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Day 4: Medical Restraints
Loki had been feeling sick for a while. It was not the sort of sickness that mortals had to deal with; that was entirely beneath him. No, this was a kind of sickness contracted by gods. It was not usual for someone from Asgard to be sick, but when it did happen, the most usual course of action was to go directly to the palace’s healers and be treated by the advanced medical personnel.
Loki, being a prince, did not even need to walk a long distance to reach the healing rooms. As it stood, he should have been there the moment he started feeling an inkling of illness.
Life had other plans.
Loki was currently imprisoned in his brother’s bed, barely able to keep his eyes open while the sadistic blond oaf was peering down at him.
“Let me go!” He made one last-ditch attempt to annoy Thor into submission, but his brother did not budge.
“Lie down,” Thor hissed, pressing on his shoulders as if that would make him yield.
“Like hell.” He narrowed his eyes. He wanted to get out of here. He had things to do. He would even go to the healers if that was what it took! “You are keeping me prisoner!”
“Loki, you are not getting out of here,” Thor answered, voice booming. Loki crossed his arms. This was entirely unfair! Thor was not supposed to be this mature! Just a week ago, he would have let Loki go on with his day just fine. It must have been that Norns-darned maturity ceremony.
Like all other beings in the universe, Asgardians had stages of life. First was a newborn. They consisted of kids up to ten summers. Then there were toddlers—a hundred-year-olds were little terrors. Children occupied the range between a hundred and five hundred. Then teenagers—not Loki’s peers, no matter what Thor said—from five hundred to a thousand. After that, everyone was considered a mature, wise adult.
Lo and behold, Thor was now a thousand years old. Loki had mockingly called him an old man more times than was strictly proper at his maturity ceremony’s feast. He had expected Thor to retaliate by calling him a kid—like he always used to do—but he had just smiled serenely. It weirded Loki out, but Mother had said it was the lingering effect of the maturity ceremony.
Lest he lose his mind, Loki had determined that the effects of said ceremony would wear off in a day or two. But time went on, and nothing changed. Every time he complained to Mother about this, she always gave him an amused smile and assured him it was not permanent.
Less sensible people might have stormed off the palace and sought the Norns for an audience. Yes, it was this bad. But Loki was not like them. Instead, he asked around, gathering information like a good spy. He worked from the shadows as always.
Loki figured out pretty quickly that his brother’s situation was not as common as his mother made it seem. Most people were surprised to hear of their older prince’s predicament but happily narrated their own experiences with the ceremony.
Looking back at the data gathered, he calculated that Thor was part of approximately five per cent of people. That five per cent advised him to go along with his brother’s quirky behaviour and to be certain that he would return to his senses in less than a month. A month! Loki was not sure if he could last another day, let alone a month.
Little did everyone know, Loki was not one to stay put and endure. He was not the god of mischief for nothing. Last night he started devising a plan. He’d tell Thor that the only reason he wanted to leave his presence was to go to the healers. His brother—being wise and all—would never disagree with that. He’d beg the healers to convince Thor that he could not enter the healing chambers with him, and he’d be free!
Logically, the plan would go without a hitch.
Logic and Thor rarely mixed for good reason.
Loki put on a performance that would make any actor weep at his talent. He pressed a hand on his brow and tilted his head against the silk pillow like a distressed damsel begging for aid. However much this display disgusted him, there was no other choice. “Brother, I do not feel well,” He sighed long-sufferingly, expertly hiding a smile when Thor’s attention was captured immediately. “I expect I must go to the healers’ quarters, lest my ailing befall you, as well.”
Leaning down so that their faces were inches away from each other, Thor carefully inspected Loki’s features. “You are not lying.” His eyes narrowed, but he seemed convinced. If Loki were not such an exceptional liar, he might have cracked a victorious smile.
Liberation was so close he could practically feel it on his skin. Everything was working out. It was like watching a puzzle falling into place. He could swoon from the overwhelming joy of it.
Lightly, he picked at the quilt, happy enough to wait for Thor’s agreement. He was certain he had him.
Loki was ready to shout with jubilation when Thor finally opened his mouth. “No need to travel to the healers.” He gestured dismissively. Loki froze, his eye twitched. What? “I went to Healer Eir myself yesterday evening to ask about your condition. She assured me you would be rejuvenated in a matter of days with some medicine. She gave me two pills, but I was sure you would not take them willingly, so I smashed them into your dinner.”
Like that, all of Loki’s carefully constructed plans crumbled before his eyes. He did not even have the energy to question the sneaky and very unlike Thor manner in which his brother made sure he consumed the medicine that Eir had prescribed. Every hope of freedom had vanished from his reach.
Lowering his eyes to prevent Thor from seeing the despair in them, Loki slumped down on the bed with a dull thud. If Thor found that odd, he did not show it.
Languishing in his pillows, just as he was about to become one with his melancholy, the bed dipped slightly in the familiar way that meant Thor had sat next to him. Frowning, Loki peeked at him from under his blankets.
Looking at Thor, it was obvious that his brother had something to say. He was fidgeting with the quilt, and his lips had thinned as if suppressing the urge to speak.
Loki waved his hand half-heartedly. “What?”
Licking his lips, Thor swallowed. “Eir gave me another instruction, actually.”
Lying down would not do for this conversation. Thor was never anything but blunt. He did not have the necessary restraint that came with diplomacy. For him to even attempt it, something serious was going on.
“Let’s hear it.” He drawled. All this talking was starting to hurt his throat. Despite his magnificent performance, Loki was not as sick as he portrayed himself to be. That did not negate the fact that he was actually sick.
Long fingers fidgeted with the blanket at Loki’s feet. Thor rubbed the back of his neck. “She told me that most times the pills have little effect on you. That’s probably why you are still so tired,” He mumbled absent-mindedly. “She gave me a specific medicine that—that needs to be injected directly into your bloodstream.” Seeing the terrifyingly blank face of his brother, Thor rushed to explain further. “It’ll make you feel better in no time, she assured me!”
Leaning away instinctively at the notion of a syringe anywhere near him, Loki glared at Thor. “You are not coming near me with a needle.”
Levelling a resolute gaze at his brother, Thor looked more determined than he had ever seen him. It was starting to terrify Loki a little bit. “You are sick.”
“Like I hadn’t noticed,” Loki snapped, but embarrassingly, his voice cracked at the end. Tears started forming in his eyes, and he felt like an immature child throwing a tantrum after being forced to eat something he didn’t like. Even more embarrassing was the gradual softening of his brother’s eyes.
“Loki, you’ll be fine. It won’t even hurt you!” Thor told him. Where once he would have teased Loki endlessly for his cowardice, now he sounded… loving and tender. Eugh. It’s not that Loki did not appreciate not being teased for his juvenile fear of needles—but he was back in the dungeon at Svartalfheim, and Brokkr was nearing him with a sadistic glint in his eyes while Eitri was holding his face steady and the needle came closer and closer, so close that it pierced—yet it was so unlike his brother that it made him feel wrong-footed.
“Lay a hand on that thing, and you’ll lose it!” Loki hissed as he tracked Thor’s movement. He was trying to get the syringe. Apparently, it was tucked inside a drawer.
Lifting his hands in the air like common criminals, Thor distanced himself from Loki’s proximity. At least he had learnt not to test his younger brother when he was in a mood. He was not bluffing.
“Look, brother, I understand your… hesitation.” From the tone of his voice, Loki could hazard a guess that he was, in fact, not able to understand his hesitation. “But it’s for your own good. One little prick and it’ll be over.”
“Let it come near me, and I won’t be responsible for your limb loss, Thor.” He scooted away from the now visible syringe. It was longer than he had imagined, which was impossible because he had literally envisioned the biggest needle—or maybe the one in Brokkr’s hands.
Letting his hands fall in exasperation, Thor groaned. It was as if he had aged five centuries in a single moment. “Why are you so afraid of needles anyway?”
Laughably, this is the worst question that Thor could have asked. Why was he afraid of needles? Shouldn’t he already know? It was one of the most famous stories of the realms. Loki the Liesmith had cheated the dwarves of a wager, and they had sewn his lips shut in retaliation. That Thor didn’t know only served to point out how little his brother actually cared for him. Perhaps that was why he was so enraged by this change in him. Caring for Loki was so unlike him that it felt genuinely wrong.
Loki exhaled. He needed to play this right. He couldn’t let the needle near him.
Light as a feather—so much so that Loki barely comprehended it happening—Thor had taken hold of his wrists in an iron grip. Before he could squirm out in a panic, Thor had flipped him to his side and was tying his hands to the bedframe with the magic-limiting cuffs that they used on criminals.
Loki could hardly breathe. It was the dwarves all over again. He was tied, unable to escape. Thor was going to hurt him, like the dwarves had hurt him. The needle would come nearer and nearer until it met his lips and then blood—so much blood. He wanted to scream, but how could he when his lips were sewn shut? He heard the laughter from the dwarves, so much laughter.
Legs kicking, he scrambled to get away from the needle in his brother’s hands. His tied limbs made everything more difficult, and without his magic sustaining him, he felt weaker than he had before. His robe’s sleeve was lifted slightly, a cool breeze making him shiver.
Letting out a whine was perhaps not the best course of action, but Loki couldn’t help it. He needed to get away.
“Loki, brother, breathe,” Thor’s soothing voice instructed, patting his arm in a mockery of comfort. Nothing could comfort him with a needle so close to him.
Lightning-quick, Thor tugged at his restraints and frowned at Loki’s frightened yelp. Carefully, he lowered the needle and started moving his arm up and down Loki’s back, laying the covers over him again. “Are these what frighten you?”
Laughter that sounded a little too manic begged to escape his lips, but Loki restrained himself. “I’m not frightened,” But the way his voice cracked betrayed him.
“Lying would not do you any good, brother.”
Lying wouldn’t do him any good? When lying was the only thing that helped him survive in this Norns-darn place? Who was Thor, of all people, to stand on a pedestal and tell him what would do him good?
“Lying would imply I’m frightened, and I’m not.” It was not his best deflection, but the panic was building up in his throat as the needle was being lifted again.
Looking back, that was a scarily smart tactic to make Loki admit that he was lying, because he scooted away like a rabid animal. Thor didn’t quite smirk—that was more Loki’s thing—but he did smile in a peculiar way.
Loki was about to snap at him for it, but then Thor sobered up. The smile left his face, replaced by a more concerned glint that made dread accumulate in the pit of his stomach. “If you don’t want to tell me what is bothering you, that’s fine, brother. But you must let me help you.”
Letting himself be influenced by Thor’s saddened tone was an amateur’s mistake. Loki was no amateur when it came to dealing with his brother, but the voice still had the same effect on him as it did when they were toddlers and Thor begged to take his toy back.
Looking anywhere but in his brother’s eyes, Loki took a deep breath and decided that this once—until Thor would be immature again—he could trust his brother. “The dwarves,” he swallowed heavily. “Needles remind me of the dwarves from Svartalfheim.”
Long silences were not usually Loki’s thing. He was a curious creature by nature, and while there was much to be learnt in the wake of quietude, most times—like this one—he could not infer their meaning. “I’m sorry.”
Loki did not acknowledge this statement. He did not need clarification about what Thor was sorry for. There were countless things in the universe that he should be sorry for—and Loki, in his naive, hopeless, blackened heart—chose to believe that he was sorry for everything. For every little thing that had caused him pain, for every cruel jab that had not meant to cut so deeply yet it did, for all the times a younger Loki was pushed to the side—forever to remain in his golden brother’s shadow.
Lamenting over this would do him no good. He was starting to get drowsy from the absence of magic. Loki wanted to get this over with—wanted the cuffs off—so he, as much as he could while the cuff was still tying him to the bedframe, extended his pale arm toward his brother.
Lest Loki rethink this, Thor rushed to grab his arm in a steady grip. He neared with the syringe, and Loki clenched his jaw and forced himself to look away. The last thing he noticed before the needle was coming into contact with his skin was a quick squeeze of his hand.
Lids closing against his will, Loki fought back a whimper. Images of Brokkr’s sadistic face passed through his mind. He felt Eitri’s phantom hands on his face. His lips widened of their own accord, pressing steadily to remind him that he was not there.
“Loki,” Thor’s whisper broke him out of his haze. His head snapped in his direction so fast, he was surprised it didn’t give him whiplash. “It’s over. I’m done.”
Loki looked at the piece of cloth pressing against where the needle must have gone. The syringe was nowhere to be found; he felt oddly grateful about that. If he wasn’t so tired, Loki might have felt embarrassment at how he had been acting in the past minutes. But right now he just needed the cuffs off.
Lifeline did not begin to describe what magic was to him. It existed beyond him yet was him in every sense of the word. Magic was infinite; it was his companion, his one true passion. Everybody said he was talented in magic the same way people said Thor was talented with a sword. But how could one be talented in something that completed them? Loki was no more talented in it than Thor was in waving his arm.
Loki could exist without magic; he could not live without magic.
Listening to thoughts must have been another skill that came with the maturity ceremony, because Thor immediately understood where Loki’s thoughts had strayed. He grimaced and immediately went about untying him from the bedframe.
Life returned to him in one big burst, filling his veins unlike any drug could. Sensation came next; he stretched consciousness across the whole of Asgard, just because he could. It felt exactly the same as he had left it. Magic at its core was so beautiful that the Wordsmith could find no words to describe it.
Loki felt his magic nudge him towards a big ball of lightning that he recognised as his brother’s elemental core. While Thor was not gifted with magic the way Loki was, he possessed it, just like any viable Asgardian. His elemental lightning was magic at one of its purest forms.
Looking at him now, smiling giddily at Loki’s happiness to be reunited with his life-force, he could hardly recall why exactly he wanted to escape him. Usually, Thor would scoff at this display—he had never liked Loki’s use of magic. Now, this more mature version of his brother was content to let him enjoy it.
Letting go of these defences would do him no good—Loki was sure he would come to regret it by the time the effects of the ceremony faded—but in this euphoric state, he was much more vulnerable. “Thank you, brother.”
Loki could practically feel Thor’s beaming smile lighting up the chamber. “You’re welcome, brother.”
Like all traitorous thoughts, a single whisper of “What if he stays like this?” bit into his heart and sprouted roots dosed in hope. He knew that thought was selfish, that it was a violation of his brother’s will, that Thor had not chosen to treat him this way. But as usual, Loki was the epitome of selfishness.
Latching onto this, Thor was wrong. But gazing at him, Loki hoped this would last more than a month’s worth of time.