Chapter Text
The heavy silence in the meeting is broken by the echo of armoured boots making entrance. A captain of a troop guard enters in with striking urgency, sharply kneeling before Odin to hold out a sealed device.
Loki slightly cranes his neck.
"My king," the captain bows his head low, quickly informing, "Vanaheimr answers your summons."
Frigga folds her hands on the table. "About time."
Odin narrows his eye, before taking the slender disc of dark stone that is etched with glowing runes which flare at his touch. "Clear the table," he then commands.
At once; goblets, maps and daggers are swept aside by the guards from the corners, before they set the disc in the center.
Thor leans forward. As Arthur straightens his spine, tense with the unfamiliar magic.
The disc hums faintly like a distant heartbeat.
The runes pulse faster until a soft ripple rises above the stone. And then, there hovers a screen of light. The figures slowly take shape in the glow, their images translucent.
The Vanir council.
The higher speaker is the towering figure draped in white and gold, as the others are covered in muted browns. "Allfather Odin," his voice is delayed by a faint, echoing distortion. "You call, Vanaheimr answers. Though the bridge lies broken, our bond remains strong."
Loki swallows his scoff, but his smile pulls at his velvety words.
Odin's face hardens. "Your bond strains under the weight of treachery. Gullveig has escaped from your realm, your prison, to bring chaos unto Asgard. Explain yourselves."
The high speaker dips his head with feigned solemnity. "Her escape shames us all. She is no longer of Vanaheimr, my lord. A criminal, a faithless witch. She acts alone with no sanction from this council."
Sif shakes her head. "Alone? With the might to shatter Asgard's gates with her crew of unknowns?"
The high speaker's smile does not falter. "Your gates fell to deceit and illusion, not strength of arms. Gullveig is dangerous because she thrives on chaos. She would see us at war to play with our ashes."
Thor's hands slam against the table. "You speak pretty words while your people hide her!"
Frigga gives him a single glare. "Peace, Thor."
The high speaker's tone softens now, almost paternal, "Vanaheimr mourns your losses, Allfather. Allow us to aid you in hunting this traitor. We must see her returned to chains."
Odin's expression turns unreadable, staring at the disc's glow with his hands folded behind his back.
Loki stills when at the very edge of the glowing veil, a figure lingers, half in shadow. This quiet councilor's face is obscured by the flickering of the glow. They do not speak, merely observing. But Loki knows.
Odin's eye sweeps over them all one last time. He takes in a deep breath, lightly nodding. "If your words are truth, then Vanaheimr must prove it. When the bridge is mended, you will open your gates to Asgardian search parties. Refuse this," his staff strikes the table with a sharp crack, "I promise war."
The high speaker inclines his head smoothly. "Of course, Allfather. Vanaheimr has nothing to hide."
As the screen begins to fade, Loki's eyes cut to the quiet councilor one last time, noticing that he's edging closer... to give head dips, until Loki can only read it as a subtle nod. When this councilor's translucent hand reaches across the ripple of light, it is not Odin's it hovers toward, but Loki's. It happens too fast to not be a common glitch in anyone else's eyes.
Once the screen is gone, Odin releases an exhale, heavy and final. "If we cannot strike outward, we will fortify within. Asgard will not let their guard down. The skies must be watched, the gates sealed. No realm shall sense weakness here while the bridge lies broken."
The Warriors Three exchange uneasy looks.
Thor's jaw flexes with frustration, his knuckles white against the table. "So we wait? While Gullveig runs free?"
"We endure," Odin thunders back, his eye burning. "Until the bridge is whole again. Then, and only then, will we hunt." The words crash through the hall like a final decree.
Arthur lowers his gaze, the young prince weighed down by the tension in the room.
Merlin's hand rests on Uther's arm, steadying him, while the Camelotian king grinds his teeth but says nothing.
Loki smoothens out the gloves he wears, subtly observing the room once more.
Finally, by the end of mild chit-chatter at the table, Loki can exhale. Sif has long shot up like a blade, restless, with the Warriors Three following after her. He quietly turns from the table with a smile that is not a smile, ready to vanish into his usual silence. He has no thoughts to share, so he lets Thor take the spotlight with Odin, as he usually does.
Loki slips into the corridor's cool shadow. But a whisper, a shaky one at that, halts him from another turn.
"Prince," Sybil's voice is close behind him, sounding taut and urgent.
He looks over. "What?" He murmurs mildly.
She does not bow. Her hood is thrown back; her eyes look darker than the corridor allows. "You should come. Now," she says under her breath. "She's in your west wing. The door let her through."
His features slacken, his lips twitching before he rushes off.
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He smells iron, although its faint in the air. He enters the library, slow. His eyes scanning the room as his steps glide the polished floor. A palm's smear across the shelf-seam. His mouth curves to a sneer, before smoothing again. A scatter of dots over the books below. All her blood.
"Is this how Camelotians stake their claim?" His low laugh possesses his shoulders which quake slightly. "Bleeding on every surface as though to announce yourselves... like beasts marking territory." His eyes lay on Sybil. She can only bow her head apologetically.
With just a flick of his wrist, the shelf groans before its dramatic parting.
He takes a step in. And immediately, heat hits him. The lantern-fires flutter in sick little gasps. The chamber hum is wrong... the runes on the wall out of tune, pulsing in quick, thin beats which feel grating to watch.
Loki hurries inside then, without a second thought.
Morgan is on the central circle, one arm above her head, the other crooked at her waist. Blood glints on the stone. Both of her inner palms cut.
"Enough," Loki growls to the chamber.
And it obeys.
As the glyphs soften their pulse, the pressure drops. The air loosening its choke.
He drops to a knee. Before touching his two fingers to Morgan's wrist, which become stained with her blood. But he doesn't pay that mind.
Her pulse is there. But it's too fast. His wide eyes dart, sharp as he observes further.
Her skin is frighteningly hot too.
Sybil lingers at the threshold, making herself smaller than the door. "She performed the rite," she explains, voice rough yet steady. "She forced it. The vision took her hard."
Fever radiates off Morgan.
"Fool," he murmurs, but it lands somewhere between scold and prayer. He stares at her face, which is all flushed. He sighs.
He does the unnecessary thing first; he pushes a damp strand of hair from her cheek. It sticks to his knuckle. Then, he doesn't hesitate to gather her up, his arm sliding under her shoulders and the other beneath her knees in order to cradle her onto his lap. Her head rests against the hollow of his shoulder. She is too hot. Mortal heat is always startling... so consuming. He can never quite get used to how fast it burns.
"What a fool," he mutters again. He sits completely on the platform, his long legs framing her as he adjusts himself. The chamber purrs around him, receptive to, and soothed by its master.
Loki holds one of her palms, both bleeding with fairly deep cuts. Green light spills from his fingertips, threading through her wounds with precision. Her torn nerves mend and the fresh cut seals. He repeats the same to her other palm. Before he covers his hand over her forehead, to which green light flashes again.
The angry heat eases under his touch.
He tilts his head to get a closer look at her face when her breathing evens.
"There, there," he drawls as her lashes flicker, lifting slowly but surely. He feels her slightly shake against him from the tremor that runs through her.
"This labour will not go underappreciated, lady Morgan," he softly remarks; his arm still loosely looped around her.
Her eyes go straight to his. She's still deepening her breath, as if testing she's alive.
"That's it," Loki says quietly, "don't talk. Breathe."
"I saw gold... fire," she catches her breath to crack her first words, her voice huskier than usual.
His eyes lift in a swift eye roll. "Don't force it. You're more fragile than you think."
Sybil's weight shifts at the door, but she does not step in.
Morgan ignores him. "Treasures you've bestowed working in your favour," her voice rasps.
Loki's shoulders loosen with a sigh. "Are you certain?"
She gives a faint nod against his shoulder.
He scoffs, but adds nothing.
She coughs a little. "I saw fire, still. I also saw my brother," she whispers, frowning. "A collapse. From your doing."
"Use your words better than that," he bites.
She swallows, while her fingers flex once against his sleeve, as if testing the fact of him. "He chokes on nothing and went down like a rag doll."
He takes an even inhale. "And to cause this?" His voice thins to something silkier, his arm slightly adjusting around Morgan because the chamber floor is hot and she is not steady.
"Although I could only see in quick passing flashes, it seemed a natural cause of death."
"Death," he laughs.
Sybil shifts at the door. She is listening with her whole spine.
He shoots his gaze upward, a breath away from a sigh. "Passing flashes describes what a vision is, and a natural death was the plan, you're saying nothing."
"I promised no perfection. It's your puzzle to solve. I'm only the messenger," Morgan explains in a weaker, quieter voice, as she sensed him pulling away – only to return him to a stillness again.
"Convenient," he says, almost bored. "And you suffered so prettily to bring me this prophecy."
She rips from him to cut him with a glare. "Prettily," she spits. "My blood drips in your chamber but you dare call it pretty... as if my agony were some trinket for your amusement." She narrows her eyes. Venomously.
"Prettily..." he repeats, softer this time, almost disdainful of his own word. His eyes flick away for the briefest second before cutting back to hers. "Forgive me. I meant no compliment, Morgan."
"It wasn't a compliment, indeed, because you know your words bruise, Loki..." the softness in her voice contrasts the frost in her eyes.
His stare wavers, his mouth pressing thin. He should have scoffed in her face. Laughed in her face.
Her stare hardens when she realizes she's closer to him than what's appropriate; his legs almost holding her. "Take it or leave it, prince," she snaps, shooting up fast only to feel the hitting wave of dizziness. She flutters her eyes close, trying to still herself before she might fall over. "I won't spend twice on a thing already bought," she grumbles.
He stands up next, his height hovering over her when he draws closer to her by a fraction. "You must rest," he tells her, voice steady and firm. "Don't be an idiot by trying another spell."
Morgan scoffs. Offended by what looks to be concern coming from him.
At the door, Sybil clears her throat. Morgan then looks over to her.
"You will need cool water first, then a bath. I must now send you back to your guest chamber," Sybil says, like a verdict, holding her hand out to her. "Let's go, child."
Loki watches the princess extending her hand back to Sybil as she walks away with her legs slightly wobbling. The older woman's smile widens when she grasps the princess's hand. And together they leave him behind without another word.
He's left to think.
Looking back at the blood inside which haunts a space meant to breathe only for him.
Prophets are often liars, he knows this. But he also knows the reason he's become entangled with her so quickly is because she knew too much of what she shouldn't. And he's witnessed her magic already – where her bones cracked and reshaped before his very own eyes.
Morgan she is quite theatrical, he's noticed. So quick to dishonour their deal the first time, like a snake that couldn't wait to bite.
This... is too fun to just leave her alone.
═══════════════
All thanks to Eira and Signe, her guestroom smells of sweet oils and steamed herbs, with the softest silky nightwear left for her on the center of her bed – which she wears after a bath. The finest silk, finer than Camelot could ever produce.
From the dressing table mirror, to which she's seated across, she watches the curtains sway near the open balcony, while Sybil gently brushes her long hair in precise movements.
Morgan studies at her palms again. The wounds already faded all thanks to Loki's magic. The faintest linger of the fever has completely vanished by now too. Only the memory of the pain remains, humming beneath her skin and head.
She hisses through her teeth when Sybil pulls her head with the brush.
Sybil gives her a cold look in the mirror. "You carve yourself open like a sacrificial lamb for what? I don't understand your game. This is not like you."
"For what," Morgan echoes softly, her lips curling into something sharp. She stares past Sybil in the reflection, toward the closed doorway as though Loki himself stands there smirking. "For him to see."
Sybil slams the brush on the dressing table. "Morgan," she exhales.
Morgan's throat works once, her jaw tightening. She arrogantly tips her chin up. "He doesn't know there was no ritual. No vision," she snaps. "The gilded imp thinks my blood meant prophecy, that I..." She trails off with a shrug her shoulder. "He must think me mad."
Sybil's eyes soften with a rare hint of pity. "And is he wrong?"
Morgan's head snaps around to her, eyes piercing like a blade's edge. "I let him think that I paid the price for the false prophecies I gave him. That I chose to suffer." She sharply twists back into her seat. "Not for his sake. Never for him."
"You think him as one stupid immortal man, don't you? He made the deal knowing you might lie to him." Sybil's eyes penetrate hers in the reflection, with a force that freezes the princess. "Yet here you sit, thinking you are in full control... when he has a game of his own."
Morgan's hands fist in the edges of her nightgown. "That cunning silverling," she quietly breathes, before pressing her lips together until they whiten.
Sybil's face remains unreadable, but her voice is steady, "Hatred can feel very much like worship when you let it take root."
Morgan's eyes cut back to her in the mirror, the laugh that follows sharp and humourless. "You think I love him?" The very word is spat out like poison. "No. I'm simply fascinated by the way he coils around his prey."
"Fascinated," Sybil repeats lowly, beginning to pace toward the bed which she carefully sits on. "He held you like a babe, you know. Stitched your wounds with care. His magic touched you as if he meant to keep you whole, not merely functioning. That is a dangerous tenderness, Morgan." Her eyes glint with knowing. "The more you tell yourself it is only fascination, the deeper he will sink his fangs."
Morgan flinches. For a heartbeat, she looks like a cornered animal. The very sight of that reflecting back to her in the mirror feels like a a deadly stab into her chest. She rips her eyes from the mirror. And quickly composes herself, forcing recovery by straightening her spine. "Enough. Speak no more of him."
Sybil inclines her head, though her silence weighs judgment.
Before either can speak again, a knock sounds at the door.
Sybil's brow rises. "At this hour?"
"I told the servants to retire tonight." Morgan smooths her hair, irritation heaving in her chest. "See who it is."
Sybil crosses to the door and opens without second thought. Only to find that it is Arthur who stands there, earnest and flushed from the cold corridors, slightly hunching over.
"My lady," he greets, nodding to Sybil before peering past her to Morgan. "Might I have a moment with my sister?"
Morgan gives a cool nod to Sybil, and with that, Sybil slips out, closing the door softly behind her.
Arthur enters, his steps slow as he takes in the lavish room. The bed, the silks, the faint glow of Asgardian lantern-light. His room is not too different, but the sights in Asgard never cease to amaze him. "I wanted to see how you fared," he says. "You weren't at the council meeting this evening."
Morgan tilts her head, lips curling into a practiced smile. "Apparently, I wasn't invited."
"But you've heard we might stay here longer..."
"I figured. The bifrost doesn't look like something to be repaired in little time..." she neutrally states, as she takes a seat on her bed just to gracefully gesture for him to sit on the cushioned chair beside her. "You have been very busy, little brother. Attending councils with kings and gods while I sit idle."
Arthur flushes, fumbling for words as he reluctantly sits. "It wasn't my choice, Morgan. They wanted heirs present. Succession lines, advisors... you know how these things go."
"Oh, I know." Her smile thins. She crosses one leg over the other, propping her hand behind her to casually lean back a little. "And you fit perfectly at their table, I'm sure. Like a lamb at a feast." Her dangling foot begins to dance.
Arthur frowns, slightly leaning away from her. "You make it sound as though Camelot were mocked."
"Not mocked," Morgan lightly corrects. "Dismissed. There to decorate the room, no less."
He shakes his head, briefly shutting his eyes. "You are wrong. Odin respects Father's rule. Why else invite us here? Why forge this alliance if not out of mutual strength?"
Her laugh is quiet and undoubtedly teasing. "Mutual strength," she echoes, tasting the words like bitter wine. "Arthur, open your eyes. To them, we are nothing. Mortals. Fleeting sparks that burn out before they can remember our names. They're not very fond of Midgardians either, our truer counterparts."
Arthur's jaw tightens. He abruptly stands up.
She resists the urge to roll her eyes. Stupid. Stubborn.
"Father built Camelot into a kingdom worth remembering. Even gods must see that!"
"They see it, yes," Morgan mildly agrees. "The way a hawk sees a mouse. Useful for a moment. Disposable the next." She flings her other hand in the air as emphasis.
Arthur stares at her, stunned. "That is not true."
"But it is," her tone sharpens as she stands next. "Why do you think Asgard seeks this alliance? Not for our sake. For theirs. They see Camelot as a convenient shield, a pawn to place between themselves and other realms."
Arthur swallows, his eyes darting around, his fists clenching. "You're twisting it. They--"
"They what?" Morgan snaps, throwing her hands up as she paces past him. "They care for us? Feel sorry us? But no. They want Camelot because we bleed easily and obey quickly. Because mortals die and gods do not. We're mere numbers added to their army."
"You sound as though you hate them!" He cannot contain himself any longer. It should amuse her, but this only vexes her.
Her lips curve into a sneer. "I don't hate Asgard," she fails to soften herself. "I understand them." She glares. "And that, dear brother, is far more dangerous."
Arthur storms to the door, as though he cannot bear the room another moment. "Perhaps you misunderstand them. Perhaps you let your bitterness blind you."
"Perhaps," Morgan allows, though her eyes pierce like ice as she watches him walk away. "And perhaps you let your hope do the same.”
He stops.
For a long moment, they stare at each other...
Then she purses her lips because he becomes tearful now; his eyes coated with a gleaming layer.
Arthur breaks first, turning toward the door again, his voice tighter, "Rest well, sister."
"And you, Arthur," she murmurs.
The door shuts softly behind him, leaving her alone once more. Morgan reclines against her pillows, huffing. She mindlessly reads the patterns along the epic ceiling of her room, while her fingers dig into the silk sheets.
The young oaf truly is out of his depths.
She forces her mind elsewhere. His childishness should not be taking up space in her mind.
Then, it isn't long until her breath begins to shudder as she thinks of Loki. Centuries of being called the god of mischief, prince of lies. Centuries on her.
Should she obediently play to him?