallway.  The Warriors look on in shocked silence. 

                Loki rolls his eyes and beckons them.  “Well? We can’t be waiting here all day.” 

                Fandral nods and leads the way into the secret passage, followed closely by Volstagg.  Hogun hefts the bag over his shoulder and follows, but not before giving Loki a glare.

                “I still do not trust you, Loki.”

                Loki sighs and swings the door shut behind the four of them.  “I always knew you were the clever one in your little trio.” 

***

                Sif looks at the letter in her hand and sighs.  She hands the parchment over to Sigyn to read and reaches for her goblet.  She’s far too sober for this.  Sigyn’s eyes travel over the words quickly.  She reaches the end and looks like she’s barely restraining a laugh. 

                “Looks like you won’t have to worry about the Liesmith going it alone,” Sigyn murmurs.

                “No, I’ll just have to worry about the four of them murdering each other before the Dwarves get the chance.”

                This time Sigyn does laugh.  “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see.”

                “Indeed.  We have our half of the plan to attend to.”  The two ladies stand and depart the great hall.

Chapter Text

They weren’t even ten steps into the tunnel before the questions started again.  Really it was like escorting a troupe of schoolchildren through the Royal Aviary.  Loki should know; it was one of his mother’s favorite punishments for him. 

                “Where does the tunnel lead?”

                “Why aren’t the Dwarves following us?”

                “How did you know it was here?”

                “Can we stop for snacks?  We had to leave dinner early.”

                Loki grits his teeth and answers in his best adult voice.

                “The tunnels lead to a number of locations throughout the fortress.  The Dwarves aren’t following because there isn’t much of a point having a secret tunnel if everyone knows about it.  I knew it was there because the architect was more proud than prudent and recorded his efforts in a book that made its way to Asgard’s library.  And no, Volstagg, we won’t be stopping for food.”

                The Warriors Three grumbled as they made their way through the low passageway.  It was carved into bedrock of the fortress and lit by clever little fairy lights in sconces set into recesses near the ceiling. 

                “But, don’t the Dwarves know everything the others know?”  Fandral asks.

                Loki sighs.  He really doesn’t want to explain the complexities of the Dwarves’ pseudo-hive-mind to the Idiots Three. 

                “It’s complicated.  You know what I find helpful when sneaking through the walls of an enemy fortress?  Silence.  It’s incredibly useful.  Stops assailants from knowing where you are.  You might give it a trial run.”

                The Warriors Three grumble more, but are finally silent as they trudge through the walls.

                Truthfully, Loki wasn’t completely sure that the passage was really there until he had had the occasion to look in the fireplace.  He had found a book detailing the construction of the Dwarves’ fortress in the library at Asgard, and it was written by the architect.  However, its legitimacy was…questionable.  Mostly because the architect’s preferred method of communication seemed to be mad ramblings scrawled in an ink formed from his own blood.  But Loki figured he had at least a fourteen percent chance of the passage being there.  And those were reasonable odds.  His plan had been to take the hammer through the walls, wait until morning, and then make his way to the Bifrost site. 

                Now he has the Warriors Three.  And his plans have to change.  Hreidmar will not overlook the Warriors Three remaining on Nidavellir.  Furthermore when he finds they are missing, he’ll be even more suspicious.  Someone will think of looking in the passageways.  By the lack of dust, Loki can tell that somebody still uses them. 

                As the four walk through the passageways, Loki knows he’s only got so long before they have to find a hiding place.  And he knows the perfect place.

***

                Hogun glares at the back of Loki’s head.  He isn’t sure what ridiculous game the second prince is playing, but he’s sure the trick is on the Warrior’s Three.  A magical weapon?  Taking Sif’s guise? That claim of protecting Asgard? The payoff must be grand.  It’ll probably end with the three of them in a Dwarvish jail somewhere with Loki laughing hysterically at them from the other side of the bars.  And yet here they are, playing along as always.  Walking through the dark and no doubt forbidden passageways of the Dwarf fortress.  He had thought Fandral was smarter than this.  Hadn’t he learnt anything from the mischiefs Loki played on them in the past?   

                Hogun hefts the heavy bag higher up on his shoulder.  The damn thing weighs more than Volstagg after the midsummer feast.  And Hogun knows from experience. 

                He waits until Fandral and Volstagg have gone around a corner before turning to Loki. 

                “What trick are you playing, Odinson?”

                The damn man just sighs.  “There’s no trick, Hogun.  I just want to get the hammer out of the fortress and back to Asgard.  Preferably with all my limbs intact.”

                Hogun is sick of the games.  Loki always has a card up his sleeve, and it is never anything beneficial to his companions.  He can’t allow the Warriors Three to come to harm for trusting the second prince.  He drops the bag and whips out his knife to press against Loki’s throat. 

                “Tell me your plan now, my prince.” He hisses.

                Loki just heaves that infuriating sigh again and looks down.  Hogun follows his eyes to where the prince’s dagger has punctured Hogun’s shirt and is resting on the skin above his heart.  Hogun looks up at the second prince’s face. Loki rolls his eyes. 

                “Hogun, we’ve trained together, did you really think you could beat me in a game of speed?”

                Hogun lowers his dagger and Loki does the same, stowing his knife in a hidden sheath in his sleeve. 

                “I understand your suspicions,” Loki says quietly. “And I respect your worries, but—“

                “I’m not worried. We always beat you eventually.”

                “But you have to trust me now that you’re in this.  Hreidmar will have noticed your disappearance and if you turn up out of the blue, he’ll suspect you’ve hidden the hammer.  So just do as I say and we’ll get out of this peachy.  You can punish me later for saving your hides,” Loki tries to pass Hogun in the narrow passageway, but the warrior stops him with a hand on his chest. 

                “You expect us to follow you?  You haven’t done anything remotely princely in your life.  You just ride the coattails of Thor, but Thor earned our respect with his leadership.  You’ve done nothing to earn our allegiance and I won’t allow us to fall into another of your traps,” Hogun snarls. 

                Loki’s face wears that blank expression he got when something hit him hard in the heart and he didn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing it.  Hogun remembers it from the days after Sleipnir’s birth, when soldiers were still laughing about how they thought the second prince couldn’t fall any further.  It was the expression that always preempted an act of violence.  It was no coincidence that the gibes about Sleipnir died down only a few months after Loki’s return. 

                Understandably, when Loki reaches into his jacket, Hogun is sure that the prince is going to retrieve another knife and kill him for the insult.  But all that Loki has in his hand is a ring.  A silver band shaped like a snake eating its tail.  A piece of symbolic jewelry that Hogun recognizes immediately.

                “Is this authority enough for you, Hogun?” Loki hisses.  “Or is the Liesmith of Asgard not high enough a power for you to obey?"

Chapter Text

Loki watches with some measure of satisfaction as Hogun’s eyes move from the ring to his face back to the ring again.  He feels the rage in which he had indulged fade from his features.  He knew it would probably come to this.  Hogun is both a soldier and a commoner.  He fought tooth and nail to achieve his place in the kingdom.  It is something Loki that secretly admires about the quiet warrior. 

                Hogun will be the hardest to convince to follow Loki.  Fandral is a member of the aristocracy. He was trained from a very young age to follow the hierarchy.  To obey those above him.  And though Loki is seen as weak and laughable, he still outranks Fandral.  He would obey on Loki’s title alone. 

                Volstagg is also of the aristocracy.  However, his family is a newer one; merchants that bought their way into a title.  Volstagg’s obedience to the crown is not nearly as long-running as Fandral’s nor is it likely to gain his allegiance to Loki.  The prince is counting on Volstagg’s loyalty to his shield-brothers to keep him under Loki’s command. 

                Hogun is the problem.  As both a commoner and soldier, his loyalty is less dependable.  Soldiers’ loyalties are dependent upon the money they receive from their liege and commoners lack the conditioned obedience that the moneyed have.  The only reason Hogun follows Thor in battle is because the crown prince proved himself as both a competent warrior and a good friend. 

                Loki’s title as prince means next to nothing to Hogun.  He needs proof of Loki’s competence before he’ll willingly risk himself or his comrades. 

                Loki must grudgingly admit that this philosophy is one he finds both wise and admirable. 

                “That’s the Liesmith’s ring,” Hogun finally says.

                “Yes.”

                “The ring that belongs to the spymaster of Asgard.”

                “Yes.”

                “You have the spymaster of Asgard’s ring.”

                “Yes,” Loki says. This is getting repetitive. “Which means…?”

                “You stole from the Liesmith.”

                Loki decides that knocking his head against the wall will neither help him formulate a plan nor rid the world of idiots.  He still considers it. 

                “No, Hogun.  I did not steal from the spymaster.  Try again.”

                “You work for the Liesmith.”  Hogun looks like he really hopes that option is the correct one.  He’s smart enough to know there’s one more possibility and he looks like he doesn’t want to think of the alternative. 

                Loki shakes his head. 

                “You can’t be the Liesmith!”

                “Why not?”

                “Because you’re you!  You’re the second prince.  Thor’s bratty little brother.  You barely leave your rooms.  You spend all your time in the Library.  How do you even have time to be a spy?”

                “You’d be surprised at the amount of paperwork.”

                Hogun looks like he wants to punch Loki, but the Liesmith is pretty sure that’s because he has no sense of humor, not that he doesn’t believe him. 

                “Why—“

                “Why did you not know?  There was no reason for you to know.  Keeping my identity secret allows me to go unnoticed.”

                “But we—“

                “Yes, you and the other stooges humiliate me on a daily basis.  It helps keep my cover as the—what did you call it again?  The bratty prince?  I suppose I should thank you for your aid, but that approaches a level of masochism even I am uncomfortable with.”

                  Hogun’s normally passionless face is twisted in confusion.  Loki looks on it in triumph.  He loves provoking a reaction from the normally stoic warrior.  He cannot show that triumph now, though.  Hogun would think Loki was laughing at him and it would just prolong the distrust.

                “Hogun, I am the Liesmith.  You’ve heard the stories.  They are all true.  Well, most of them true.  I wouldn’t give much credence to the snake story.  Wildly exaggerated.”

                Hogun narrows his eyes.  “You are lying to gain my respect.”

                “Would lying gain your respect?”

                “No.”

                “Then there’s your answer.  Can we please continue on?  Fandral and Volstagg have probably gotten themselves lost several times now.”

                Hogun huffs, but follows Loki through the passageways to rejoin Volstagg and Fandral. 

                “Where were you?  We thought maybe you’d tripped a booby trap or something,” Volstagg says.

                Loki gives him a withering look.  “Why would the Dwarves booby trap their own tunnel, Volstagg?”

                “We got in here, didn’t we?”  Hogun says.  “What are these tunnels for, anyway?”

                Loki colors slightly. “Well, the chambers we came from often house foreign dignitaries,” he says hesitantly. 

                “So the passageways are for assassins to sneak in and kill them in their sleep!” Fandral guesses with a disturbingly cheerful tone.

                “No, more the opposite.”

                “For dignitaries to kill assassins?”  Volstagg tries.  Loki rolls his eyes. 

                “Well, say the Dwarves wanted to impress and please the dignitaries.”

                The three still look blank.  Loki was hoping he really wouldn’t have to spell this out. 

                “In an…intimate way.” 

                He’s still getting blank stares. 

                “Supposing the Dwarves wanted to please the dignitaries in an intimate way without the dignitaries losing honorability.”

                “Oh!”  Looks like Fandral if finally getting it.  He turns to the others and explains.  “Hreidmar made a secret passage so visiting royalty can bonk his mistresses.”

                Loki frowns at the phrasing, but he supposes it’s more or less correct.  Fandral looks at Loki with surprise and suspicion.  “Is that how you knew about these tunnels?”  His eyes get even bigger.  “Is that how you met Sigyn?”

                Loki is sure this cannot get worse. 

***

                The Great Hall of the Fortress has the resounding silence that always follows a feast.  Though most of the diners have either retired to their beds or continued the revelry in the many taverns and whorehouses of the city, the servants haven’t had time to clear the tables.  Dirty dishes, napkins, the odd discarded bodice are all still arrayed over the long tables and high-backed chairs. 

                A figure separates himself from the shadows in of one corner and flits silently along the Royal table, running his fingers over the dark wood of the chairs.  He suddenly stops where Prince Loki and his new companion were seated only a few hours earlier.  Something on the floor has caught his eye. He stoops and plucks up a piece of parchment sealed with Loki’s own mark.  Odd.  The prince receiving a letter to himself. 

                The figure swiftly reads the slanting lines of text and his lips curl into a wicked smile.  He tucks the letter into his jacket and moves away murmuring, “I’ll have you yet, Liesmith.”

Chapter Text

They have just rejoined Fandral and Volstagg when they hear the echoing tramp of boats resounding off the bare stone walls.  The Dwarves.  Loki knew that they’d check the passageways eventually, but he had hoped that he and the Warriors Three would be in position first.  Damn Hogun and his Helish distrust. 

                Loki swears with a volume and level of creativity that seems to impress Volstagg. 

                “Damn it to Hel!” he finishes. 

                “What’s wrong?”  Fandral asks.  “Surely between the four of us we can fight them off.”

                Loki looks at him in a sort of stupefied silence.  Fight them off.  He wants them to fight them off?

                “How, exactly, are you proposing we fight them off?”

                Fandral looks confused.  “With our weapons?”

                “With your sword?  The one that will be more likely to take out a piece of the wall than a piece of our enemies?  With Volstagg’s ax that will probably bury itself in one of our skulls should Volstagg overestimate the backswing?  This is not the time for a fight, Fandral.  Not with the weapons you have, not in these tight quarters.”

                “So what would you have us do?”  Hogun says and Loki thinks there is more curiosity than anger in it. 

                “Yes, would you have us run from a fight like cowards?”  Volstagg demands.  And that is definitely anger rather than curiosity.

                “No, I would have us run from a fight like intelligent beings, but if you don’t feel you can maintain the illusion, running like a coward at least has an acceptable outcome,”  Loki hisses.  They need to hurry.  The footsteps are getting closer and closer, the stones of the passageway vibrating with the force of their approach.  They don’t have time for this quibbling. 

                “Loki,” Fandral’s voice has gone patronizingly understanding.  “Running from a fight is not a worthy act.  We will die honorably with weapons in our hands and travel to the feast halls of Valhalla.  You need not be afraid.”

                Loki takes a deep breath.  He is a cold mountain lake.  So smooth he has nearly forgotten he is water and thinks himself glass. Undisturbed by ripples or tides or thrown stones.  Or idiots.  He sinks the urge to kill the Warriors Three himself and save the Dwarves the trouble deep, deep in the dark depths of the lake. 

                “Yes, Loki, if you are afraid, just let us big, strong men protect you,” Volstagg says cheerfully.

                And if that statement doesn’t just dredge his calm lake, Loki doesn’t know what would. 

                “If you so much as lay a hand on your ax, Volstagg, I swear the only way the Dwarves will be able to capture you is with a dustpan and brush.”  That shocks Volstagg into silence.  Loki is not sure if it is the threat itself or the tone of absolute calm with which he delivers it.  “We will not be fighting the Dwarves off.  If you want to strangle yourselves with your honor, you can do that on your own time.  Right now we have a mission for the good of Asgard and your ‘heroics’ don’t fit into the agenda.  So be silent and let me think.”

                Now for the plan.  There’s got to be a plan.  Loki flicks through the contingencies he’d considered earlier and stops at one that can be tweaked to account for the Warriors Three.  Oh…they’re going to hate this plan, Loki thinks gleefully.

***

                The guards have just finished searching Sif and Sigyn’s bags when a Dwarf emerges from the fortress onto the Bifrost site. 

                “Your Highness, Prince Loki!” He shouts as a greeting.  Sif turns slowly, noticing that Sigyn whips around quickly and pales immediately at the Dwarf before them.  Sif is not sure why; the Dwarf looks to be quite a normal one. He is not especially threatening, attired in formal robes that denote at least the title of Duke if not a Lord. 

                Sif is sure that Loki would know his name and the name of his wife and the name of his mistress on the side and which one to threaten should he need to manipulate the Dwarf.  Sif almost sighs.

                Sif has always found that the best technique for her to lie has always been to say very little and let others assume what they will.  It is not a method she much likes, but it has proved effective.  So rather than greet the Dwarf she simply nods at him in acknowledgement.  It is not a very polite gesture, but neither Loki nor Sif have ever been accused of politeness, so she decides it is a valid choice. 

                “Prince Loki, are you leaving so soon?  I had hoped we could talk while you were on Nidavellir, and I have only just returned.”  There is nothing about the Dwarf that sounds or looks threatening, but that distinct lack makes the hackles on Sif’s neck rise.  Not to mention Sigyn’s pale face in her peripherals warning her to tread carefully.  Sigyn is no wilting flower.  She would not be intimidated by just anyone.

                “I am afraid I must be leaving,” Sif says with what she hopes is a fair approximation of Loki’s smirk.  “The Lady Sigyn and I are to be wed and I am anxious to test her out.”

                Crude, yes, but in character for the second prince.  The Dwarf just smiles, though, and turns to Sigyn. 

                “Ah yes, the Lady Sigyn and I are acquainted.  In fact, I have just returned from your realm, my Lady.  I was surprised your father had not heard of your engagement.  Worry not, I have informed him of your impending nuptials.”

                Sif glances at Sigyn.  Her face is still sickly pale, but she looks more angry than frightened.  Sif is not certain what in the Dwarf’s speech offends her companion (Freyr would know soon enough that the marriage was a sham), so she tries to redirect the conversation.

                “Thank you for your aid in notifying my soon-to-be father-in-law.  Now we really must be going.”

                “Of course.  I would not wish to delay your wedding night even longer, Liesmith.”

                Sif goes tight with tension and immediately curses herself.  It is an amateur mistake and she should be above such things.  The Dwarf smirks at her. 

                “Yes, my lady, I had noticed your little charade.  Perhaps you could drop the act and point me to Prince Loki?  I’ve looked forward to meeting him again for some time.”

                He motions to the guards, but before they can intervene, Sigyn has whipped out Loki’s ceremonial sword from the scabbard on Sif’s hip (the only sword Sif could find in Loki’s luggage) and pressed it to the Dwarf’s throat. 

                The Dwarf freezes, but his smile remains in place.  Sigyn just looks at him with nothing but calmness on her face and only the slightest tremble in the sword. 

                “Call the Gatekeeper, Prince Loki.  I never wish to see this realm again,” she says to Sif. 

                Sif does as she says.  And not for the first time, she wonders what she has gotten herself into. 

Chapter Text

Guard Snorri and his partner sidle through the tunnels in the walls of the fortress of Nidavellir.  Their commander is sure the thieves are skulking in here like the rats they are.  The dwarves are alert, with their hands on their axes.

                A turn in the tunnel and they see two forms ahead.

                “Halt!  Identify yourselves!” the Snorri’s partner shouts. 

                They get close enough to see the figures in the low torch light.  They stop and survey the scene in front of them.

                The visiting Elvish minister of trade is pinned against the wall by a comely dark haired concubine.  They seem…occupied, to say the least.  The concubine turns with a look of utmost annoyance. 

                “Do you mind?” She says.  “We’re a bit busy, boys.”

                Snorri tries not to blush while his partner leers at the two figures.  “I’ll say you are,” he says.

                The concubine rolls her eyes and says, “You may leave.” 

                Snorri and his partner look at each other.  Technically the concubines have no official status.  They cannot order guards around.  On the other hand, they have the ear of the king and several of his most important ministers and can make life more than difficult for anyone who so much as looks at them askance. 

                “Sorry to bother you ma’am, sir,” Snorri says, somehow managing to sound polite.  He grabs his partner’s sleeve and begins to tug him towards the rest of the passageways.  Then he notices the bag the Elvish minister has over his shoulder. 

                “Excuse me, ma’am, but may we look inside the bag?” He says as politely as possible.

                The concubine laughs.  “Sure, darling, if you want to lose your innocence in a single glance.”

                Snorri blushes again and the two continue on their search.  He hates concubines. 

***

                Loki should have seen the blow coming.  He probably even deserved it.  A bit. 

                Still, he finds himself startled when Hogun’s broad fist slams into his jaw. 

                “You imbecile!  You could have killed us all!”  Hogun shouts. 

                It is true, but that doesn’t stop Loki from retorting, “Unlike your plan, which would have definitely killed us all.”

                They stare at each other for a few seconds, before both seem to remember that killing the other would be counterproductive.  Hogun sets down the bag with the hammer (it makes a metallic clunk against the marble floor) and goes to sit on a chest with Volstagg and Fandral.   

                “Well you didn’t have to practically dare the guard into looking in the bag,” Hogun grumbles.

                He is right.  Loki’s antics were reckless and risky and necessary.  They’d delayed much too long to simply run away.  He’d had to make a quick decision.  And the decision had (admittedly) a rather low likelihood of success.  But they’d pulled it off and here they were, safe and sound, so Hogun needn’t hit him. 

                Loki had had only a few moments to hide the four of them in a barren tunnel with nothing accept his magic.  He sincerely hoped that Sif was off-realm because creating four new disguises was going to use all the magic he had been directing towards her disguise.  The best option would be to turn the four of them into pebbles.  It was a difficult transformation—going from animate to inanimate was always difficult—especially when three of the animated (debatably) members were unaware of the change

                The problem with that plan was the bag.  If Loki tried to transform the bag there was no telling how his magic would react to the magic woven into the fabric by his mother. So the bag couldn’t be disguised.  Neither could the bag be left unattended except by four pebbles.  Which meant that at least one of them would be staying in a relatively visible form to protect the bag.  And since Loki couldn’t lift the damned thing, it meant it would have to be Hogun.  And Loki had learned just enough honorability to feel guilty and not let him stay alone with the bag. 

                Or, perhaps, he did not believe Hogun had the ability to formulate a plausible story without copious rehearsal. 

                However, Loki considers, it must have been quite shocking for Hogun to suddenly find that his two closest friends had just turned into pebbles.  It probably was even more shocking to find himself suddenly in the guise of a high ranking member of the Elvish court and low-ranking member of the Elvish royal family with a half-naked concubine hanging off him in a rather suggestive way.  But Loki hadn’t really had time to plan, and it was just so funny. 

                Especially with that blushing guard. How he loves despoiling innocents. 

                So they’d had their little confrontation and gotten away.  And Loki pocketed the two pebbles (no reason to change them back until they were in the clear anyway, and it was just so nicely quiet with them in that form) and Hogun and he continued on to the end of the tunnel. 

                This was the part of the plan in which he had invested the least amount of confidence.  He had been confident that the passageways led to the Harem, but Loki was less than eager to return there.  It would almost definitely be searched.  There was one room in the fortress that Loki was sure would not be searched and one of the concubines had told him (with the judicious application of truth serum) that the passageways also led to this room. 

                Of course it hadn’t been that easy.  The doorway had been concealed and locked with a Dwarvish-made tumbler system that was ‘impossible’ to pick. 

                It had taken Loki almost seven minutes.  He was almost impressed. 

And that was how Loki came to be sitting in the treasury room of King Hreidmar of Nidavellir with two pebbles-turned-Aesir and a very angry Hogun. 

                “You kissed me!”  Hogun shouts.  Volstagg and Fandral look at Loki with big, shocked eyes. 

                Oh yes.  Loki had nearly forgotten that. 

Chapter Text

                Loki is curled up on the cold floor of King Hreidmar’s Treasure Room and nearly asleep when Volstagg asks, “What’s so important about this hammer, anyway?”

                Loki sighs.  He is used to sleeping rough.  He was born and raised a prince, but he was trained as both a soldier and a spy.  He knows how to catch a few moments of sleep in even the most improbable situations.  Dripping caverns, crumbling dungeons, under Thor’s bed on a certain prank-gone-wrong, but never has he had such a problem getting to sleep.  And it is completely owed to the Warriors Three. 

                “It is a magical weapon almost as powerful as Gungnir. The Dwarves are auctioning it off to the highest bidders,” Loki mumbles into the cloth-of-gold cloak he found to use as a bedroll. 

                “And the Allfather sent you to steal it?”

                Loki lifts his head enough to see where Volstagg, Hogun and Fandral have propped themselves against a chest full of gold coins.  Fandral has already fallen asleep and is drooling on Volstagg’s shoulder.  The other two are awake and seem to be playing a game of dice. 

                Loki raises an eyebrow at Hogun.  Loki’s quite surprised the grim warrior hadn’t already shared the Liesmith persona with the rest of his merry band.  Hogun shrugs at his expression.  Volstagg notices their looks and turns to his friend. 

                “What do you know?” he asks suspiciously. 

                Hogun shrugs again.  “Apparently,” he says softly so Fandral doesn’t wake, “Prince Loki of Asgard is the true identity of the Liesmith.”

                If Loki weren’t so exhausted (and quite annoyed at the Warriors Three) he would be amused by Volstagg’s expression of complete and utter shock.  He is rather less amused by the rapid change of this expression for one of suspicion. 

                “Is this a joke?” Volstagg asks. 

                Loki rolls his eyes and decides that he’s explained himself enough for the day.  He tucks the cloth-of-gold closer to his body and rolls over so he’s facing away from his three companions.

                Hogun answers Volstagg’s question with a quiet, “No.”

                “Surely you don’t believe him, Hogun.  He’s never done a single deed for anyone else.”

                Loki resolutely does not bristle at that.  He reminds himself that he has carefully cultivated the persona that has his companions so convinced.  He should be proud that they believe more in the façade he has forged than the truth.  It is a compliment to his skills rather than an insult to his morals. 

                He is not entirely convinced. 

                Hogun doesn’t answer for a second.  Perhaps he shrugs.  “I saw his ring of office.”

                “That proves nothing!” Volstagg counters.  “He’s stolen it or forged it or tricked someone into giving it to him.”

                Again there is a hesitation before Hogun answers.  Loki wonders if Hogun is checking whether he is awake or not. 

                “That is what I said when I saw the ring.  But now I am not sure.” 

                Volstagg doesn’t answer.

                “Have you not seen a change in him?” Hogun asks. 

                “So he’s acting oddly.  You know as well as I do how well he can lie.”      

                “Indeed. It is a useful skill for a spy.”

                Volstagg shakes his head and huffs. 

                “What I would like to know,” Hogun says, raising his voice slightly, “Is what the Vanir girl has to do with everything.”

                Loki pretends to startle awake and Hogun rolls his eyes.

                “The Vanir girl?”

                “Yes, the Lady Sigyn.  I understand the need to take the hammer, good of Asgard and all that, but what is the importance of the girl?”

                “Oh, she’s Freyr’s daughter.”

                Hogun and Volstagg look blank. 

                “Freyr the Minister of Finance?”  Hogun says as Volstagg says, “The man you were flirting with in the fighting ground?”

                Loki just nods. 

                Volstagg looks suddenly uncomfortable.  “Loki, the Lady Sigyn…She’s not…You and Freyr aren’t…”

                Loki would be amused if it weren’t so bloody annoying.  He finally rolls over to face them.  “I am neither bonking Freyr nor is Sigyn my daughter, Volstagg,” he says in disgust. 

                “Oh.  Oh well, then why did you take her out of the Harem?”

                “Is it really so hard to believe that I simply did not wish to leave a Lady in the hands of Hreidmar?”

                Volstagg’s face says that, yes, this is a motive he cannot associate with Loki second prince. 

                Loki shrugs and rolls away again to face the wall, bringing the cloth-of-gold up around his head. 

                “Well, what I would like to know,” Volstagg says, “Is why the Allfather give his son such a dishonorable position.”

                Loki turns over slowly and sits up, keeping his face the smooth blank that is just a knife’s edge away from rage. 

                Hogun looks worried in a calm way, his hand on his mace.  Loki also vaguely registers that Hogun does not look like he agrees with Volstagg’s evaluation of his profession.

                “Dishonorable?” Loki asks in the soft voice he has perfected in his years as Liesmith. “I see.  It is dishonorable to use my knowledge to protect Asgard.  It is dishonorable to forgo the weapons and blood and dirt when I could talk the enemy out of millions of deaths.  Yes, that is the true dishonor.  Not the rushing into battle, causing needless deaths for the sake of bloodlust and greed. Not the berserkers who will kill as many of their own as the enemy if they are not directed by the dishonorable magic that protects the troops.  Certainly not that.

                “You know, Volstagg, I agree.  I cannot understand how the Allfather, the man who have his good eye for knowledge and studied magic with the women would value the position of a spymaster and entrust it to his son.  Surely that would be simply passing the dishonor from the father to the son, do you not think?”

                Volstagg and Hogun are silent.  Loki takes a breath to calm down and notices they look a bit taken aback.  He tries not to let a smug smile cross his face. 

                Fandral suddenly opens his eyes and stretches, obviously sick of feigning sleep.  “Well, we’ve got that out of the way, then,” he says.  “Shall we discuss the plan?”

                “Oh yes,” says a cool voice from the door, “Let’s do discuss the plan.”

Chapter Text

Eitri.  It would be Eitri who finds them.  Loki should have known.  The spymaster of Nidavellir was only gone for so long because Freyr was off Vanaheim and since he sent Freyr back, he should have expected Eitri to return to the fortress.  And of all the people to be in the fortress while Loki is, Eitri is the one he least wants to see.

                Loki deals with a number of unpleasant and unsavory characters with his job.  Criminals, spies, politicians…Loki sees and handles them all.  But Eitri is a special brand of unpleasant. 

                Loki is adept with handling other spymasters.  Freyr and he have a working relationship based on mutual respect and a willingness to kill the other should the need come about.  It’s nothing particularly personal, just business.  Eitri is different.  Eitri likes the dirty parts of the job.  The parts that mean torture and manipulation and the sacrifice of innocents.  Eitri would kill Loki (or really anyone) for the simple pleasure of watching him bleed. 

                This is only exacerbated by the tension in Hreidmar’s court over the spymaster. This is quite common; spymasters wield a great deal of power and if they are not trusted implicitly by their monarchs, they often find themselves without a job.  And without a head. 

                Loki has not had to deal with such distrust because of his position in the royal family and secrecy of his post.  Loki knows the spymaster of Alfheim is trusted for similar reasons.  Freyr has always and will always be loyal to his king; he has proved that through his steadfast support despite the many rebellions the Vanir king has suppressed. 

                Eitri, though, is again different.  Eitri was Hreidmar’s father’s spymaster before Hreidmar.  And the previous king had died suddenly and unexpectedly.  It was long suspected that the old king had been killed by Eitri for a higher position in the new king’s court. 

                This, no doubt, was the cause of a great deal of uneasiness in the heart of Nidavellir’s ruler.  After all, if Eitri could kill one king, what was stopping him from turning on another?

                And now, now of all times, Loki feels inappropriate rush of cheerfulness.  Because for the first time this mission, Loki is sure that nothing could possibly get worse.

                Hreidmar’s throne room is significantly more impressive on one’s knees with one’s hands shackled behind one’s back.  That’s Loki’s impression anyway.  By the looks on the Warriors Three’s faces, they seem to be in agreement.  Loki wriggles his shoulders and wonders if he should even bother pretending to look repentant.  He doubts at this point it would make much of a difference, but perhaps Hreidmar would appreciate the effort.  Before Loki can decide, the doors behind the throne are thrown open and the king himself enters the room.  He does not look happy. 

                Fortunately, he levels his glare not at Loki or the Warriors Three, but at their captor. 

                “Why have you dragged me from my bed, Counselor?  I told you to deal with the situation.”  Heidmar barely glances at the Asgardians. 

                The Counselor (and isn’t that a euphemism?) sighs condescendingly.  Loki tries not to look interested, but he knows the relationship between the Dwarvish king and his spymaster and he can’t help but enjoy the chance to see it up close.  Even if he is bound physically and magically. 

                “I cannot simply deal with the situation as you put it.  I take it you do not recognize the prisoners?”

                Hreidmar finally regards the men kneeling before him.  He doesn’t even have to stoop to look them in the eyes. 

                “Oh.”

                “Yes.  We have with us four members of the Asgardian court, including the prince and spymaster.”

                “Ah.”

                “Do you know where we found these intruders?  We found them in the treasure rooms, sleeping amongst the gold.”

                “Uh.”

                “Exactly.  And no doubt the Liesmith has hidden away the weapon where only he can find it.”

                Yes, they hadn’t found the hammer.  That was the most positive part of this situation, Loki reflects.  Hogun had laid it down in the middle of the floor and when the Dwarves came to get them, it had been left, probably assumed empty. 

                “So, my king,” the Counselor goes on, “What shall we do with these prisoners?  Shall we detain them and provoke a war with Asgard?  Or shall we let them go and watch them steal a decade’s worth of labor and a mountain of gold besides?”

                Hreidmar obviously doesn’t know. 

                “Well,” Loki says cheerfully, “You could settle on a compromise.”

                Hreidmar looks intrigued.  Eitri looks suspicious.  The Warriors Three look like they think they ought to lock him up for insanity.

                “You obviously can’t let the hammer go without a fight, but neither can you detain us.  So I propose you send the Warriors Three back to Asgard and appease the Allfather and keep me here.  After all, I am the most politically valuable prisoner and the only one who knows where I’ve hidden the hammer.  The Allfather can’t act when he’s already gotten three prisoners back, especially when we’re the ones caught stealing.  Apply to Heimdall for proof of our crimes and the Allfather will be unable to declare war on Nidavellir.” 

                Hreidmar looks convinced.  Eitri less so. Loki refuses to look at the Warriors Three.

                “The Allfather won’t abandon his son,” Eitri says.  Loki can see Fandral’s head bobbing in agreement in the corner of his eye. 

                “His second son.  And he won’t, no, not permanently.   But it will buy you time.”

                Loki looks Eitri in the eye.  They both know what he is saying. It will buy Eitri time to pry the hammer’s location out of Loki, likely along with most of his teeth.  It is unpleasant, but it goes with the job.  Eitri turns to Hreidmar. 

                “I am not sure the other Odinson will not attack against his father’s wishes, but the Allfather himself should be appeased.”

                Fandral is nodding again.  “Thor will not allow his brother to remain as a prisoner,” he says.  “You must release all of us.”

                Loki rolls his eyes and addresses Eitri.  “The Allfather is perfectly capable of keeping Thor in check.  Make them swear on their honor if you have to.”

                “Are you really so eager to stay and be tortured?” Hogun hisses at him.  The fool.  He doesn’t know it’s either he stays and they go or they all stay. 

                He meets Eitri’s eye again.  The Dwarf nods.  A deal is struck.

                “Have the Warriors taken to the Bifrost site and the prince to the dungeons, Hreidmar.  We both have work to do.”

Chapter Text

                Loki has never liked torture.  Obviously, not receiving it, but neither does he enjoy inflicting it upon others.  It is not that he is squeamish or in any way merciful, but merely because it is messy and unreliable.  And Loki prefers his messy things to have the redeeming quality of reliability and vice versa. 

                Eitri has never had such reservations.  Loki knows from experience.  He likes the mess, so unreliability is really just an annoyance rather than a proper issue. 

                Loki is strapped to a chair in Eitri’s least impressive torture chamber, waiting for the spymaster to return from the Bifrost site.  Loki has been to the more impressive ones; the ones that are artistically splattered with blood and gore, with wicked looking implements hanging menacingly from hooks in the ceiling.  Eitri has always had a certain amount of theatrical flair when it comes to information gathering. 

                This time, Loki is placed in a small, clean room, equipped with a heavy wooden table that has been bolted to the floor and two chairs, similarly secured.  Loki knows better than to trust appearances, but the fact that he has been brought here, rather to the more…violently equipped rooms seems to either bode very well or very poorly. 

                Either Eitri is going to try a kindly approach (a novelty, Loki is sure) or Eitri is going to try something creative.  Loki is not sure which he is more curious to see. 

                He resists the urge to look up and survey the room, but he can’t stop the tension from crawling up and down his spine as he listens to Eitri’s footsteps echo in the suddenly empty chamber. 

                “Liesmith,” Eitri croons.  “Oh how I’ve missed you.”

                It is just my luck, Loki thinks, that the only spymaster willing to flirt with me is the one I wish wouldn’t. 

                “And I you, Eitri.  When did we meet last? Alfheim?” Loki has maintained a cheerful veneer in far worse situations.  His mother’s garden parties come to mind. 

                “Actually, I remember seeing you in Muspelheim a few years ago.  That mess with Freyr.  Of course I don’t believe we really saw each other during our time there.  I was so disappointed.”

                “So that’s where the diamond got to.  I did wonder about that, Counselor.”

                Eitri smiles in a way that reveals entirely too many teeth. 

                “So, Liesmith, shall we begin?”

                Loki supposes there is no real reason to delay, so he just nods.

                “Good.  I have allowed your companions to return to Asgard.  Including the Freyrsdottir.  She, I must admit, was an acquisition which I wished to keep.”

                Eitri has yet to sit down.  He slowly circles the table, and stops behind Loki’s chair.  Loki cannot keep his hackles from rising. 

                “I’ve let your friends leave, so I believe a bit of reciprocity is in order.”

                Loki nodded, gulping.  “Absolutely, Eitri.  Have your way with me, you Dwarvish rogue.”

                Eitri places his hands on Loki’s shoulders, making him twitch involuntarily.  Loki can hear the smirk in his voice when he answers, “I would prefer you simply reveal the hiding place of the hammer, but perhaps later…”

                Eitri moves his hands in a petting motion that makes Loki’s stomach clench.  He manages to still his instinctive cringe. 

                “Well, Counselor, I’m afraid that information is worth a bit more than what you’ve spent.”         

                “Is it indeed?”

                Eitri’s hands move closer to Loki’s neck and he wonders whether the Dwarf is planning on torturing him after all.  It seems not, because a moment later Eitri removes his hands and walks around the table to face Loki. 

                “I have made my negotiations, Liesmith,” his voice is suddenly cold. 

                “And yet I still have something you want,” Loki matches his expression.

                “And I have all the time in the world to get it out of you,” Eitri smiles again; that toothy smile that reminds Loki of a hyena. 

                Loki says nothing. 

                “Your father sends his love, by the way.  He did not seem overly upset at losing you.  In fact, I noted some hostility towards your actions.  You did get your king’s permission for this mission, did you not?”

                Loki concentrates on keeping his face blank.  He knows Eitri is lying.  His father is playing a political game and Eitri is playing a psychological one.  Yet some small part of him whispers that if it were Thor here in the dungeons, their father would come running.  If it were Thor, he’d already be home. 

                But the rational part of his mind reminds him that Thor is not Asgard’s spymaster.  That this is part of his job.  That he knew the risks when he disobeyed his father and stole the hammer. 

                “It seems an unauthorized mission gives the Allfather a reason to cut loose his second son.  His unwanted son.  His argr son.  It seems he was just waiting for an excuse to leave you to the dogs.”

                Loki will not flinch.  He reminds himself that the man spouting his greatest fears is a swine.  He reminds himself of Alfheim and Muspelheim and all the other missions where he’d proven to his father that he was worth the risk. 

                “He’s abandoned you, Loki.  He’s decided a spare isn’t worth the hassle of rescuing.  You’re alone, Loki, but you don’t have to be.”

                Eitri’s eyes soften.  “Come into the fold, Liesmith.”

                Loki is silent for a long moment.  He keeps his eyes down, looking at his bound waist.  Loki looks up from his lap and schools his face to blankness.  “No, I’m afraid not.”

                “No?” Eitri looks disappointed.

                “No.  It was a good try, though.  Bringing the issues with my father, latent insecurities…just a very good effort.  I give you full marks for the attempt.  But surely you learned something from Freyr on Muspelheim, Eitri:  I cannot be bought.”

                Eitri quirks his eyebrows.  “Oh.  Well.  I was hoping we could go about this the easy way.  But it seems that as always, the Liesmith has to be difficult.”

                Eitri sighs theatrically as he pulls a needle and thread from his pocket.  “Well if you feel you need not talk, we might as well make it permanent, yes?”

                And that was when the door caved in. 

Chapter Text

                The door caves in and Loki looks up to see his savior.  And suddenly wonders if there was any way Eitri could have drugged him with Loki having noticed.  Because there is no way that what he is seeing is reality. 

                “Get away from her!” Sindri shouts as he brandishes his ax. 

                Eitri and Loki cock their heads to the side in the same expression of confusion and bemusement. 

                “Why would I do that, guard?”  Says Eitri just as Loki says, “Her?”

                Sindri doesn’t answer either of them, just steps over the door and into the dungeon, grabs Loki around the waist and tries to hoist him over his shoulder.  But Loki is still tied to the chair and the chair is still bolted to the floor, so the image is much akin to a man trying to lift a tree out of the ground. 

                Sindri grunts and tries again nonetheless.  And again.

                “Don’t worry, my love,” Sindri says between heaves.  “I will save you.”

                Eitri is chuckling into his handkerchief and Loki probably would, too, but it is quite a sweet sentiment and it also quite hurts to be the immovable object someone is doggedly attempting to move. 

                A few more tugs and Eitri is beginning to get impatient. 

                “Are you quite finished, guard?  I’d like to—ooph.” 

                Sindri cuts Eitri off with a swift blow to the head.  Eitri falls to the ground unconscious.   

                Loki looks from the unconscious body of Nidavellir’s spymaster to Sindri and back again.  He tries to rally his thoughts. 

                Sindri is here.  Sindri, the guard he used as a pawn is rescuing him.  How is this happening?  How does he even recognize Loki out of his female disguise? Oh.  Loki must have overdone the spell he used so Sindri would recognize him when he adapted his Freya form to a more Aesir form.  Now he recognizes Loki no matter what his form.  Isn’t that a frightening thought. 

                Sindri is still trying to wrench Loki and the chair away from the floor. 

                “Sindri,” Loki says.  “Sindri!”

                “Yes, my love?”

                “Just unstrap me and we’ll walk together.”

                “But in the songs—“

                “You will not be hoisting me over your shoulder like a damsel, no matter what the damn songs say.”

                Sindri huffs a little, but very, very carefully uses his ax shreds the leather straps that hold Loki to the chair.  Nothing can be done about the shackles that remain around his wrists, but he can handle that later. 

                Sindri politely takes Loki’s elbow and helps him to his feet.  They look each other up and down.  Sindri cocks his head to one side. 

                “Did you change your hair?”

                “No,” says Loki firmly.   He has to squash those kind of questions immediately.  If the dwarf figures out that he’s not the woman he thinks he is, Loki will surely find his way back into Eitri’s dungeons sooner than he’d like. 

                He leaves the room quickly, knowing that Sindri will follow.  Sindri helpfully holds his elbow as they step over the fallen door. 

                Loki and his rescuer walk slowly through the hallways, Sindri with his ax still in his hand. 

                They meet no one.  It seems like either Hreidmar or Eitri must have told the search parties to stand down.  Loki stops in front of the door to the treasury.  With his hands still in their magic-dampening shackles behind his back he cannot unlatch it. He nods to the door. 

                “Open it.”

                Sindri opens the door without question, gallantly holding it for Loki to walk through.  Loki does so with a stately nod to the dwarf.  Just because the man is inconveniently in love with him doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be polite. 

                The treasury room is exactly how it was a few hours ago when he and the Warriors Three were so rudely awoken by Eitri and his guards.  Loki finds the bag easily.  He points to it with his chin. 

                “I need that.  Then I’m going to the Bifrost site.”

                Sindri just nods and lifts the bag onto his back.  He doesn’t even question its surprising weight.  Loki is beginning to wonder if his seduction techniques are really that good, or this is some elaborate ruse by Eitri. If so, Loki has just led the dwarf right to the hammer.

                But Sindri doesn’t immediately call the guards to take Loki away or make as if to abscond with the hammer.  In fact, he just looks at Loki with a sort of dew-eyed expression of affection that Loki finds puzzling and disturbing.  He looks away before Sindri can see his confusion. 

                They again walk in silence, making their way through the fortress to the Bifrost site. 

                This time, though, they are stopped by a pair of guards. 

                “Who goes there!”  Shouts the taller one. 

                Loki opens his mouth to lie but before he can utter a syllable, Sindri says, “Taking the prisoner to Hreidmar.  He wanted to meet us at the Bifrost.”

                “I hadn’t heard that,” says the guard. 

                “Well I’d hardly expect you to, being only a corporal,” Sindri sneers.  The other guard flushes and they wave Sindri and Loki by. 

                They reach the Bifrost site without being hailed again.  Loki steps up on the raised platform and turns to see Sindri stepping up as well. 

                “You cannot come with me,” he says.

                “I cannot allow you to go alone,” Sindri answers.

                “Just leave the bag, I’ll be fine.”

                Sindri just shakes his head. 

                “Look, I’m very grateful for all your help, but you’ve done enough.  If you come with me to Asgard it’ll be treason.”

                “It’s already treason.”

                “It’ll be irredeemable.” 

                Sindri just looks at him.  “For love, I would commit any crime,” he says.

                Loki growls.  He really didn’t want to break the poor fool’s heart, but if it means returning alone, he supposes he’ll have to.  He drapes himself closer to Sindri and says, “Thank you so much, love.  Though I do have a confession.”

                “Yes?”

                “I’m a man.”

                Sindri nods and looks expectant.  “Yes?”

                “Isn’t—Is that not a deal breaker for you?”

                Sindri shrugs and looks up at the sky.  “Nobody’s perfect.”

                Loki realizes after a moment that his mouth is open and closes it with an audible click.  He doesn’t take his eyes off of Sindri even as he calls for Heimdall to release the Bifrost and they find themselves on Asgard. 

Chapter Text

                Sindri and Loki arrive in Heimdall’s observatory and are immediately faced with Hreidmar and his party of ambassador’s on their way back. 

                “What are you doing here?”  Hreidmar demands.  He turns to Sindri.  “What are you doing here?”

                Loki ignores the Dwarf king.  He’s noticed the other people in the observatory. 

                “Father.” He says, with as graceful a bow as he can achieve with his hands still cuffed behind his back. Sindri bows as well. 

                Odin nods gravely.  “Loki.  King Hreidmar was just telling me you had agreed to stay on Nidavellir as a hostage.  And that you had stolen a valuable weapon from the Dwarves.  And you had pledged yourself to marry Lady Sigyn, here.”  He gestured to Sigyn, who was standing with Sif, the Warrior’s Three and Thor to one side of the observatory. 

                “Is this true, my son?” 

                Loki nods sarcasticly.  “It is true.  Sigyn and I have decided to wed.  But in the interests of preserving that marriage, we thought it best to live on separate realms for the rest of our lives.”

                The Allfather raises his eyebrows.  Loki relents.  “The Dwarves have been building a dangerous class two, unregistered weapon.”

                Odin turns to Hreidmar, who is looking distinctly guilty. 

                “Is this true, Hreidmar?  A weapon that powerful must be registered with the Asgardian Minister of War.  And I haven’t heard anything from Tyr…”

                “We had every intention of registering it, Allfather, we just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.  Prince Loki didn’t give us enough time to do so.”

                Odin turns his gaze to Loki.  Loki tries not to squirm.  He had (technically) not been given permission to actually steal the hammer.  But it was the best way to keep it out of enemy hands.  He knows that.  The Allfather knows that.  Doesn’t he?

                “There is one way to solve this dilemma,” Odin says finally.  “Bring forth the weapon.”

                Sindri walks forward and sets the bag down before the Allfather.  Odin nods to the Dwarf and opens the bag, pulling on the thread to reveal the hammer inside. 

                Hreidmar gives both Sindri and Loki a dirty look as the Allfather draws out the hammer slowly. 

                “It is a fine weapon, Hreidmar.  Your Dwarves have outdone themselves.” The All-king says, laying the hammer on the floor of the observatory.    

                “Thank you, Allfather.” Hreidmar says, looking flattered. 

                “I would, however, recommend an adjustment.”  Hreidmar’s face immediately falls. 

                “After all,” the Allfather continues, “it wouldn’t do for a weapon such as this to be wielded by just anyone.”

                “No, of course not,” Hreidmar echoes in a small voice.

                The Allfather nods and says a few words in an undertone.  The air shifts with the power of his magic and runes of forbiddance and worthiness etch themselves into the metal of the hammer’s head.  The Allfather slowly circles the hammer, viewing the spell from all sides.  He nods again.

                “There.  A spell to prevent any being unworthy of the weapon from lifting it.  A good ward, do you not think, Dwarf-King?”

                “Yes, Allfather.  Very well made,” Hreidmar says in a strangled voice. 

                “Very well, you may take the hammer, and you have mine and Prince Loki’s apologies for the misunderstanding.”

                Hreidmar bows in acknowledgement and gestures to the guards to collect the hammer. 

                “Thank you so much for your hospitality, Allfather,” he says in a voice that is two parts sarcasm and one part sycophantic.  “I would—“

                He’s cut off by a grunt from the Dwarf guards.  They have already taken turns tugging at the hammer* individually and have now linked themselves together to try and use their combined strength to lift it.  They obviously weren’t listening to the worthiness part of the Allfather’s speech. Or perhaps, Loki thinks, they think they can combine their worthiness like they would combine their strength?  Either way, the weapon isn’t budging. 

                Hreidmar turns to the Allfather, as if to speak, but thinks better of it. 

                He walks over to the hammer and rolls up the sleeves of his ceremonial robe.  He grasps the handle and heaves.  And heaves.  And stops for a few deep breaths and heaves again. 

                The Warriors Three are hiding their giggles behind their hands, Sif and Thor are grinning and Sigyn is watching with a tiny smirk. 

                The Allfather’s face is a mixture of impassive and concerned. 

                Hreidmar stops his valiant attempt to lift the hammer.  “Allfather!”  He cries.  “You’ve made it so the hammer cannot be lifted!”

                The Allfather’s expression of feigned surprise fooled everyone but Loki.  He can see the tiny lines around his father’s eye that indicate he’s trying not to smile. 

                “I am certain I calculated correctly.  Thor.  Please.”  The Allfather gestures at the hammer, and Thor comes forward.  He bends forward and grasps the handle. He bends his knees carefully and tugs.  It comes away from the floor easily.  He even takes a few practice swings. 

                “King Hreidmar, it is indeed a fine weapon.  It is a shame that it is useless to you.”

                Hreidmar glares at the crown-prince, and then turns his glare to the Allfather. 

                “You’ve made our weapon unusable!”

                “I beg to differ,” the Allfather says calmly, glancing significantly over to where Thor is still waving the hammer about in delight.  “It just seems as though none of your warriors are worthy of this fine weapon.”

                “Then I will return with more warriors,” hisses Hreidmar.

                A bolt of lightning issues from the hammer to zap the floor by Hreidmar’s feet.  Thor looks guilty.  “It did it itself!”

                Hreidmar pales.  “A decade of labor and you expect me to leave it here for nothing?”

                “Oh no,” says the Allfather.  “You have my greatest thanks of course.  And I am willing to overlook the mistreatment of my son and other members of the court.  And I suppose I can be persuaded to ignore the ‘misunderstanding’ regarding the weapon’s registration.”

                Hreidmar looks like he’d like to argue further, but he seems to remember suddenly where he is.  This is Asgard.  The most powerful realm of them all.  The seat of the Allfather, the home of the Aesir, the land of the gods.  He closes his mouth with a snapping noise. 

                He bows politely to the Allfather, sends Loki a glare, and motions to Heimdall to send them back to Nidavellir.  It is not over, but neither is he willing to fight further.

                Heimdall activates the Bifrost, sending the Dwarves back in a wave of multicolored light.  Leaving Sindri and Loki facing a distinctly unhappy-looking group of Asgardians. 

                And Sigyn.  Who looks amused. 

Chapter Text

                They call a feast.  Of course they do.  They would call a feast if Loki had brought back cuttings from a vaguely venomous fichus plant.  Asgardians just love the festive atmosphere.

                All except Loki, of course.  Loki, who had been forced to attend or whither under the disappointed glares of his mother, is now attending, but from a great distance.  Namely, he has retreated to the palace stables. 

                But since the celebration is technically capitol-wide, it still counts.  And feeding Sleipnir sugar lumps is a more congratulatory act than rubbing shoulders with politicians and sweet-talking nobles.  That would just be more work.  And while Loki enjoys his work, he’d much rather just spend time with his son after a long mission.

                So here they are, Sleipnir lying on the ground with Loki sitting on the stable floor with his back against his son’s side, carefully examining the specially spelled horse-shoes and talking quietly. 

                “So Father managed to attach them with magic?” He murmured. 

                Sleipnir whickers the affirmative.   Loki hums.  “I thought it would be possible.  Who made the shoes, though?  They don’t look Dwarf-made.  Weyland?”

                “I made them,” says Thor, stepping into Sleipnir’s stall. 

                Loki nods a greeting, trying not to look impressed.  They are exceedingly well-made.  Silver with runes of endurance, fleetness, and protection etched with flourishes into the sides and bottoms. 

                “They are very well-done,” he says without inflection.  “A bit gaudy for my tastes…”

                “Gaudy!” Thor says in mock outrage.  “As if you could talk about gaudiness.” 

                It seems Sleipnir agrees with his uncle because he takes Loki’s carefully braided plait of hair in his mouth and gives it a gentle tug.  A few of the gold beads that Loki had liberated from Hreidmar’s treasury slip out. 

                Thor laughs as Loki tries to string them back into the hair dressing and sits beside Sleipnir, resting his hand on the horse’s flank.

                They sit quietly for a few moments.  Thor breaks the silence.  “We were really quite worried you know.”

                Loki frowns but doesn’t look up.  He keeps on with his careful examination of Sleipnir’s hooves. 

                Thor continues.  “First with Sif and Sigyn coming through.  Did you think her wearing your guise would last?  It wore off in the observatory.” 

                Loki makes no move to answer.

                “But that was alright, because we knew the Warriors Three were still on Nidavellir with you.  And as much as they disrespect you, they wouldn’t let you get too terribly hurt.  But then they came through with Hreidmar and they were all saying you’d agreed to stay off-realm, you were getting married, you’d agreed to be tortured.”

                Loki gives up on the braid and pulls his arms around himself.  Sleipnir seems to notice his upset, and maneuvers himself so he can lay his head in Loki’s lap.

                Loki isn’t sure if Thor notices, but he continues speaking.  “For a second, I thought—and mother, and maybe Father did, too—that you’d done it again.  That you had decided that you didn’t matter as much as the mission or the goal or the people you were helping and you’d let them take you and torture you.”

                Thor strokes his hand over Sleipnir as he speaks. 

                “Last time it perhaps did not turn out as badly as it could have.  But I did think for a second that you might think that was a viable option.”

                Loki laughs, but it has a hollowness that he is sure Thor can hear.  “Don’t worry, brother.  I did learn my lesson last time.  You won’t be an uncle again for a very long time.”

                Thor rolls his eyes.  “There was that positive out of it,” he says, stroking Sleipnir’s flank. 

                “Am I to gain a sister-in-law, instead?”  Thor asks as delicately as possible. 

                Loki laughs.  “You met Sigyn, do you really think I could just waltz in and demand to marry her?”

                “Hreidmar said that you swore upon your good name.”

                “Two difficulties with that statement:  I haven’t got a good name, and Sif swore on it, so I needn’t got through with it.”

                “That’s a shame.  I really do like that Sigyn.  She’s very much like you, you know.”

                Loki shivers.  “I know.”

                Thor’s face dons a mask of mischievousness he’d learned from his brother.  “How about Sindri then?  I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so much in love.”

                Loki rolls his eyes.  “He wouldn’t like my job,” He says shortly. 

                “You know Sindri told us how he rescued you, yes?”  Thor continues quietly. 

                Loki nods.  He’d heard the stories.  And the protestations of affection.  Then he had quickly pushed him towards the nearest buxom lass and hoped for the best.  It had only partially worked. 

                “If Sindri hadn’t turned up…You did have a plan, didn’t you, brother?”

                Loki laughs.  “I would have figured something out.  Really, Thor, is it for you to worry about recklessness?”

                Thor gives him an inscrutable look.  “Loki, you are my little—“

                “Thor…”

                “No, let me finish.  Loki, you are my little brother, and I love you dearly.  You are the smartest, most cunning man I know, perhaps with the exception of Father,” Loki nods in agreement.  “but there will come a day when all your plans go astray and no one knows how to rescue you and you cannot think of a plan and what will happen?  Hmm?”

                “You sound like Mother.”

                “Who do you think sent me?”

                Loki sighs.  “I cannot promise to stay out of trouble, Thor.”

                Thor laughs at that.  “Neither would I expect you to, brother.  But you could take precautions.”

                Loki raises an eyebrow. 

                “Allow me to come with you on your next mission, brother.”

                Loki groans.  “Was taking the Warriors Three not torture enough for you?”

                Thor looks offended, but Loki goes on.  “You have the same problem as Sindri.  You wouldn’t let me do my job because it would be too ‘dangerous.’  Really, Thor I can take care of myself.”

                “Please, Loki,” Thor says, wheedling.  “For mother?”

                Loki narrows his eyes.  That’s playing dirty.  “I’ll think about it.”

                Thor punches the air in triumph and Sleipnir whickers at the sudden movement.  Thor strokes him until he calms down. 

                They sit in silence a few more moments until Thor says, “Do you know how many people have asked me if I’m sure you’re really the Liesmith today?”

Chapter Text

Sif sees Thor and Loki return to the feast and is pleasantly surprised to see both look quite happy.  Thor had told her when he left that he was going to confront his brother over some of the less-wise parts of his last mission, and usually confrontations between the two princes of Asgard ended in injury, tears, and at least one civilian casualty. 

                But the two seem to be in high spirits, so she returns her attention to the Warriors Three, who have been in an odd sort of mood since they returned to Asgard.  She is under the impression that the revelation of Loki’s secret identity is sitting poorly on their shoulders.  They have been acting oddly throughout the feast day and have finally come to confront her where she sits beside Sigyn at the high table. 

                “How long have you known?” Hogun asks accusingly, looking between Sigyn and Sif.  She knows what he means of course.  Thor told her that Loki had finally revealed himself to be the Liesmith to the Warriors Three on Nidavellir.  He had also informed her that they hadn’t believed it true until he had confirmed it himself.  Thor even seemed a bit disappointed that they didn’t trust his devious little brother. 

                Sif isn’t quite sure who Hogun is addressing, but she answers anyway. 

                “I think he lasted a week in the job before I got it out of him,” She says, taking a sip of wine. 

                The Warriors Three and Sigyn both look rather taken aback. 

                “A week?”

                “You knew all this time?”

                “He told you?  Willingly?”

                 Sif shrugs.  She’s always been in the rather unique position of being in the confidence of both princes of Asgard.  As far as she knows this is something she shares only with the queen.  And isn’t that a lovely thought. 

                The Warriors Three look like they are processing this information, while Sigyn looks as though she is storing it away for use later.  She probably is.  Sif likes Sigyn, but she would never make the mistake of trusting her. 

                They are interrupted by Gunnar, a distant cousin of the princes.  He slaps the Warriors Three on their backs, and shouts, “A toast to the heroes of the day!”

                There is a great shout of approval and the sound of goblets being tossed back. 

                Fandral grabs Gunnar’s sleeve.  “Shouldn’t you be saying the toast for Loki?”

                Gunnar laughs drunkenly.  “What?  The coward who hid behind a dwarf?  I heard he even swore to marry the brute!”

                Fandral frowns.  “No, he brought back the hammer.”

                Gunnar laughs again, this time with a bit of bitterness to it.  “Oh, has he got something on you?  Trying to take the glory for himself?  Don’t worry, no one will believe him equal to the task of liberating that beauteous weapon.  You’ll get your recognition.”

                Fandral gapes as Gunnar moves on to the next group of revelers. 

                “Surely they can’t believe that we did it.”

                Sif sighs.  She loves her friends, she really does, but sometimes she thinks Loki has a point.  They can be idiots. 

                Surprisingly it is Sigyn who answers.  “The Liesmith has spent nearly half a century cultivating a persona for himself.  Do you really think he would allow a single moment of glory to undo all that hard work?”  The Warriors Three have no answer for that so she continues.  “I’d wager he started the rumor that it was you who had stolen the hammer and he who mucked up the plan.”

                The Warriors Three look shocked. 

                “But he saved our lives,” says Volstagg. 

                “Yes,” says Sif.  “And if you want to show your gratitude, you’ll pretend it never happened.  Go down in history as the warriors who brought back the great, oddly named hammer and let him do his work in peace.”

                “Is it really in peace when the whole of Asgard thinks he’s a coward who agreed to marry a dwarf in exchange for passage off of Nidavellir?”

                Sif shrugs.  “Ask him,” she says, nodding to Loki as he and his brother approach. 

                “Ask me what?” He says, sitting beside Sigyn. 

                “They want to know how you manage to shun the glory of your endeavors and still carry on with your life,” Sif answers back.

                “I take refuge in the arms of strong dwarves, haven’t you heard?”

                “Speaking of dwarves,” Sif says slowly. “What will we be doing with this one?”  She nods towards Sindri, who is sitting close to the kegs of mead and seems to be getting a lap dance from a very, very well-endowed woman. 

                Loki looks over and shrugs.  “He’ll be fine.  He just has to get me out of his system.”

                Thor and the Warriors Three look horrified.  “But he loves you!” Fandral cries. 

                Loki rolls his eyes.  “He is infatuated with a character I played, nothing more.  Really, Fandral, I didn’t expect you to possess such romantic sensibilities.”

                Fandral looks offended, but Loki continues before he can protest.  “Do not worry about Sindri.  The Lady Borghild, who is currently…keeping him company, has always harbored a secret affinity for Dwarves.  And besides, he has the appreciation and gratitude—both figuratively and monetarily—of Asgard.  He’ll be irresistible.”

                Loki is wearing the perfectly blank face he keeps when they are on a topic that he wishes not to discuss further.  It is always best to change the subject, Sif finds, when he dons that mask. 

                “So, Sigyn,” Sif says, turning to her dinner companion.  “Will you be returning to Vanaheim soon?”

                “As soon as my father wrangles a ransom, I expect,” Sigyn says, leveling a glare at Loki. 

                Loki has swapped his blank expression for one of angelic innocence that no one in the company believes. 

                Thor frowns at his brother.  “Loki, that is not a very kind thing to do.”

                Loki looks amusedly at his brother.  “I am not a kind person, brother.  I did make it quite a low ransom.  And surely your captivity here is preferable to Hreidmar’s harem?”

                Sigyn just crosses her arms.  Sif can tell that she’s neither very angry nor very surprised. 

                “Yes,” Sigyn says, “At least I have more ammunition for our next meeting, Liesmith.”

                And Loki laughs a real laugh and the seven of them drink to future meetings. 

Chapter Text

Loki waits until the feast is in full swing to slip out to the vault.  It is almost a month after his return from Nidavellir and his brother’s nameday.  The sounds of revelry follow him through the corridors of the palace.  He passes guards who forget to salute him in their impatience to be off-duty and back to the celebrations.  He does not bother to correct them.

                The vault door should not open to him.  It does nevertheless; with only a gentle pulse of magic as motivation.  Loki edges around the door to see it. 

                The hammer—now named Mjolnir—basks in the dim blue light of the Jotunn casket.  It somehow looks less than real; its solidity called into question by the ethereal light.  He moves closer, reaching out a hand.  Not to grasp—not yet—but to feel the etchings of his father’s magic on the metal.

                A rune for worthiness and forbiddance cut in deep, swooping lines into the silver surface. He traces it with his fingertips.  It will be Thor’s.  He knew it the moment his father cast the spell.  The weapon, the magical relic he had risked everything for, would be gifted to Thor for nothing more than Thor’s intrinsic worthiness.  He swallows and the air tastes bitter.

                He should not be jealous.  He has the esteem of the Allfather, he has the love of a family, the respect of some of the most powerful people in the Nine Realms.  He has friends and books and riddles to occupy his mind and bring honor to the realm.  It is enough.  If he lacks the love of the people of Asgard, it is because he chooses to do so.  It is a sacrifice he made willingly and knowledgeably. 

                And yet…

                Loki reaches for the handle.  A handle that will fill Thor’s hand easily, bend itself to his will without a second’s hesitation.  His own hand looks thin and womanly on the leather, despite the callouses on his fingers.  He wraps his hand around the grip.

                “It will not move, my son.”

                Loki does not turn.  He closes his eyes and lets his hand fall to his side.  He tries not to let the cold pinpricks of disappointment bite at him.  He tries to feel some satisfaction in the fact that he knew that it would not move.  He knew that he would never be as deserving as Thor, he would never be what Asgard wanted even as he did what they needed.  He knew that from the beginning.  It is enough to have known. 

                Loki turns, schooling his face to the blankness of the calm lake.  Not a ripple from beneath, only reflections of the outside are permitted to be shown. 

                The Allfather sees it and winces.  He has always managed to know the implications of this expression.

                “My son—“

                “You need not explain.  I understand.”  Loki tries to pass him, to walk slowly and calmly to his chambers, where he will read the missives from Alfheim and drink too much mead and wake with Elvish words smeared backwards onto his cheek. 

                He is stopped by a hand on his chest.  The Allfather looks tired.  “Must you always do this?”

                The words sting.  Of course he is being too sensitive.  “I apologize, Allfather.  I will—“

                “You will stop talking and allow me to speak to you; that is what you will do.”

                Loki hopes that the Allfather does not see the ripple of emotion that disturbs the smoothness of his face.  Judging by the way his father’s expression fades from sternness to weariness, he doubts the Allfather overlooked it.

                “Loki.” 

                Loki does not realize he was gazing at the floor until he looks up into his father’s eye.  Odin moves his hand from Loki’s chest to his shoulder.  He sighs.

                “There are many meanings of worthy, my son.”

                Loki stiffens.  A pity speech.  It is worse than anything else Odin could do.  Perhaps Odin will gift him some magical dagger as a consolation prize as well. 

                “Worthiness denotes a certain…suitability,” the Allfather continues.  “A suitability that you and that weapon do not share.”

                Loki frowns.  These are not the sweetened misguided comfort words he expected. 

                “You have long been suited to subtlety.  To weapons of concealment and convenience.  What would you do with this weapon?  Hide it in your sleeve while you sat speaking kindly to your enemies? You could not use it in confined spaces, it would hinder your speed and agility, it would swing by your side as a threat when consoling words would be best.”

                Loki knows all of these things.  He never expected to be given the hammer.  He does not even want it.  It would sit gathering dust on his mantelpiece.  But the spell.  The worthiness.  He covets that like a starving man covets bread.

                “Could you imagine,” Odin continues, “Thor fighting with your own weapons?  Those throwing daggers, the poison rings, the garrotes and needle-thin knives?  They would look like toys in his hand.  He is unworthy of such weapons.  They are not suited to his purpose.

                “No Loki.  You will never lift that hammer.  It is not yours to lift.  A weapon like that must live in the hands of a soldier.  A berserker who can sate its bloodlust and blunt needs.  You have your own weapons.  Your magic, your mind, they are not enough for this weapon.”

                Every word tightens around his chest like a snake squeezing a mouse.  It would be better with the comforting words.  They would hurt, but at least he could console himself in the thought that they were not true. 

                “Will I never be worthy?” 

                Loki didn’t mean to say that.  He did not want the vulnerability that snuck out in the breath between his words.  He refuses to look at his father and king and instead studies the stones of the floor.

                Odin frowns. 

“My son, you misunderstand.  It is not your unworthiness that keeps you from lifting that hammer.  No, Loki, that weapon is unworthy of you.”

Now it is Loki who frowns.  He slowly reassesses his father’s speech.  Perhaps. 

Odin shakes his head with the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“My son, a hammer would suit you ill.  Do you understand?”

Loki nods, still looking at the floor.  Odin reaches out and raises his chin and his lone eye searches Loki’s face. 

He must be satisfied with what he sees because he nods and drops his hands.

“You must be—you must be aware of the esteem that both your mother and I hold you,” He says, no longer looking in Loki’s eyes.  “We—well, we are very proud of—“

Loki realizes suddenly that his father is trying to say, with his awkward regality and pomp, that he loves him.  He cuts off his king and father with an embrace.  

  It takes a moment for Odin to reciprocate, but soon they are hugging in a way that Loki hasn’t hugged since he was only a boy.  His father even does a sort of rocking gesture, reminiscent of the way he would rock his sons when they had skinned a knee or elbow. 

They break away from each other at last and stand apart, not sure how to continue. 

“Well I—“

“I was—“

They stop and finally Loki speaks. 

“I have a few missives from the Elves I should go over before tomorrow,” he says.  The Allfather nods. 

“I was just thinking that perhaps you ought to pay King Ullr a visit sometime soon.”

Loki nods and they leave together. 

The End.