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The air in New Asgard smells of salt, dried cod, and woodsmoke curling from the chimneys of brightly painted houses perched along the cliffs. There is none of the gleaming gold of Válaskjálf, none of the polished marble or servants bowing at every turn. Just a windswept fishing village tucked away among the hills of Midgard.
And yet... Loki almost likes it.
He strolls along the harbor with a canvas bag slung over one arm, studying a shopping list scribbled on a crumpled piece of paper. The Asgardians greet him with cautious but genuine nods, and he acknowledges them with all the gracious condescension of an exiled king who has traded ruling the cosmos for managing household necessities.
He stops outside the local shop and checks the contents of the bag for the third time. The cereal is still there. Last time they ran out before Thursday, he thinks, slipping his fingers between them to count, the look she gave me made Thanos' wrath seem like a minor diplomatic disagreement.
Satisfied, he flicks a finger through the air. The canvas bag vanishes with a faint crackle of green magic, disappearing into one of his pocket dimensions.
He turns toward home and stops.
A cat is sitting atop a weathered wooden crate by the pier. A large grey tom with a nick in one ear and piercing amber eyes, staring at him with an expression of lofty, aristocratic superiority.
Loki ignores it and walks on. Three steps later, the cat hops off the crate and falls into pace beside him, maintaining the precise distance of about three feet.
Loki quickens his stride. The cat does the same, tail held upright like a banner.
Loki comes to an abrupt halt and spins around. The cat sits down on the gravel and begins licking one paw with maddening composure.
«Oh, no you don't,» Loki hisses, casting a quick glance around to make sure nobody is witnessing this humiliation. «Listen carefully, you little furball. I have nothing against you personally. However, if she sees you, she will arrive at entirely the wrong conclusions. And I am not prepared to take that particular step just yet, do you understand?» He points decisively toward the harbor. «So kindly turn around... and disappear.»
The cat pauses mid-groom, regards him for a long, inscrutable moment, then rises and trots away between the fishing boats.
Loki gives a satisfied nod, straightens the collar of his coat, and heads up the winding path leading to the small green wooden house overlooking the sea.
Five minutes later, he climbs the three steps to the porch. The cat is waiting by the front door, sitting there as though it has been expecting him to find the keys.
Loki freezes, one hand suspended halfway toward the latch. «...What?»
The cat answers with a tiny chirping trill.
«Listen, my furry little friend,» Loki says, lowering his voice to something between a threat and a negotiation. «I have killed for considerably less. Walk away now, and I shall conjure a fish for you. The largest cod you have ever laid eyes on in your thoroughly mediocre feline existence. Do we have a bargain?»
«Who exactly are you plotting against out there?» Eili's voice drifts from the kitchen window, accompanied by the unmistakable clink of a mug being set on the table. «Do not tell me you've forgotten my cereal. You know I'm in a dreadful mood if I don't get breakfast. Trust me—you do not want to test that theory.»
Loki startles, his shoulders stiffening. «Ah... no one! The cereal is here. Everything is perfectly in order.» He rolls his eyes dramatically, mouthing at the cat with exaggerated precision: Leave. Now.
The front door swings open. Eili steps onto the porch, her hair still a tangled mess from sleep, swallowed by an oversized hoodie. She stops dead, looks down and her face lights up.
«Oh...Ohhh. You adorable little fluffball!»
She drops to her knees on the freshly painted porch without a second thought. The grey tomcat—who only moments ago had carried himself like a hardened assassin—instantly dissolves into a vibrating engine of purrs, rubbing his head against her fingers before dramatically flopping onto his back and presenting his belly.
Eili looks up at Loki, smiling so brightly it almost hurts to witness. «...Did you get him for me?»
«Absolutely not,» Loki replies, his mouth pressed into a thin, impeccably dignified line.
She studies him for a moment, absentmindedly scratching behind the cat's ears.
«I've been set up,» he says at last.
«You were outwitted... by a cat?»
Loki says nothing.
Eili keeps staring at him, fighting a losing battle against a grin.
Loki folds his arms and stands perfectly still.
He has the distinct impression that anything he says from this point onward will be used as evidence against him.
«I cannot wait to tell Thor!» she blurts, springing to her feet, eyes sparkling with pure mischief.
«No. No, Eili, do stop this. It is not what you think.»
But she is already leaning over the porch railing toward the path leading down to the beach. «Brotherrrrr!»
Loki goes visibly pale. In the space of a nanosecond, he witnesses the complete and irreversible destruction of every shred of dignity he has managed to preserve over the last thousand years.
«Eili. Get back inside this instant. That is an order—»
«Brother!»
Thor's voice booms from the foot of the hill. The God of Thunder is making his way up the path, mud still clinging to his boots, a crate of beer balanced effortlessly on one broad shoulder.
He stops at the foot of the porch, his gaze moves from Eili to the grey cat now stretching luxuriously beside the doormat. He says nothing for two full seconds. Then a smile slowly spreads across his face—the unmistakable smile of an older brother who has just understood everything. He sets the crate down with a solid thud and dusts his hands against his trousers.
«Brother...» Thor says with entirely inappropriate solemnity. «I believe the Lady of Fólkvangr has decided to offer you a rather pointed suggestion. Freyja does have a peculiar sense of humour.»
That insufferable, meddlesome goddess. Loki is certain she is reclining somewhere in Sessrúmnir, sipping mead while thoroughly enjoying the spectacle of a Prince of Asgard reduced to personal attendant for a stray cat. An elaborate conspiracy, orchestrated with the trademark subtlety of fertility deities—who have never, in all the Nine Realms, grasped the concept of personal boundaries.
Loki closes his eyes and raises a single finger. «Not. One. Word.»
«I haven't said anything,» Thor replies, lifting both hands innocently, though the laughter dancing in his eyes betrays him. He steps closer and crouches to inspect the cat. «A fine-looking fellow, though. What's his name?»
«He doesn't have one,» Loki answers sharply. «Because in five minutes he will no longer be on my property.»
«He needs a name!» Eili protests, dropping back onto her heels as the cat enthusiastically attacks one of her shoelaces. «I vote for Mjolnir.»
Loki whirls around. «Absolutely not.»
Thor blinks. «Why not? It's a glorious name.»
«Because every time you called him, you'd end up crying, you idiot!»
Eili bursts into bright, uninhibited laughter that echoes beneath the porch roof. Thor shakes his head, thoroughly amused. He exchanges a knowing glance with Eili before turning back to his brother, giving him an affectionate shove that nearly knocks him off balance.
«So...» he says with infuriating serenity. «When should I start planning the wedding?»
Loki does not answer. Instead, he thrusts a hand into one of his pocket dimensions. A bright red apple materialises in his palm and a fraction of a second later it is hurtling straight toward Thor's face. Thor catches it effortlessly with one hand. The dull thunk of fruit meeting palm settles the matter. Meanwhile, Eili is already mentally rearranging the living room to decide where the litter box should go.