Chapter Text
It might have been a weapon, or perhaps some sort of magical creature stranded from another realm, but there was something in the desert. Some energy, wild and chaotic and dark, that drew him across the sands, a relentless tug at the core of his being.
Yet no matter how far they walked, Hela perched atop Sleipnir and Jormungand leaving a wide trail in the sand behind him while Fenrir complained about the heat on the pads of his feet, the desert stretched on, rolling out towards a horizon it never quite met.
Loki was half-ready to admit defeat, to turn back and acknowledge that perhaps there was nothing, when a light rose up ahead out of the sand, crowning the silhouette of a small town. The lights were surrounded by a mystical glow, shining in colors that he doubted a mortal could fully perceive, and from in their center rose a single word traced in blood-red letters.
Arby's.
The trip had left the five of them tired and hungry, so he approached the first house they saw, a humble mortal dwelling with an oddly bright porch light. He'd hardly deserve to be called a villain if he could not coerce hospitality out of an isolated human household. They trudged to the door on feet half-numb from walking only to have it open a second before he could lift his hand to knock.
The face on the other side of the door was wizened with age, but the eyes that peered at him through thick spectacles were sharp and bright with life. The old woman's gaze shifted over to his children, and he braced himself and waited for her to scream or run or faint dead away.
Instead, she pulled the door open wider. “You've come a long ways to get here,” she said. “Come in.”
He stood outside for another moment, stunned, and only made to enter when she gave him a hard look, like he was a cat that had asked to go out and then hovered indecisive in the doorway. Something went through him like a frisson of energy as he crossed the threshold, and then they were all piled into a modest living room, rendered too-small by the size of his children.
“My name's Josie,” she said as she ushered them all deeper inside and motioned for them to sit. Fenrir didn't hesitate to flop onto the rug, tongue lolling out with exhaustion, and Hela was more graceful but nonetheless picked her way over to perch on an antique armchair hung with lace doilies. Sleipnir rested his head over the top of Hela's chair, and for Jormungand, words like sitting and standing held little meaning, but he draped himself across the furniture and hung listlessly.
Loki stayed standing, wary. Something about this place was off. Part of him itched to call his children back, to tell them they needed to leave right now, but he couldn't quite stomach the thought of dragging them back into the heat and the endless sand.
“I have to admit, I've never seen so many legs on one horse before,” the woman said, rummaging around in her apron before pulling out a cube of sugar and offering it to Sleipnir.
Loki cleared his throat. “He's my son.”
“Ah,” she said, and that was all. Or not quite; “Have you got any baby pictures on you by chance?”
“I have—” He started, and then stopped cold.
They didn't appear, exactly. They had always been in the shadows at the corners of the room, but he became aware of them as suddenly as if a curtain had been pulled aside. There were at least three of them in the room, creatures of painful brightness and midnight shadows, wings and eyelashes and eyes.
“So you've noticed the Erikas, have you?” she asked, and Jormungand twisted to look while Hela gave a subdued nod and Loki continued to stare.
“What...?” he tried, but the one in the farthest corner took a step forward, and the weight of its gaze paralyzed him.
“They're angels,” Josie said, “although that's not to say that we know anything about them, or their hierarchies, of course.”
The one closest let out a sound that was somewhere between a long slow hiss and a screech, like steam escaping a teakettle. Behind it a little ways, the other narrowed its entire being in much the same way a normal person might narrow their eyes.
Loki tried to swallow, but the attempt stuck painfully in his throat. “I don't think they like me.”
“They aren't sure how they feel about you yet,” the old woman said, “because they aren't sure what sort of story this is, or what role you're to play in it.”
“What does that mean?” Loki still eyed the...angel. It eyed him back much more efficiently, because it had so many more eyes.
“Usually? That the choice is yours.” She looked at him then, staring just as piercingly with her two half-blind eyes as Erika did with their...however many. “I would think you should choose carefully. Sit.”
The last word came with an abrupt change of tone back to pleasantly cheerful, and she indicated a long, worn couch. Loki sat, his legs all but folding under him after long days of walking.
“Luckily,” Josie said, “I've made too much dinner, or just the right amount, now.”
And she had. He'd no idea why an old woman would have made enough pulled pork to feed a wolf and a five-gallon drum of undressed salad, but he didn't question it, only picked carefully at the plate he'd been given. Tamales, she'd called it, and he had to admit he found it more palatable than most Midgardian food. He might even have enjoyed it if he could have relaxed.
By the time Sleipnir had finished eating his salad Hela had fallen asleep, slumped in her armchair with a half-eaten plate of tamales on the side table next to her.
Josie turned to him. “Let's talk,” she said, in a tone that allowed no argument, calmly pulling out a skein of yarn and a mismatched set of one knitting needle and one pencil. “If you're going to be staying here in town there are some things you need to know.”
“I'm not sure—” He started, but she cut him off.
“While we're talking,” she said, “you may as well make yourself useful. Hands out.”
She reached out and positioned his arms about a foot apart, then looped the yarn over them, using his hands as a makeshift instrument to keep it untangled as she worked. He couldn't say why he allowed it, but it definitely wasn't because of the ominous way Erika and Erika's stares prickled the small hairs at the back of his neck.
“So first order of business, don't go into the Dog Park,” she started. “People are not allowed in the Dog Park. Dogs,” she nodded to Fenrir, who had curled up into a rather large ball of fur once he finished his pork, “are also not allowed in the Dog Park.”
She continued, listing absurd and clearly fabricated rules while he fought not to nod off alongside his children. Her needle and pencil moved as quickly and steadily as she spoke, and she told him things like how not to antagonize the frogs because they weren't frogs, actually. No one was sure what they were or really knew anything about them except that they weren't frogs, and also they could probably summon inclement weather.
The only thing he took from it was that either he had been right, and something or someone of power was here—and they were strong enough that even the mortals recognized the results—or this old Midgardian woman was insane.
They left a little while after the sun had set, when the air had just taken on a blanketing, comforting coolness that eased something deep in his chest. He'd never cared for the dark, but it seemed to him now that it might represent a time of rest, or perhaps a time when the harsh realities of the day failed to oppress the imagination. He shook his head. There was no place or time for such fanciful thoughts, not when there were things left undone.
They left, too, with more hats than they had been wearing when they had come. Hela pulled the purple monstrosity the old woman had given her tight around her ears, looking pleased, while Fenrir batted his off his head the second they were far enough from the door to be out of visual range. Jormungand had a little blue cap that perched on his head like a bird, and Sleipnir wore a thick woolen scarf wound around his neck.
Loki resolutely did not think about the deep violet cap on his own head, or why he was wearing it. He especially did not think about the fluffy pom-pom on top.
Instead, he thought about the aura of magic that surrounded this little Midgardian town, hanging in the air like the charge before a thunderstorm. There was old magic here, deep, chaotic, and if he could find the source, it could prove useful.
Perhaps the secret of this town was something he could bend to his purposes, in time, to gain an advantage over his enemies.
If not, then at least he and his children could take some time to rest and recover before their next attempt at world domination.
Finding a place to stay in town had been far easier than Loki had expected. The house was two stories, with a bedroom on the first floor so that Sleipnir didn't have to try and navigate the stairs, and three on the second floor, which was well enough because Hela and Fenrir preferred to stay together. It seemed odd that the house was both furnished and abandoned, but no one was there to object when he'd tried to pick the lock only to find the door already open.
He'd woken in the morning to a knocking on the door, and made certain his children were safely stowed in a back room before he answered.
He pulled the door open a crack, just enough to see the source of the knocking on the other side. The young man seemed to be a completely unremarkable Midgardian, though the bright white coat he wore did strike Loki as somewhat odd. He carried a clipboard in one hand, and a pen, marked clearly with a tag made of masking tape saying "this is not a pen", in the other.
For no coherent reason, it registered somewhere in the back of Loki's mind that the stranger had very nice hair. “Erm, hello,” the stranger said. “My name is Carlos. I'm a scientist.”
Loki blinked. The scientist, Carlos, fumbled with the clipboard. “The neighbors let us know that someone had moved here last night, and I though it would be only fair to warn you, if you're planning on staying, that the house here doesn't actually exist.”
Loki blinked again. “Beg pardon?”
“This house,” Carlos said, gesturing to the walls and the doors and the roof with a motion so expansive it almost seemed excited. “It seems like it should exist, I know. There's a house on either side, so it would make more sense for it to be here than not, but, well, according to all the data, it just isn't.”
He reached out a hand to touch the doorframe, and it was as solid under his fingers as appearances made it seem. “I am afraid you must be mistaken,” he said slowly.
Carlos shook his head. A small blue bird fluttered up and perched on the railing. Or, at least, it tried. The second it stopped moving it started to fall straight through the wood, and only an awkward twist and a frantic flutter saved it from hitting the ground. It flew off, chirping its indignation. “I'm afraid the data is conclusive,” Carlos said, and Loki stepped past him, resting a hand on the railing.
It, too, seemed solid. When he pushed against it, it creaked gently and threatened to splinter.
Part of him wanted to turn on the scientist and press for more information, to grab him by the starched lapels of his white coat and demand answers. But the memory of Erika's eyes, dark and hauntingly many, and the press of the town's magic kept him still. It felt almost as though he were being watched, assessed, the town itself eyeing him like a predator in wait to see what he might do.
Absurd, a part of him insisted, but he kept his hands to himself and put on his most convincing smile.
“It's strange, I know,” Carlos said, with an uncomfortable amount of sympathy in his voice. “I came from out of town too, so I know it can be hard to adjust. If you ever need someone to talk to...”
“Luke,” Loki said when the man trailed off, “you may call me Luke.” After all, after the debacle in New York, it was not exactly safe to be Loki here. Though he didn't care particularly much about that, the risk extended to being Lokason or Lokadottir, so adopting a false name for the time being might be wise.
“If you ever need someone to talk to, Luke, I'm here,” Carlos finished earnestly. “I think I'm finally starting to get used to life here, and I'd be happy to pass on anything that might be useful.”
Part of him itched to reject the offer, to insist that he had no need of a mortal's condescending compassion and no time for entreaties to friendship. But he did need information about the town, and it would not be strategic to throw away a potential source because of pride. “Yes,” he said, and managed to avoid gritting his teeth. “I'd like that. Thank you for your kindness.”
“We should get coffee sometime.” Carlos nodded. “Assuming you drink coffee, of course. And that it isn't a day where all the coffee has been replaced by cups of angry fire ants. You can usually tell based on the general amount of screaming.”
“…that sounds like a fine idea,” Loki managed, and he made his way through the few more pleasantries that remained as Carlos excused himself and left.
Back in the house, he found his children in the downstairs bedroom, huddled around a small radio.
Hela met his eyes, and said “they're talking about us” before darting a nervous glance back to the radio. Loki went still.
“--which brings the average number of legs per citizen back to an even three-and-a-half,” a deep voice said, and then there was a pause.
“Listeners,” the voice continued at last. “I have just been informed that a lost civilization has been discovered in the stock room in the back of the Ralph's. The store wants you to know that this lost civilization will be on sale for half off, given that it's impossible to tell whether or not the expiration date has already passed.”
Loki reached over and switched off the radio. “What did he say?” The question left a tightness in his chest he hadn't expected. At some point, he'd need to track down this journalist and have an earnest...conversation about privacy and how much Loki valued it. For now, though, he put it aside and focused on the faces of his children.
“Just that we moved to town and we're new here,” Hela said, and Jormungand nodded his agreement. “Papa, is that true? Are we staying?”
He shook his head. “For a short while,” he said. “Only until we have discovered that which we seek.”
His children did an admirable job of hiding their disappointment. If he hadn't spent centuries raising them, he himself wouldn't have noticed it.
Even more subtle, however, was the odd pang somewhere deep in his stomach at the thought.
He pushed it down. Midgard could be a place to conquer, a temporary place to rest, the site of their struggle and eventual triumph.
It would be nothing short of ridiculous to call the place home.