Chapter Text
There was something that plagued Loki.
Ever since he’d performed the ritual, things had felt… different. Dora had felt different. Not in any measurable way—she was still the insolent little demon she’d always been. Same sharp tongue. Same maddening disregard for self-preservation. But something about her had shifted. Subtly. Quietly. Like furniture in a familiar room had been moved by an inch or two. Not enough to notice at a glance—but enough to stub your toe in the dark.
Something had changed.
He kept returning to that moment, just after she woke. Something had been there with her. She couldn’t fully recall it—it appeared in flashes, like the remnants of a nightmare. He could have passed it off as a side effect of the spell.
Except… he’d felt it too.
He hadn’t told her. Hadn’t told anyone. But during the ritual—at its very crescendo—he’d felt it: the weight of a gaze. On him. On her. Watching. Studying. Something just beyond reach, just outside the circle. He’d felt breath on the back of his neck—humid and real. His instincts had howled, but there had been no magical signature. No trace. Nothing for his senses to catch hold of.
Still, he knew. Something had been there. And he was far too experienced—far too broken in by the darker corners of the universe—to believe that presence had been anything but malignant.
Benevolent forces don’t skulk in the dark. They don’t peer through cracks, watching little girls fade.
He needed to know more, needed to know if something had slipped through while he was casting—some hidden force clawing its way into this world. For that was the risk with this kind of magic: forbidden for a reason. Chaotic, unpredictable, impossible to master. It demanded a reach into places no soul was meant to touch, tearing open doors into the deeper currents of seidr—ancient, dark, and wild—and doors, by their very nature, worked both ways: you could peer through, you could reach, but something on the other side could just as easily be watching, waiting. Patient, silent, and hungry.
And in theory—no, in reality—things could crawl through. Slip past the cracks. Hitch a ride into the waking world without anyone noticing. Reach back.
But being able to derive that was beyond his skillset. The Sight had always been his mother’s domain, not his. Divination was one of those magics that simply… refused him. And with his mother gone, he didn’t have many options.
Except maybe one.
The plan came together quickly after that.
Though it wasn’t one he was particularly fond of—it involved taking his hazard-prone spawn to an entirely different planet, which, knowing said spawn, was almost guaranteed to end in some form of catastrophe no matter how many precautions he put in place.
But he had no choice. The Oracle wouldn’t come to Earth.
So going to Vanaheim was his only option.
At least it was mostly safe. The Vanir were longstanding allies of his people, and while the planet’s wildlife could be… territorial, he could manage that. There was no real danger—political or otherwise. He repeated the thought in his head like a mantra, hoping it would quiet the rapid drum of his pulse.
Loki stood in the doorway of Dora’s room, leaning lightly against the frame, watching her sleep longer than she’d likely ever permit if she knew. Since the ritual, and especially now that he knew she was alone in her occupancy, he had taken to these quiet vigils—slipping in like a ghost, making sure she was breathing, that she was intact.
Her hands were clenched tight around the tangled duvet, knuckles white as porcelain. A thin sheen of sweat glimmered along her brow in the dim lamplight. Her face twisted into a furrowed, restless grimace, the soft twitch of her eyelids betraying a nightmare in progress.
He crossed the room on careful, measured steps, perching on the edge of her bed.
“Dora,” he said softly, trying not to startle her.
It didn’t work.
She shot upright with a gasp, fists raised and balled instinctively—as if bracing for something far worse than him. Her eyes were wide and wild, heart hammering in her chest. Loki held his hands up in surrender, forcing his voice steady.
“You’re safe,” he said. But even as the words left his mouth, he couldn’t fully convince himself.
“Loki?” She squinted, eyes still fogged with sleep, slowly sharpening into something more alert. And irritated. “What the hell?”
“You were having a nightmare.”
“No!” she barked, yanking the blanket tighter around herself, as if suddenly aware she was in pyjamas. “I mean: what the hell are you doing in my room?”
“Am I not allowed to check on my only child?” he asked, not at all rattled by her implications of trespass.
“Can you not ring me like a normal person?” she growled, though the edge was already softening. “Not just apparate unannounced into my flat like some kind of lunatic?”
“Do you think I possess a phone?” he replied with a chuckle, the sound low and amused, carrying through the quiet of the room. Rising from her bed, he gestured toward her blanket-swaddled form, careful not to move too quickly. “Now, get dressed. We are leaving soon.”
“Leaving? Leaving where?” she asked, skirting dangerously close to a whine, the frustration of being woken curling at the edges of her voice. “It’s my only day off! I wanted to sleep in.”
“Oh, I think you’ll enjoy this,” Loki said, a little too smoothly. That caught her attention.
Curious now, she sat up straighter, the blanket sliding from her shoulders. Her tangled curls spilled over her shoulders, catching the muted glow from the bedside lamp. Her eyes, half-lidded with sleep, sharpened into something alert and impatient. “Where are we going?”
“Off-world.”
That did it. She practically sprang out of bed, the earlier petulance evaporating, replaced by a spark of excitement that made her movements sharp and almost frantic. “Really?”
“Yes. Now…” He gestured to her current state with a hand waved in a lazy circle. “…make yourself at least somewhat presentable.”
“Give me twenty minutes,” she replied eagerly, already dashing over to her vanity. Loki’s gaze flicked to it—a cramped corner of the room, piled with brushes, jars, and random trinkets, barely leaving room for her elbows. It was chaos, orderly only in the way that comes from long years of adapting, squeezing everything into a space too small for it all.
“You have five,” he said, turning to leave. The soft scrape of his boots echoed faintly against the walls. The room fell quiet again, save for the rustle of paper, the sigh of the heating vent, and the muted clinks of glass bottles as she nudged them aside. Beneath his amusement, a quiet knot of worry coiled tighter, reminding him that none of this—none of it—was simple or safe.
Twenty minutes later, they stepped out onto the street and into a very grey morning. Rain had begun to spritz from the sky in a fine mist, adding a chill and a subtle ache to the air. The city felt muted, as if it were still rubbing the sleep from its eyes.
Loki pulled the grey jacket he’d wrapped himself in tighter around his shoulders and lowered his umbrella a little more, casting a cautious eye around in case of any lingering stares. But he needn’t have bothered. The lines of umbrellas that intersected the streets of London had no interest in anything beyond their own hurried lives.
Despite the gloom of it all, Dora skipped ahead—determinedly undeterred. Her hair bobbed, her shoes scuffed with each bound. The earlier shadows of a sulking, half-awake child were gone; in their place was a bright, restless energy. The promise of off-world had her practically vibrating with curiosity.
Watching her, his frowned deepened. He knew this was the right call; the best way to get answers. To keep her safe. And yet… that old, insistent tug in his gut—the one that had coiled tight the moment he first laid eyes on her—hadn’t loosened. Today it felt sharper, more insistent, as though the universe itself were nudging him toward caution.
They passed shuttered cafés, dripping trees, a city that still hadn’t quite woken up. A pigeon flapped away from them as they approached with a startled coo. The early morning calm was natural, unassuming, and it suited him; it allowed his mind to trace the patterns beneath the surface, to watch Dora, to plan.
“So…” she said, slowing for a moment, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “…where exactly are we going?”
“To see someone,” Loki replied simply, eyes still scanning the street, muscles tense in case danger lurked just out of sight.
“Who?” Dora asked, frowning as if surprised that he—a being who had walked the earth for a millennium—might still have acquaintances.
“A Völva,” he said, gesturing for her to turn left.
Dora shot him a sideways look. “You know I don’t know what that is.”
“They are seers,” Loki explained, his voice measured. “In the old days, they wandered from town to town, performing rites, casting runes, speaking prophecy. No court worth its salt was without one.”
“Like witches?”
He grimaced. “That word is… inelegant. But close enough.”
“So you’re taking me to a space witch?” Dora asked, eyebrow raised.
Loki sighed, the sound swallowed by the drizzle. “She is not a ‘space witch.’ And I strongly advise you not to call her that to her face. She is a practitioner of seidr, yes—but her specialty is prophecy. A seer in the truest sense. She doesn’t just use magic—she listens to it. Interprets it. Reads the patterns where others see only chaos.”
“Right,” she said, understanding dawning in her voice. “You’re still worried about the whole spell thing.”
Yes, he was. And she should be too. But Loki didn’t voice that thought. There was no point in worrying her until they knew there was something worth worrying about. Until then, the burden could be his alone.
“I would just like to know for certain,” he said instead, voice quiet but carrying the undercurrent of something sharper—an edge only he could feel.
“Hey,” she said, the grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, “if it gets me to another planet, I am not protesting. Not at all.” She tilted her head, mock-serious. “Do I need to bring a gift? A blood sacrifice? An enchanted goat?”
Loki rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Just your undivided attention would be a start.”
He led her through a series of twisting alleyways, each narrower and more dilapidated than the last—a labyrinth of passages designed to confuse, to conceal. Rust-bitten bicycle frames leaned drunkenly against crumbling walls. The charred husks of long-abandoned cars sat like skeletal reminders of forgotten histories. Skips overflowed with refuse, the stench muted only by the damp air and drizzle. He could feel Dora’s gaze on him—curious, questioning—but he kept his stride steady. They weren’t far now.
Eventually, the alleys opened into a tight courtyard in no better condition. The cobblestones beneath their feet were uneven and worn. Grass had burst through where it could, wild and unruly—climbing through the cracks in the stones, curling between bricks, tangling around the rims of forgotten tyres.
“We’re here,” he said.
The tug in his gut returned—stronger, heavier, insisting. He swallowed, forcing it down.
Dora wrinkled her nose, surveying the cluttered courtyard. “Doesn’t look like much.”
“That’s the point,” he replied. “It’s not meant to attract attention.”
Dora didn’t answer. A few steps ahead, her movements had become almost automatic, flowing in a way that seemed guided by something just beyond perception. The faint shimmer of the portal flickered behind a crumbling wall, half-hidden by the decay around it.
“Dora?” Loki called, his voice carrying an edge he tried to keep in check.
She didn’t pause, though the pace of her steps remained measured, deliberate, eerily calm.
Loki drew a sharp breath, his eyes flicking to the sky as he muttered a curse under his breath. He closed the distance quickly, catching her arm and pulling it back before she could reach the wall.
“Can you resist the urge to touch everything you encounter?” he snapped, more sharply than he intended.
Her gaze blinked back into focus. “Oh… sorry.”
The pause felt charged—almost unnatural. Loki didn’t have time to dwell on it. A subtle shift in the air brushed against his skin, a prickling warning. The portal flared faintly, almost impatiently. Time was short; this rift only stayed open in the early hours. Miss it, and they’d have to wait another twenty-four hours.
“Listen to me,” he said, pausing at the edge of the shimmering divide. “You are going to behave. No exploring. No wandering off. You are my shadow. You stay right by me.” His voice was quiet, firm, but threaded with an edge that brooked no argument.
“You do know I’m eighteen, right?” she said, eyebrows raised. Her tone was light—playful, even—but there was a thread of real offence buried in it.
“I’m aware.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Yes,” he said flatly, voice precise, carrying the weight of absolute authority, “you do.”
She rolled her eyes with exaggerated flair, then let the corner of her mouth twitch up into a sly, half-smile. She shoved her hands into her pockets, leaning slightly on one hip, daring him with her stance. “I promise I’ll be good,” she said, the words carrying a teasing edge, like she was negotiating the rules rather than accepting them. “Happy?”
Loki didn’t respond immediately, watching the flicker of the portal instead. But he caught the glint in her eye—a spark of mischief and anticipation that made him tighten his jaw, part exasperated, part oddly fond.
“Not even a little,” he said finally. Then, shifting his weight, he stepped forward. “Let’s go.”