Chapter Text
The stench reached them long before the flies. The horses started neighing and going sideways, telling their riders to listen to their noses and stop. They couldn't stop. They left the horses behind, and advanced. It was close enough.
Fandral no longer boasted of his alleged immunity to the smell and sight of death, as he was too busy emptying his guts under the nearest tree, doubled over. Loki retched too, one tree earlier, his only cause for pride being that he had no illusions about his ability to ignore the cloying sweetness drowning them. He tried a nausea-blocking spell earlier, but knew it would not be enough. He only vaguely remembered the correct gestures and intentions described in one of his textbooks, and never had reason to practice it before.
The battle was a complete disaster. It ended days ago and there were not enough men left alive on either side to collect the bodies. They were left to rot, and rot they did. It felt like the end of summer here, or early autumn. The air was growing cooler, but that did little to stop the process of decay – the putrefaction, the bloating, the maggots, and the birds.
They fanned out, Loki's location spell unable to tell them with any more precision where to go. They did not know, who, exactly, they were searching for, except that they would have a glowing blue cube somewhere on them. Fandral misstepped, his boot landing on a man's stomach, making the corpse belch out more death from its mouth. Fandral gagged, having nothing left to vomit. Sif patted him on the shoulder in mock consolation, and kept going, hoping this would be over soon. Thor and Volstagg glumly trudged each on his own path, looking out for the prize. Hogun was further ahead, methodically checking body after body, using a spear to shove apart any corpses that piled up on each other.
Loki tried to block out the buzzing, the crawling, his pounding headache, and every shred of sense from his nose, to focus on the magical resonance of the object they were looking for. This Tesseract, whatever it was, was powerful, incredibly so, and he knew it was here, he just could no longer sense the direction. It was blotting out everything like the sun, its song a faint hum beneath everything around him.
***
Loki peeled off his clothes as speedily as he could. He didn't trust himself to remove them by magic. Shoving them together into a pile on the bathroom floor, and away from himself, he clicked his fingers with the required flick of the wrist and the mental suggestion - to incinerate the whole foul lot. The pile blazed in a brief flash of a pale, almost blue, flame, and became perfectly uniform ash that immediately fell through the grating into the drain Loki dumped the clothes over. Well, mostly. He did another poorly controlled hand motion to send the rest into the drain as well. Pushed in too hard, particles went off flying where he did not want them - but close enough. The fire made it all clean. The bathtub was done filling and he climbed in.
It was as close to boiling as he could tolerate. The warmth seeped into his muscles, as much as it was ever going to. He clawed at his arms, his back, his legs, remembering too late to grab the washcloth instead of using his nails like an animal. He wanted to get the feeling of corpses, the smell and sense of death, off himself, desperately, immediately, and preferably to never feel it again. He never wanted to see another battlefield for the rest of his life. The scratches burned in hot water. He sighed. Knowing his father and his duties, he would see many more of them. He grabbed the soap and the washcloth and started scrubbing himself properly.
As he went about the washing, the scrubbing, the soaking, and then more scrubbing, he recounted the events of the past tenday or so this little errand took him. Father tasked Thor and his friends with a quest, and for once told them to take Loki with them. Thor was, of course, ecstatic. The Warriors Four made faces, but grudgingly agreed that Loki did need experience in the field, and would be useful on this particular occasion. They were tasked with tracking down a magical artefact, and that was a job for a mage. As far as Loki was concerned, it was his first real quest - the task was mainly for himself and they were backup muscle. As far as they were concerned, he was just a magical artefact for finding another magical artefact, except more entertaining.
It was imperative to find it as soon as possible, Odin said. Loki hastily read all he could about it in the royal library, enough to compose a location spell and assemble the proper scrying apparatus. He knew how to find objects on one world, but casting the net across the universe was trickier. He would have gone to Mother for help, as scrying was her strength, but she was away on a visit to Vanaheim. He spent two more days and nights fumbling through the search, until he finally got a solid resonance from the scrier he put together himself and that still, somehow, did not fall apart.
It would have been faster if Thor and the others did not belay him every time he emerged from his warded study for food or more books about when they were going to set out already, but eventually, they were going. Loki kept a handkerchief to his nose, waiting out a nosebleed. He didn't give himself nosebleeds from magical over-exertion since he was fifty, and at his solid hundred and twenty, it was embarrassing. Mother thoroughly warned him off getting anywhere close to this state, but well. She was not here, and Father was adamant the artefact must be found.
One Bifrost trip and several long days of horse-back later, Loki finally led them to the source of the feeling that led him to this world. It was a strange place, but he barely saw it, the song in his mind evading him the whole time as he was trying to focus and chase after it and pin it down to a real geographic location and not just a sense in his chest. He didn't know who all those dead people were, if they even were real people. They were certainly enough like people for their deaths to upset everyone, despite the bravado Thor and his friends put on. It looked like a horrible fight that ended badly for everyone, and the person carrying the beautiful glowing cube (humming now louder in Loki's head) was buried under a pile of bodies reaching to Thor's waist, the corpses twisted unnaturally, bones not so much broken as half-gone, the rigor mortis setting in only after.
Thor grabbed the cube before Loki could yell out a warning. Thank the Norns, nothing happened and Loki only got chided for needlessly worrying. They half-ran away from the bodies as fast as they could without stepping into anything too soft or too hard or dissolving, so that they could get the horses and call for Heimdall to get them out of here.
They must go see Father. Loki sighed, slouching in the soapy water, now merely warm. Were they quick enough? Could the battle have been prevented if they got there sooner? At least they did not have to fight themselves, he thought selfishly. He needed to get moving, he couldn't keep Father waiting.
Fifteen minutes later he was out of his rooms and in front of Father's study, waiting for Thor to arrive. An hour later, he was in front of the study again, now with Thor, whom he had to go look for – first in his rooms and then in the communal bathrooms, reliving the glories of this latest adventure and comparing it to all the previous adventures with the others. He got splashed with water for his trouble, and told he wouldn't have to go looking for them if he just washed with everybody else like a normal person. Loki smiled blandly without looking at anyone in particular, ignoring the water seeping into his sleeve that he didn't bother drying and only pulling it further down. With his magic so spent, he had a good chance of either achieving nothing or ripping his arm open. Thor did climb out of the pool though, splashing more water everywhere, and automatically tussling Loki's hair on the way to the benches that held their clean clothes. Loki smoothed them back down, tired and irritated, hoping Father would not comment on his presentation this time. He straightened his collar too, for good measure, making sure it was all fastened up.
"Where is the artefact?" - Loki could hear the hum of magic, of course, but just like before, it was too strong to pinpoint, except that it was in the palace.
"I have it right here, under our watchful eye!" - Thor dug his hand into the bundle of discarded clothes from their trip and fished out the brilliantly glowing, perfectly-cut, blue cube. Loki clenched his jaw to keep himself from saying anything about how careless, witless, idiotic one has to be.... He breathed out through his nose, slowly, and smiled again. "Great, let's go. Father will want to see us."
"That's right, we have to tell him how your first real quest went! Not too much glory - we didn't even get to slay anyone - but not too bad for a first time..." Thor kept in this vein all the way back to Odin's study, proud of his little brother getting more adult responsibilities, doing his duty as a prince of Asgard. They paused in front of the intricately carved doors, guards on either side pretending they were not seeing or hearing them. Thor slapped Loki on the back in encouragement. "Here we are! Now let's show Father we did what he asked."
They knocked, waited and entered. Odin towered over his giant desk and mountains of paperwork. Hugin and Munin perched on the back of his chairs, glaring down at the intruders. Loki tried not to fall behind Thor, feeling as if they have somehow failed.
"Where do you want it, Father?" Thor proffered the magic cube, undeterred. Odin kept writing until he was done, then straightened, looking over their trophy. "Bring it here."
Thor handed over the magic thing, and felt glad to be rid of it. He didn't like it - it made his bones itch. He hoped the next quest would be to slay something properly gruesome he could brag about in the feasting hall. It's good Loki got to try himself, but well. Not much glory here.
Odin examined the artefact from every angle scrupulously. Loki could feel his father's magic, so different from his own, examining the artefact as well. Finally he was satisfied, and the artefact went into one of the many drawers with a dull thunk. "Very well. Took you two long enough. Was there trouble?" He addressed Thor more than Loki, only giving his youngest a brief once-over.
"No. No, Father." Thor beamed at him, ready to launch into a full retelling. Odin cut him off – there will be time later. "Very well. You may go - eat and rest." He smiled, briefly, thinking how fine a warrior Thor is growing to become. The princes bowed and turned to leave.
Odin watched Loki, when he could not longer see it. The boy was stiff-backed and dignified, not asking for attention or reward. It was his task after all, a less mature child would have expected some praise. He raised the kit well. He behaved properly, most of the time, and responded well enough to correction. Clearly, the so-called Jotnar needs were overstated and with proper discipline they could be raised to act as befits a civilised people. Patience and discipline, patience and discipline.
Odin sighed, standing up to stretch. He felt himself growing old, no longer having the stamina to work day after day on matters of state. He sighed again, smoothing down his hair, his beard, adjusting his robes, limbs awkward after a long time sitting.
Too late he learned to attend to his work seriously, too enamoured with war and conquest, with lust for blood and for flesh. Poor Hela, his poor girl! What he had to do to her, it cannot be borne. No matter, no matter. He did it better with the boys. Even the foundling he raised into a person. And Thor! What a fine king he'll be! Much, much better than himself once. Such a swing though! So beautiful on the training grounds and the battlefield! Asgard will be safe and strong. Yes, yes.
An odd old man's tear rolled down his cheek, and he hurriedly wiped it away. Hah, getting old indeed. Now, the Tesseract must be properly hidden and secured. What magic that boy has! Hunting down an Infinity Stone halfway across the galaxy, at his age. At any age. Odin frowned. The boy will be a man, one day. His magic will be a threat to everyone, to Asgard first of all. It would be a pity to waste it, to have to take it away. He must remain properly directed. Properly occupied. No matter, no matter - patience and disciple will take care of it, Odin reassured himself. All will be well.
***
Loki was sitting in his bed, in the dark, breathing hard and heart pounding. It's been centuries since that trip. He saw the bodies again. He's been in many real battles since then, but it was always that field of silent corpses that came back to him. Norns. What good is fearing dead men? They were not even enchanted, there was no danger in them. Just death, death everywhere, and he walking across and through it.
He forced himself to lie down, and to breathe, wrapping the thin blanket tighter about himself. It was summer and too warm, but he couldn't give up the hold it offered, and the barrier between himself and everything else. He tried to stop it, sometimes, the reliance on such comfort, but could never excise it, drown it, strangle it. Now wasn't the time to think about this. It would make the jumpiness only worse, he knew. He lay on his side, arranging his arms about himself, only supporting his body really, not hugging himself, not hugging himself like a child hiding under a blanket.
His heartbeat slowed down enough that he couldn't hear it anymore. He tried to go back to sleep, but it would not come, death still in his nose. These were busy days and he needed his strength, needed to sleep. His duties multiplied, Father heaping more and more responsibilities on him, sharing the burdens of rule. The burdens were mainly meetings, diplomatic trips, undiplomatic trips, endless writing and corrections, endless reading of petitions and amendments, ledgers and codes, and letters, so many letters. And of course the training, because how could he fall too far behind Thor in fighting skills, and his magic studies (of no interest to Thor, but of great usefulness to Odin).
He now knew what he delivered to his father's study, knew he found an Infinity Stone, in all likelihood – laughing when one day he realised he delivered one of the most powerful artefacts in the universe for his father to squirrel away somewhere he could no longer sense it. He brought many more, lesser artefacts, to Asgard's treasure vaults over the years, ensuring Asgard's control over many powerful weapons and tools.
He wrapped the blanket tighter. To Hel with it. He needed sleep. He multiplied the two pillows on his bed into many, arranging a small nest and cramming himself into it, pillows pressing into him on all sides. He hastily connected the magic that kept the pillows corporeal to the wards on his room, so that the three people who could walk in on him sleeping wouldn't see him huddling like an animal. The pressure did something to his mind though, and he knew he'd be out like a light. Busy, busy days ahead, and he needed his strength.
***
"Loki, you old maiden, are you going to the baths with us this time or not?" Fandral punched him in the shoulder lightly, rushing past him towards the communal baths. They were back from killing some hideously overgrown beast of a bingelsnipe that terrorised the countryside for months. If that even was a bingelsnipe, because since when do bingelsnipes contain so many guts and slime and norns-know-what stinking liquids. They were all covered with it head to toe, after Thor oh-so-gloriously smashed into it with Mjolnir, helped by Hogun and his morningstar. Loki was perfectly fine with vanishing it all off himself before bathing alone, as he preferred, but Thor and Volstagg have already hooked their arms under his armpits and dragged him off towards the communal baths, laughing and hollering about the great victory to the whole palace.
He tried not to draw too much attention to the fact that he avoided the perfectly normal and civilised custom of communal bathing. He didn't need more rumours of his strangeness circulating. No matter Fandral's jibes, he had no issue with nakedness, of himself or others. It was hard to grow up on Asgard and take issue with it. And they were just bodies, after all.
It's just that...He shut that line of thinking down. Which was just as well, because they were there, air steamed up and thick, and all were undressing and going under the pouring wall of water off to the side to get the bulk of the grime off, before going into the first dirty pool to scrub the rest of it, and climbing out, dripping, to get into the second, clean pool, to soak properly. Loki focused on the water, the harsh brush, and the soap.
Thor and his friends horsed around, recounting the fight and throwing friendly jibes at each other. Loki played along as best he could, splashing others with a little magical help, to avoid accidental touches without seeming to avoid them. Thor dunked him face first into water in revenge for a particularly well-aimed shot, getting Loki a mouthful of soapish water for his trouble. Loki went down with the push, reaching for Thor's ankle and grabbing it, pretending to be particularly bitey crab, getting Thor to yelp and lose his balance, sending another giant splash at Sif and Fandral, and on it went.
Loki left as soon as it would not be noticed. Back in his rooms, he shut and warded the door behind himself. His hands shook a little. The damned thing was back again. He had no name for the feeling, he only knew it was not lust or attraction, to any of these people, and not for any others really, but beyond that he could not understand it. He just needed...just... He turned the thought away again.
Father knew something was wrong with him. Tried to teach him how to act a proper prince, a proper person. Loki never voiced this overwhelming... need, it felt like hunger, like a desire for light after a long time in darkness, for sound after a deadly quiet.
He wanted to be held and not let go, as if that made any kind of sense. Why crave what was already there? Thor and others certainly touched him often enough. But that wasn't the right thing. A trip to the brothel wasn't the right thing either. He looked at how others acted with the women and men there, and knew his desires would be strange. Some sleepy lounging afterwards was certainly normal enough, but that was afterwards, and only briefly. There were so many other delights to sample after all, if one had the money and the inclination, which he did not. There was always work to return to, in any case – no time for lounging.
Speaking of work. He rattled through the rack of pre-prepared potions on his bookshelf. He didn't have time for this now – he knew this feeling would only escalate, if he let it, clawing at his innards, becoming an all-encompassing emptiness that could not be avoided or ignored, until he cried and cried, in strangled sobs that would not come out properly anymore – how shameful, the whole thing! – until he slept badly, and got up more tired, but numb, and done the sensible thing and got back to work. So he brewed his potions, to help himself along, to avoid that.
These took a while to refine into something usable, since he didn't know what he was to search for in the recipe books. He numbed all feeling off his skin several times as he tried to modify his sense of touch without losing it altogether, lost all face expressions half a dozen times more as he concocted something that shut off his outward emotion rather than inner feeling. He settled on something passably usable, although it did not quite satisfy his exacting standards. But it was good enough to tide him over until it passed.
He needed to make more. The potion took a long time to properly brew in a large enough batch, and he will not be caught empty-handed. He found the last full bottle, uncorked and downed the whole thing. It was bitter and the taste clung to the tongue. The damned thing was becoming more frequent, assaulting him when he least had time for it. He feared he might snap one day, and...and... What would he do, lunge at the Warriors Four, embracing the first in his path? Laughable. An embrace is one thing, a pat on the shoulder if one is upset, a clasp over the arm to reassure one's shieldbrothers of your sincerity – too brief! Too passing! He felt he'd cling onto the nearest bystander like an octopus and stay there until somebody knocked him out with a good blow on the head. Would serve him right, too. Clinging onto people is for scared children, for weaklings and cowards too distraught to contain their grief, or madness, or what have you.
He grasped the edge of the bookcase, leaning forward a little, trying to breathe slower, waiting out the potion doing its work. It was a little scathing fire, working its way down his stomach and out to all the limbs, burning off the inconvenient craving away, and leaving behind a clean slate. It wasn't perfect, he knew he still wanted what he wanted just behind this facade, but it would be easy enough now to distract himself with his many tasks.
Now, where was he? He was reading Lord Treasurer's report before Thor interrupted him with this bilgensnipe nonsense. This needed to be done soonest, and then the letter from Lady Helga about her estate dispute with Lord Whats-his-name because she will surely accost him at tomorrow's feast, and there was the stack of petitions to sort through for the audience period just before then. Loki sighed, and rubbed his face. What time did he have for strange childish feelings?