Chapter 1: Prologue
Chapter Text
What burden is heavier than that of duty? The subservience to another’s desires and aspirations by the mere fact of birth. To a will that is foreign, contrary to one’s own.
To be permitted to exist is not the same as to be permitted to be oneself.
“Does it grieve the stars that their cycle is identical and unchanging?” Baldur asks. “Would the fact of predestination grieve them... were they capable of grief?”
Who could know this better than the Watcher of Worlds? Heimdall remains silent.
A deep breath and a heavy exhale escape Baldur. He longs to tear the heart from his chest and, holding it in palms cupped like a drakkar, flooding to the brim with blood, slowly sink to one knee and leave his heart upon the floor as an offering. As cats bring dead birds and mice to their masters, he would bring himself. He would leave it — and forget. He could have left a part of himself — the part concerning life — in the throne room, but he would rather leave himself here. In the golden observatory, he would swear his loyalty to the cold of the cosmos, to belong to it alone. His only master is Being itself.
He wishes to follow Heimdall’s gaze, but he cannot. Himinbjörg is lined with gold from within; whenever he finds himself here, the sting in his eyes is impossible to ignore. No matter how impenetrable the darkness of the cosmos framed by the observatory window may be, the sun’s rays invariably find their way inside, wandering along the rounded walls, blinding. Wickeder still is the palace gold.
He reaches out a hand — to shield himself from the light. No, not quite. To attempt to shield himself — he jerks back, folding his fingers into a magical pass, pretending it was intended all along. Protection is unneeded by one who is always ready for defense; thus, the gold of the rounded walls fades as he subdues the waywardness of the celestial bodies. The tense line of Heimdall’s shoulders betrays his displeasure at this display.
“Is the world you behold so beautiful, Guardian of the Bifrost?” Baldur asks. “Perhaps it would be a delight to touch that which has moved your sight and hearing. Standing here, I cannot appreciate the beauties of Vanaheim, nor hear the birdsong, nor feel the caress of the wind upon my skin. I cannot admire the lace of shadows or the transparency of Alfheim’s rivers.”
The constellations whisper that Jotunheim lies ahead. Heimdall remarks that the Eldest Prince would be received with much greater hospitality in any of the Upper Realms. Baldur does not believe him: no one has shown sincere joy at seeing him for a long time.
“Then,” with another wave of his hand, the sun blinding his eyes once more, “open the bridge to Alfheim.”
In Asgard, the wine has tasted of bitterness for a thousand years now. In the palace, alcohol settles on the tongue as lies and omissions. The mead in the taverns is viscous and sticky, much like the uninvited stares.
Only the water in Alfheim is a sweet dream. The spring-like clarity of one's eyes speaks of the past; truth settles on the lips like pollen from days gone by. One cannot touch either: ripples will hide everything should one try to interfere. Shaking off floral dust is easier than anything, yet catching it afterwards is impossible, as is gathering it back. One can see and know that it all exists, but no more. The possibility is ephemeral, and it is painful to know that all of it lies on the boundary, somewhere in between — existing only as long as one does not wish to be convinced of it.
In Alfheim, Vár always awaits Baldur. Her skin is touched by the sun and dark as last year’s leaves; behind the transparency of her gaze lies the ambiguity of intentions. To her alone can Baldur entrust the shadow of his thoughts, but nothing more. Knowledge of his designs must belong to no one. Perhaps, not even to himself.
Vár remembers the times when he was as gentle as the dawn. She preserves the truth, forgotten by many, not as something precious, but as something she will not renounce simply because she can — and that is enough.
Now he is as destructive as solar flares, and it is ill to be near him — a magnetic storm costs less of a headache. Whose whim is this? A tangle of cause and effect too long and convoluted; Baldur no longer knows, no longer remembers what was his choice and what turned out to be another's caprice, or when he began to choose for himself what to do and how. When he became a player. He placed his pieces on someone else's board and decided it was time to begin.
“A pillar of salt has more resolve than the Crown Prince of Asgard,” the Elf says. “Do you wish to enter, or should I lock the door and pretend nothing happened?”
She shakes her hair and squints: the visual transmitter showed the image of the Aesir loitering at her door at least four minutes ago, doing nothing. Absolutely nothing. She only deigned to open the door to hear:
“Be so kind... Yes.”
Vár huffs — and closes the door.
Baldur presses his hot forehead against the cold wood, slippery with lacquer, and exhales heavily. He forgot something important and, briefly wondering what it was, became submerged in thoughts so distant and distinct from those he ought to be thinking here and now — he made a fool of himself. It would be vexing were this a date, but he arrived on business. What happened is a catastrophe.
Half an hour later, he knocks on the door, clutching a bouquet. Hydrangeas as blue as Jotunheim — today Baldur will tell of it without words.
Jotunheim is blue, Muspelheim is red. Asgard shines with the gold and self-indulgence of daffodils; Vanaheim is the sharpness of a briar rose. The first voice of his and Vár’s meetings always belongs to flowers. And on the color depends how many themes are destined to be lived: hydrangeas with crumpled petals will find themselves in a vase only in a couple of hours.
Because the second voice is that of the flesh. Fingers glide over the smoothness of skin in sync with the movements of the tongue — he traces a message in the intervals between the woman’s moans, the trembling of a tense body, and an “again” when the letters cannot be deciphered, no matter how many times he draws them. No matter how long he kneels, it is not enough; half the message is lost. Afterwards — a confusion of thoughts, the sweet captivity of thighs, the moist heat of the body, and a single breath for two, heating the lips.
Every time they intertwine their fingers while lying in bed, Baldur catches himself thinking that he does not know which of the countless touches are truthful, except for those that remained as silent signs upon the skin. And then Vár, with the pad of her thumb, traces words on the back of his hand that do not lie: she gave them birth on the skin after him. And they are repeated on palms, on thighs, on the chest, remaining as warm touches on the cheeks. Foreign names, names of worlds, titles and ranks, secrets for which one burns on funeral pyres.
Baldur’s fingers wrap around Vár’s wrist — gently, but insistently. He brings her palm to his face, and the tip of his tongue follows the pattern of the life line, mirroring it symmetrically, tracing the letter “H,” and he grimaces: an unbearable bitterness, a desire to spit it out.
Vár giggles, hugging herself across the stomach — wanting to double over with laughter:
“I was holding the flowers, dear Prince. What is more bitter: their taste, or the memory of how many gold coins had to be given for them?”
“The slamming of the door in my face,” Baldur says, the corner of his mouth twitching as he unsuccessfully tries to rid himself of the unpleasant aftertaste.
“My Prince insisted!”
“I was a fool.”
“Music to my ears...”
As if flicking invisible keys of a musical instrument, Vár moves the fingers of the captured hand: will there be a continuation? This question is in the impatient roll onto her side, the mischief in the transparency of her eyes, and the formality of her address. Her "My Prince" is always nothing other than a taunt.
Baldur presses the tip of his nose to her palm to continue with the second letter. It turns out exceedingly awkward and highly inconvenient. By the fifth letter, they both give up: the name is obvious anyway.
“Heimdall.”
“Jotunheim.”
And the number of days. Ten. For ten days, the gaze of the Guardian of the Bifrost has been turned toward Jotunheim; for ten days, the dark ice has spoken of silence. Ten days and ten decades — not a single reason to behold Jotunheim, yet everything is as it is.
Once, in the mountains of Jotunheim, the rivers sang merrily, carelessly; their voice was ringing crystal. The snow sparkled more colorfully than the finest stained glass. The forest smelled of tart resin that glued fingers together if one rubbed a few needles between them; the wind caught the cries of birds of prey and carried them across the icy wastes. Hands went numb in the cold; one could hide their face from the frost in a fur collar, and the Jotnar were not monsters — they were simply different. Baldur remembers this as a life that will never happen again.
In that life, he had a sister. In this one, he wears mourning for the past, having dyed his golden hair black — in her memory. In her memory, his light does not burn.
Chapter Text
Jotunheim perished, stripped of the Casket of Ancient Winters. Odin tore out its heart, claiming it for Asgard as a trophy. The cold is no longer kind to the Jotnar.
The clouds that choked the sky were dubbed "centurial" by the Jotnar in the first century after the war. By the second, they had been renamed "eternal."
The song of the ice fell silent on the final day of the war, leaving an oppressive stillness in its stead. A day prior — according to rumors that have since become legend — the blizzard mourned Jotunheim’s future, the roar of countless avalanches shook the mountains, and the birds went mad: snow falcons pecked out the eyes of dozens of Aesir before falling dead.
On the eve of the cold realm’s demise, the Frost Prince of Jotunheim was born. Loki. Loki Laufeyson. The son of Laufey, who had bound himself to these lands by sacred covenant.
By tradition, every ruler binds themselves to the earth, the waters, and the sky — to all that has lived, lives, and is destined to live — by placing a palm upon the Casket and vowing to be one in soul and body with Jotunheim.
The Jotnar say it is a rite of both beauty and agony.
Until the current covenant is superseded by a new one, Laufey is destined to feel the wounds of his native land as his own.
“Frozen Reconnaissance. The Diaries of Alve de Cola”
Alfheim: Skald Publishing
Banned from printing and distribution: Asgard
Vanaheim
Banned from printing; copies withdrawn from sale at the request of Asgard: Alfheim
Chapter 3
Notes:
Russian and English both have their complexities regarding sex and gender, so for my hermaphroditic Jotnar, I have come up with specific titles: the Jotun 'mother' bears the title Life-Giver, while the Jotun 'father' bears the title Soul-Giver. You will see these terms appear in various forms throughout the story.
I hope you love Jotunheim and the Jotnar as much as I do. And that fellow, Laufey. Oh, and yes — poor Byleistr has dyslexia.
Chapter Text
The paper is thin and slightly rough, a yellow-green hue — like dried flowers. The sealing wax that bound the letter imprinted it with the scent of roses. The seal is split in two; broken in half is the crest of the royal house of Alfheim.
To be read first in silence, and only then aloud.
Sinagil del Pleione greets his Dear Friend, Laufey of Jotunheim, as flowers greet the spring.
The sweetness of the meadow wind cannot overpower the bitterness of a long parting, nor can the lush bloom of the gardens distract from the grim sorrow that has bleached the soul at the thought of how long your voice has remained unheard. No birdsong can touch the ear as tremulously as your words do. It is impossible to forget how your cold is free to create a longing for itself greater than any longing for warmth: the sense of loss is unbearable, growing day by day. I would pull it out like a weed if I could, no matter how much I have tried, no matter how much I have begged myself to consign all thoughts of a possible reunion to oblivion. It is heavy to know of a friend's suffering; it would be heavier still to know that you are unaware of my own torments. I pray you forgive the turmoil of my soul and accept these words as a gift.
Be indulgent of the fervor of these feelings, and earnest toward their essence, Dear Friend. Do not refuse me the kindness of a meeting — one as swift as a blizzard in your lands, and as long as the darkest night. The reckless dance of the fire in your hearth shall remind us of our youth.
The new moon of my patience draws near: without an answer, the lunar silver shall dissolve into the blackest gloom.
Sinagil del Pleione
King of Alfheim and Dear Friend
Having read it a second time, now aloud, Loki smoothes the paper with his index finger. It is pleasant to the touch, seemingly still retaining the soft warmth of the hands that traced the flourishes of the letters — impeccably straight, yet hurried. A faint pressure is uncharacteristic of the Alfar King’s hand. He usually writes with meticulous care, never deforming the paper with the firmness of his grip, and yet the weave of his words is typically bright and sharp. When there is no cause for alarm.
Laufey had asked what he thought of the letter — and so Loki thinks. Setting the words aside, he examines the form before the substance. King Sinagil once told him: “Hands do not lie.” This became useful knowledge for learning to conceal his own intentions and interpret those of others; yet Sinagil taught him more than he had intended, never imagining that Loki would seek the truth not only in the movements of hands, but in what gave rise to those movements. Letters. Melodies. The body’s reactions.
Closing his eyes, he attempts to reconcile what is with what might have been. The faint pressure — haste, most likely. In the word “remind,” near the very beginning, a drop of ink is clearly visible, as if the quill had lingered. He was weighing what to write; perhaps this part of the text is more vital than what came before or after.
The flowery language is like the thorns of a briar bush; to reach the berries of meaning, one must convince oneself that the search will cause no tangible discomfort. A lie. Loki neither likes nor knows how to lie to himself. The mere attempt to read into this nonsense makes his head ache. Perhaps that was the intent? Should Asgard intercept the letter, the readers would be sickened first by the style, and then by the substance. Likely, Loki himself was expected to be embarrassed upon reading it: political intrigue dressed in the covers of a romance novel.
“For a moment, I doubted whether it is Malekith with whom His Majesty shares his nights,” Loki remarks — and sees not the slightest change in Laufey’s expression. Along with a sense of awkwardness, he feels the need to explain himself: “It was a joke.”
Laufey nods, his face remaining impassive: “A funny one.”
“Humor,” Loki inwardly convinces himself, “is a phenomenon foreign to Jotunheim. The attempt was doomed to fail.”
Still — it is sad.
He recounts what must be told: of the pressure, of the way the ink lies upon the page, where the hand wavered, and where its firmness remained beyond doubt.
While Loki was reading the paper, Laufey was reading the words. Words that he never shares in full, rewarding effort only with knowledge of the most essential.
“‘The new moon of my patience draws near,’” Laufey repeats the letter's final lines, compelling his child to become all ears, “‘without an answer, the lunar silver shall dissolve into the blackest gloom,’ Loki. This means he will arrive on the night of the lunar cycle’s first phase, whether he receives a reply or not.”
Loki bites his lip and frowns, straining to remember if he has seen anything of the kind in any of the dozens of letters he has been permitted to read. The floridity of the phrasing unfailingly bewilders him; the contents of past missives have been forgotten easily, as if they had never existed at all.
His nails dig forcefully into his palms; he realizes this only after Laufey repeats his question. Not the one asked initially — though Loki might not have caught the words, he has not had time to forget that the sound of them was different.
“By what emotion is your soul possessed, Loki?”
Despair.
No, he cannot say such a thing.
“Emotions should not hold power over me.”
“And yet?”
A flawed Jotun. He should harbor within himself the indifference of mountain ranges, yet from birth, he has carried the ferocity of winds that wear away the cliffs. He should be as constant as the ice that binds the lakes, yet he is more rebellious than a blizzard.
Jotnar should not experience emotions — nor thoughts of emotions. Loki knows who prompted his parent to utter words whose sound is unfamiliar to the cold. This knowledge is capable of causing pain; it wafts with the searing heat of Muspelheim. Duty is the only thing that should possess his essence. For a Jotun, duty is above all.
Closing his eyes — and that "and yet" on the exhale sounds like a sentence:
“And yet, I think of words whose apparent meanings possess a false essence. I think of how the final conceals the primal, and how every attempt to understand is like walking upriver, only to never find the source. The weakness of my mind breeds a sense of doom, and doom breeds rage.”
Rage makes his palms itch — he imagines gripping the hilts of daggers. Rage scrapes at his throat—he longs to scream until he goes hoarse. With the loss of his voice, the fury might also be cast out.
“The weakness of your mind breeds the strength of your body. You fail to notice,” Laufey approaches Loki and takes his hand in his own. He grips the forearm, tracing the veins with his thumb, urging him to look. “If you touch here, you will feel how fast your heart beats. By pressing here, you will feel the tension of the muscles. You are stronger now than you would be if your mind were calm and clear. This is what your rage is for.”
Loki flexes and extends his strained fingers. Concentration grants him a measure of calm, but his parent’s following words bring a desire to grimace.
“You may go to the infirmary and see if there is a fresh corpse. Practice your strikes. A few dozen swings of the sword will quell your emotions.”
“How can you…” the words escape faster than they can form into a coherent thought. Loki must take a deep breath to find the courage to voice the idea. “I cannot do such a thing. It is not… ethical.”
Whether it is merely his imagination or the truth — Laufey seems to smirk.
“It is a body, and nothing more. Whether it is given to the blade of a sword or a healer’s instrument — the only difference lies in the result: whether it yields knowledge of dealing death, or of preserving life.”
Whether it is sacrilegious to refuse knowledge, Loki has no desire to contemplate. What has been said to him is the worldview of a warrior. A ruler. Perhaps, something a healer might voice. Loki does not see himself among them; this ought to be a source of distress, yet it is not: he feels that the time has not yet come when it is imperative to be someone, to know who he truly is.
Taking his leave of Laufey, he knows not how soon their next meeting will occur. Where their paths might cross, or when.
In the corridor, a shadow detaches itself from the wall to follow at his heels. Once, the shadows were a great multitude — back when he was small and would lose count. Later, there were three shadows; now, only one remains. Shadows change. Sometimes they bring loneliness with them, sometimes they take it away. With some, he shares common blood, but not the gift of life. Others are as foreign to him as can be.
Now, it is Byleistr who is with him. He was granted a soul by the one who gave Loki life. This did not make them equals, but it left scars of similar meaning upon their skin — those that speak of lineage and birth. The legacy of Farbauti. The legacy of Laufey.
A body, and nothing more… They all, every one of them — are the bodies they have been given. Neither status, nor power, nor name. All of that belongs to the past. The scars of lineage remained upon the skin as a testament to what once was, a reflection of what happened to them and what came before them. Of those who came before them. Their own deeds and the deeds of others.
In Jotunheim, there is no present. The past is marked on skin, on paper, and on stone, within the ice. Thoughts are dedicated to the future. The present remains unnoticed, as if it does not exist at all.
If there were a present, Loki would know what word to use for Byleistr at his side. There would be something beyond a name. There would be another word, similar in meaning to the Alfar’s “brother.” Familiar to the Vanir, the Aesir, the Midgardians… but not the Jotnar. Thus, Byleistr’s presence is oppressive: it serves as a reminder of otherness. Strangers to one another, just as Loki is a stranger to any of the Nine Realms.
He stops against his own will, closing his eyes painfully and shaking his head, displeased by what occupies his mind. Byleistr stops behind him; the distance of a few paces allowed him to react quickly enough to avoid a collision. Silence. Warriors are not taught to ask questions — Loki is tormented by thoughts in the quiet. Thoughts that are inconvenient, unpleasant. Destructive. Is it not for him to decide how things are? How they will be. And how strong the bond with his family must be, whether it is considered as such in the eyes of others or not.
Loki breaks the silence by asking how much time can be spared for him. He intends to lure Byleistr into a trap as harmless as it is insidious. Loki wants Byleistr to read to him.
The threat of a nightly reading is laughable. It would be, if Loki did not know that arranging letters into words drains more strength from Byleistr than the most ferocious battle. The tremor in his hands is born not of the weight of a sword, but of the lightness of paper. Once, Loki had overheard Laufey’s request to have a letter read aloud — it was done in a tongue so strange and unknown that Loki could not resist the urge to sneak in and steal the missive. Thus, it was all the more surprising that the letter turned out to be perfectly ordinary. Even when read through magic, even when held against the flickering flame of a candle. The letter was mundane. Boring, even. Unworthy of the slightest attention. It had been more pleasant to be deceived by the fantasy of a complex cipher than to realize that the letter survived only because it held no significance. Unlike Byleistr, to whom now, decades after that incident, Loki proffers a thin, colored book. A book of fairy tales for young children.
“This one is still my favorite. Do not deny me the pleasure of enjoying the sound of your voice.”
Dear brother.
Chapter Text
Among all the gifts that accompanied power, Thor Odinson could not abide responsibility. It was not that responsibility itself repulsed him — the weight upon his shoulders came from the twisted forms that "responsibility" could take. A few weeks ago, it had transformed into the necessity of choosing a mentor for Lady Sif from among the brave warriors Asgard possessed in abundance. Who could have guessed that among the vast multitude of Einherjar, there would be no masters capable of explaining how to properly hold a sword. How a lady should properly hold a sword.
It had always brought a warmth to his chest to realize how much he could achieve because of who he was; and so, when the All-Father had readily agreed that Lady Sif was worthy of martial training, without even hearing half of the prepared arguments, it felt especially pleasant. Now, however, it feels particularly foul: the ease of obtaining the All-Father's consent was eclipsed by the arduousness of the search for a mentor. Thor would have deemed it impossible after the first day, had he not been firmly convinced that he could bend the impossible to his own will. Otherwise, he would not be called the son of Odin.
Sound thoughts were lost among a clutter of idle ones, just as he was lost among the blooms of the palace gardens. Reaching the fountain, he looked around as if preparing to do something utterly unseemly; having ensured he was alone, he sat upon the stone parapet. He began to pull off his boots. The pale stone had not yet fully warmed by midday, and the water seemed to have come to the fountain straight from the mountain springs of Jotunheim — Thor shivered as he dipped his bare feet beneath the wild spray. He leaned down to catch a sodden green leaf with his fingertips. It stuck to his skin, forcing him to shake his hand like a cat with a wet paw.
Why must everything be so difficult…
His brother told him of the Valkyries. He told of how majestic and deadly they were, their horses' wings like snow-white clouds eclipsing the sun. They are to be found no longer. It would be enough for Thor to find just one of them, even if not the most formidable, even if he had to plead... But where to find one, if it has been said more than once: they are gone, and shall be no more.
As a mentor, he himself would be laughable: what business has he with maidens as lithe and slender as a willow branch? His hands are not accustomed to the lightness of a sword; he has been faithful to Mjolnir for centuries. His body knows not the predatory grace of a lynx — straight through and only so, such is his way in battle. There is no hope of hearing useful advice from Baldur, for the very thought of dealing death is repugnant to him; a warrior to be envied by many, yet blood has not washed his hands for a long time. Perhaps it is possible to glean other knowledge from his brother? Longing to know more of the Valkyries, Thor had searched every shelf of the palace library in his childhood — and found nothing. He had not looked in Baldur's hall. Since his brother was more knowledgeable about the Valkyries than the local writings, he might have at least one suitable book lying around in his hall.
Therefore, he must ask permission to go to Breidablik.
Doubts make his steps heavy from the moment Thor struggles to pull his boots onto wet feet and sets off to the All-Father. What if the search consumes time and grants nothing in return? What if his decision was wrong from the start? Sif's disappointment would destroy him — with not a single fiber of his being does he wish for the ruin of her hopes. Sif is dear to him as a kind friend. The suffering of friends wounds deeply; their pain is his own.
Thor does not expect the guards to stop him before the doors of the throne room: the All-Father has a visitor.
Half an hour of overhearing others' talk becomes an ordeal for him. Doubts take root in his soul, far weightier than those that plagued him before. He questions whether he acted with honor from the start — encouraging Sif with loud promises and instilling a firm faith in success within her, even if, at that moment, he believed in the fulfillment of his scheme more than anyone else.
The doors open soundlessly. Only the chime of armor from the retreating Einherjar lets Thor know that the meeting is over.
Baldur’s tread is light and noiseless. Thor knows not if their encounter is a sign, but it seems to lend him strength. Yet he finds no chance to voice his request; his brother’s word rings out first:
“There is unrest in Vanaheim. I am ordered to set out with an army immediately, and you are to join us.”
The thirst for battle settles within him with far greater readiness than the intent to leaf through dusty books. It is as if, for days and weeks before, only the morning dew had quenched his need for water, and now he has taken a generous draught from a spring.
“I — yes, of course, right now,” Thor stammers in reply. His thoughts are clear; the tips of his fingers prickle with static.
There is only a sigh from the elder brother. In him, there is none of the jubilation that overcomes Thor; for him, there is no pleasure in gripping a weapon.
The seal of pensiveness — or perhaps unbearable grief — had always been upon Baldur’s face, for as long as Thor could remember. Sorrow for people or for the passing years, who could say? But his brother never spoke of it. He never said why the white gold of his hair had turned to coal, or why there were no daisies in his braids — “white as Baldur’s lashes.” Why he no longer radiated the warmth of the spring sun.
Could it all have been but an illusion? In their songs, the skalds do not lavish false flattery. Their sagas are laudatory, yet they were never fables.
“Brother, whatever anxiety may be in your soul…” Thor begins.
Baldur places a hand on his arm, giving it a slight squeeze.
“Grant me silence. There is no need for you to add mine to your own anxieties. I dream ill dreams, and their visions occupy my mind — that is all you must and need to know, Thor. Seek no answers and do not draw me into conversation; instead, choose the sturdiest horses. We must reach the Bifrost.”
“For you — my words of comfort. And my silence is for you as well.”
Why does his heart ache so for him? He longs to pull his brother into a firm embrace, to touch his brow to his, and swear to keep all his feelings in secret. To divide all his grief between the two of them, to take his pain and endure it as his own.
In Vanaheim, there are outlanders who have come from beyond the Nine. Thor grows anxious when his brother looks upon them with alien, avian eyes: Baldur is simultaneously upon the earth and a falcon in the sky, his soul dwelling within another creature. It is a vulnerable state. Should anyone loose an arrow at him, he would not dodge, nor could he defend himself. Only the forest stands as his shield, and nothing more.
Thor longs to cast it all aside — to charge into the fray recklessly, brutally, heedless of the best way to approach. It would be all the same: Mjolnir would sweep heads from shoulders, two at once or two dozen.
He was ordered not to interfere. To subdue the bloodlust, to forget the way the hammer hums invitely in his palm.
To spare as many lives as possible. As if a trial would be more just than death for those who plundered villages and slaughtered innocent souls like cattle. As if one could be merciful toward enemies. Toward killers, thieves, and ravishers.
Baldur’s arm bars Thor’s path the very moment he loses control and lunges forward. In a harsh whisper:
“Be still, you fool!”
Then, with silent gestures, Baldur issues his commands.
Divide.
Isolate.
Disarm.
Thor would have scorched them, every last one. Seared them with lightning, leaving only heaps of ash as the sum of his wrath. Blood for blood, life for life.
Through gritted teeth and impatience:
“Let me do something, at least.”
“Learn patience.”
Thor learns. The clouds gather.
Notes:
In the MCU, Thor’s character was significantly shaped by having a younger brother — one who was initially dutiful, eager to please, and who couldn't imagine himself without Thor. In this story, however, it is Baldur who has influenced Thor. This shift makes Thor more empathetic and contemplative than his cinematic counterpart, though both brothers remain, first and foremost, their father’s sons.
Chapter Text
He is a sacrifice upon the altar of others' ambitions. With trembling fingertips and a body bound by ice — his blood has frozen in a gesture of resignation before fate. It will flow hot and thick when the time comes to atone for the mistake of his own birth. The Giver of Life shall be the one to take it away.
He is two days old. He is seven hundred years old.
The roar of Asgardian engines shakes the mountains; the wicked clang of metal and the crunch of the ice-weapons meeting it draw closer. Defeat is near. The end is near.
The winds keen for Jotunheim’s past; they have worn down the dark stone of the temples and buried the fragments beneath the snows. The world is silent beyond the crumbling walls.
In his gaze, there is no accusation — he has not yet learned how to blame. The world outside is brighter than the redness of his eyes, flooded with blood. The world outside is louder than his weeping — a will to live cries out defiantly, yet a quiet death is ordained for him. He knows nothing of it; he has not yet come to know death, just as he has not yet had time to know life.
In his gaze, there is resignation — seven hundred years are enough to understand. His life and these seven hundred years were bought in exchange for hundreds of lives and thousands of years. His non-existence should have turned into victory; his being has doomed them to defeat. He understands, and his protest is nothing but the trembling of his fingers. No bonds are needed to hold him in place; no lies are required.
He is a sacrifice upon the altar of others' ambitions.
Loki. Loft. Lodur. Hvedrung.
A name given by the enemy. A name of the same blood. A name gifted along with life. A name chosen by the Giver of the Soul.
The first name was not upon his skin — it came with the touch of the enemy. The other three came with pain: they were carved along with the ancestral scars, back when there was no doubt whether he was destined to live.
The first time the dagger was raised over him was before the first name. The second time — because of it.
There is no grip firmer than the grip of a parent ready to slay their child in the name of ambition.
Salvation is not love. Salvation lies in the fact that it is too late. Hours ago, the precious blood became blood that is worth nothing. Until the new name. Until he is destined to find himself so close to the enemy that this proximity is akin to an alliance.
Salvation is in greed. Salvation is in the thirst for greatness. To claim the enemy’s child upon concluding a peace is a silent victory. To prevent this is equal to defense. Both remained with what they had. Both were left with nothing. Both gained more than they could have by doing what was intended. Such is the essence of a trickster. It has been within him since birth, with the multiplicity of names, the multiplicity of victories and defeats — of what is destined for him and what he shall never reach.
The dagger descends. Not to pierce the blue skin, not to breach the barrier of flesh or make the hot blood spray. Not to kill. The dagger is now in his own palm. Blue lips touch his brow with cold.
He must sacrifice himself.
The warmth of a touch awakens him from the dream at the very moment he closes the fingers of his second hand around the hilt of the dagger to drive it into his belly. A palm is pressed against his damp forehead.
“I thought you were feverish.”
Tens of kilometers from home, in one of the winter huts on the way to the Ironwood. Someone thought he was feverish.
Loki winces before opening his eyes.
“Ngai-I… Something to write with.”
Upon the approaches to Járnvidr, strange dreams always haunt him. They vanish from memory swiftly, fading with every rustle of the dark elf’s garments as he searches his inner pockets for writing implements. Loki records the figures and the titles: two numbers, two names. Once they are captured, nothing remains in his mind save for a vague, lingering trepidation.
Ngai-I seats himself upon the bed, close by, pressing down the variegated furs without so much as shedding the mantle from his shoulders. His skin is dark, as is the way of many Svartálfar, yet his hair is as white as the blizzard raging beyond the window. In his eyes, however, smolders a crimson fire. Loki knows the lie of his Jotun heritage as well as he knows the truth — that Ngai-I was sired by Svartalfheim itself. The fire within him comes from Jotun ancestors more distant than the legend of his life would suggest. Loki accedes to the falsehood only because Laufey once offered a warning: a spy you know at a distance is a lesser threat than an unknown spy in your proximity.
Loki does not always succeed in keeping this one at arm’s length.
“I presume you were watching me,” Loki sighs, rubbing his cheek with his palm.
“The weather has turned this excursion into a tiresome misunderstanding.”
“Usually, you do not venture quite so close…”
“…unless there is a need to warm your bed,” the elf retorts, returning the jibe. In the air, Loki traces a score of 1:1.
Sharing a winter hut barely large enough for a Jotun’s existence is an intimacy of another sort. Furthermore, Loki built the greater part of it himself. Some of it with magic, some by splintering his own hands. Other wayfarers had left a multitude of curious things behind. Someone had hammered together the bed; from another, a variety of mismatched vessels remained, even a portable stove. Loki would have sworn that some Light Elf had dragged in a painting of a summer forest landscape, had he not deemed it too improbable that a Ljósálfr could ever reach the wilds of Jotunheim. And yet, the painting hangs.
The windowpane is bleached white with snow — so violently has the weather erupted. The blizzard might drag on for days. Clicking his tongue, Loki voices these thoughts aloud.
“We shall need to ration the food and water. To scoop snow from without is to let the frost within. There is little firewood left.”
Ngai-I begins to speak, his mouth already parting, but Loki cuts him short by pressing a finger to his lips. He takes the elf by the chin, searching his eyes. He sighs.
“I should like to be the one for whom you might lose your head. Instead, I condemn you to a death far too mediocre for Jotunheim. Death by frostbite.”
Dark fingers tighten around his wrist — Ngai-I pulls the hand away only to turn it, exposing the back of the palm. He presses his lips to each knuckle in turn.
“You shall always be the one for whom I might lose my head. And, I beg of you… read fewer light novels. Otherwise, you shall surely be infected by the Svartálfar's stupidity. You might decide that we actually feel something for one another. What a tragedy…”
Loki closes his eyes and gives a weary nod: indeed. What a tragedy…
The tragedy lay in the fact that his little game of enchantment had grown tedious. He had chosen this Dark Elf for the ease with which emotions and feelings could be drawn from him, like thread from a distaff, to weave a tapestry of magic. Such ease is a generosity no Jotun would ever grant — even their rage exists in equal measure with calculation. Ngai-I had fooled him by choosing to yield of his own volition. There is no interest in using magic to manipulate one who is ready to surrender to mere words.
The interest would lie in the question of whether Loki might ask him to drink poison.
Loki flinches, his brow furrowing. “Do you possess enough strength to shadow me even in Alfheim?”
“Like any jealous lover, I wish to be privy to your escapades.”
Like any spy — he is obligated to be. And yet, Loki had been certain that his prank would remain only between himself and the terrified elf assigned to him in the Alfheim palace. He is prepared to deny everything.
Ngai-I is prepared for something far worse. Loki suspects he intends to tear his heart and soul asunder. Otherwise, he would not be clasping Loki’s hand, warming it with the heat of his own, so softly yet so firmly. Otherwise, there would be no such ominous spark in the darkness of his eyes. Otherwise, he would not have begun, his voice thick with breath:
“You were frightened, trembling like a small beast in a hawk’s talons when you burst into the chambers. You spoke of Asgard seeking you — to finish what began during the last war. The Aesir require your blood and your death. Alfheim does not wish to be branded a traitor or to incur the wrath of the Aesir; therefore, should you escape, the small, cowardly, and weak elf shall be surrendered to Asgard at dawn.”
He tightens his grip on Loki’s palm.
“…he was unfortunate enough to linger near you; he knows your habits, and the Aesir will torture him to learn where you might have vanished. They will shatter his joints and sear his organs one by one with lightning — those organs without which one does not perish instantly, but from the pain of which one might desire death above all else. You pressed a vial into his palm and said: ‘This is poison. Death without suffering.’ And you watched as he was seized by a heavy tremor, watched his face, red and swollen with tears, watched as…”
“Enough!”
To gasp for air and find no sustenance in it — that is all Loki is granted now. To press a palm to his chest, to feel his skin grow damp with sweat, his tunic clinging to his back; the more rapidly he breathes, the less air remains for him.
He is nauseated, and his head spins.
It was a sedative. A potent sedative that took effect almost instantly. And no one was harmed. Loki had reached into the mind of that foolish, red-haired elf while he was unconscious and struck from his memory that which might have driven him mad.
No one was harmed.
The entire scheme was merely to discern: would fear compel him to seek aid in hiding, or would loyalty bid him do what must be done?
“You laughed,” Ngai-I says, stroking his hair, his back, “once you revealed it was all a jest. But you did not take back the ‘poison.’ The elf did not believe you, and he drank every last drop. Because, knowing you, he feared you far more than any promised torture.”
A kiss — upon his burning temple, like a poisoned dart. It brings a sickness, as do the words:
“I am proud of you. Your reluctance to spill blood has not diminished your cruelty.”
Loki is struck with horror at how easily others possess the knowledge that his memory, and his alone, should guard. What else, through ignorance…
The torrent of thoughts is severed by a persistent instruction on how to breathe. Death by panic is unusual for Jotunheim—and immeasurably foolish. A fish that has drowned in open air — that is what he shall become if he does not master his emotions. They grant no strength, regardless of what Laufey might say. Emotions such as these grant nothing. One requires realization for them to transmute into rage.
With eyes closed, Loki breathes.
And he flings open his heart to the cruelty that so fascinates Ngai-I.
“You shall go out into the blizzard, to tremble from the cold just as I have trembled from your words. You shall wash your face with snow — those are the tears I have not wept. Accept the lashing wind as you would accept a blow to the face from my hand.”
There is submission in his slow nod and in the way the Dark Elf rises to his feet. He unlaces the fastenings of his warm mantle. It falls to his feet as garments fall from lovers in the night. It strips his soul bare. His loyalty to Loki is his loyalty to Svartalfheim.
He removes his footwear, his outer raiment. And barefoot, clad only in a light tunic, he steps out into the blizzard.
Holding the door slightly ajar, Loki watches him through a slender gap. He sees Ngai-I take a step from the porch and come to a halt. He resists the wind that strives to sweep him from his feet, and he stoops to scoop snow into his palms. He washes his face. Loki sees only his back — straight, taut — and the way the snow clings in its whiteness to his hair and clothes.
There is not the slightest pleasure in this. The command is merely to steady the scales. In the name of retribution: pain for pain, fear for fear. It shall be thus and no other way; through the centuries, a single method of restoring justice has endured — ancient and efficacious.
Ice shards scratch the skin like shattered glass; the fury of the elements is the fury of a parent avenging their child. Jotunheim was never merciful to strangers, nor was it ever tender enough toward its own children.
Loki decides: “Enough,” only when the pallor of the Dark Elf’s skin begins to rival the whiteness of the snow.
Within the winter hut, pools of meltwater do not form at once; the snow gathered upon Ngai-I’s shoulders and hair melts slowly, as if with reluctance. His tunic is soaked through, clinging to his body and turning translucent. His hair is tangled, darkened by the moisture. And yet, there remains something in the elf’s eyes that makes one wish to cast him out into the frost once more. But he would only perish.
With a sweep of his hand, his fingers woven into a somatic gesture, Loki summons dim white spheres. They ought to provide warmth, though the cost to sustain them shall be no light burden.
“For Mimir’s sake, strip off those rags — since I did not cut them from you — and get beneath the furs at once. That is an order. If you die, you will reek. If I leave you outside, the scavengers will swarm to feast as soon as the storm abates.”
“My Prince, your magnanimity…”
Loki snarls: “Move!”
Ngai-I laughs, only to be seized by a fit of coughing. Loki vows to sew his mouth shut; that shall be the antidote to the poison of his words.
The furious, crimson fire of Jotun eyes offers more warmth than a heap of furs or the white light of sorcery. Rage is the supreme virtue of Svartalfheim — the supreme and the only one. Those nurtured by war can possess no other, and thus it brings Ngai-I such immense pleasure to hear Loki’s shout, to feel his gaze sharper than blades, and to see him bare his pointed fangs. The realization of this is loathsome to Loki: he has no desire to be a weapon forged in the flames of another’s war, yet he was not destined from birth to be the perfect creation of Jotunheim either.
Hooking a cumbersome chair by the crossbar of its back, Loki drags it closer to the bed, placing it directly opposite, exactly as one would for an interrogation. He had observed such a thing a time or two, yielding to Laufey’s desire to show him how the will is broken by words, and bones by… None of this shall he employ. He requires only the atmosphere. Distance. Both complex and primitive ways to signal the nature of the conversation he expects and its purpose.
Leg over leg, a straight line of the shoulders. It is not difficult to pose a question; it is difficult to pose the right question.
“Who recounted what transpired in Alfheim?”
Ngai-I purses his lips for a fleeting moment, as if the question disappointed him. He corrects him:
“It would be far more beneficial for you to know how it became known. Have you never noticed how thin the walls are in those chambers? Never heard footsteps behind them? Not those near the doors leading to the corridors, but those behind which nothing ought to exist.”
Loki listens to the tale of interwoven secret passages. Knowledge far more precious than that which he initially sought to obtain. Knowledge that might shield him from many, yet not from Ngai-I — for who his eyes and ears truly are in Alfheim, Loki shall not learn.
Notes:
Despite the ambiguity of certain gestures, Loki and Ngai-I are definitely not in a romantic relationship. Their bond is built on a foundation of sarcasm, mutual provocation, and a subtle intellectual game... and quite possibly, they are both just impossible.
Chapter Text
A slender sliver of the moon is scarcely visible.
Within the palace ruins, the voices of the winds have lost their way. The blizzard howls in one’s ear, yet Laufey continues to count the dim lights of nocturnal Utgard with an unblinking gaze. The northern wall fell long ago, having taken the first brunt of Asgard’s hosts; now, it serves as a window into the night. A reminder of treachery and weakness.
“Is everything prepared?” he asks.
Ancient sorcery must shroud them from the gaze of the Bifrost’s guardian. It must stop his ears and cast Odin’s hound off the scent. It must make this scrap of frozen earth so loathsome that one would wish to turn their back upon it, to forget it, to desire no knowledge of it.
The dark fringe of the forest lies somewhere in the distance; somewhere in the distance is his child. Somewhere in the distance — Asgard’s problem. Somewhere in the distance — Asgard’s bane. One would wish to believe it so. One would wish to know: it shall be so.
Seven hundred years have passed since the moment the dagger, intended for death, etched the scars of the lineage upon the child’s skin, sealing the command of protection with blood and pain, though failing to seal a name in time. Had the clangor of weapons and the thunder of explosions been further away, Laufey might have managed to trade the life of one for the lives of many; time stripped him of that opportunity, just as Odin stripped him of the right to name the child. Yet Laufey had taken Odin’s eye first — as a consolation, as if to ensure he did not walk away with nothing.
The Casket of Ancient Winters he could not win back, nor could he ever; Odin had claimed it as tribute.
Hvedrung-Lodur-Loft — Odin had taken him, too. All the names with which Laufey had intended to christen the child lost their potency after the touch that stained the blue skin with snowy pallor.
He had managed to win back Loki — the one who did not become an Aesir, and who, by that time, had utterly ceased to be a Jotun. A child who looked upon the one who sired him as a stranger, and to whom all the Nine Realms had become alien. Asgard had intended to claim him, like the Casket, but Laufey found himself in sharp, aching need of this child. Enough so to decide upon a bargain.
“This is Asgard’s problem,” he had resolved then. It was within his power to ensure that, through the years, this problem would ripen into a catastrophe and consume Asgard from within.
From behind him comes a chill more piercing than the winds of Jotunheim: Malekith chills to the bone even here. The hems of a heavy fur coat slide with a rustle, sweeping the wind-worn stone: thus Sinagil announces his presence.
“Is there anything here one might set ablaze?” the elf furrows his fair brows, shaking snow-dust from an old, frozen sofa.
Today, he has no desire to squander pleasantries or pour honey into ears. His tongue would sooner freeze to his palate than Sinagil would deign to chill his throat with idle chatter.
Laufey smirks: “You might try to cut a swatch from our mutual friend’s garments, should he wish to play along and distract himself.”
Malekith casts a look at the elf as if upon something utterly foul: “After his touch, I shall not be able to wash the stench of roses from myself for a week.”
“I suppose I should offer my sincere sympathies to our mutual friend: he is deprived of the pleasure of wallowing in filth until his return to Svartalfheim.”
Sinagil and Malekith snap at one another as if they wish to sink their teeth into each other’s throats, rather than each other’s lips.
Laufey remains in tense silence, as though he still believes they cannot endure one another’s company — rather than having ordered a single chamber for the two of them. As he did last time. As he did before, and as he always does.
At times, one wishes to take each by the scruff of the neck, to shake them and bring them to their senses, yet that would be of no benefit. Should they cease their pretense, they might forget themselves and fail to maintain their sincerity before others. They must not. One must accept the lie as sincerity, mentally twisting it into the truth.
When the bickering loses its vehemence, Laufey decides the scene may be interrupted. He asks what has troubled his Dear Friend so deeply that a gathering was indispensable.
They have little time. The veils of concealment are short-lived. Not with the volume of resources currently at their disposal.
The straightness of Sinagil’s back betrays his tension as he smoothes the fur of his cumbersome coat with extraordinary focus. His fingers are lost in the whiteness; it cannot be seen, but his nails dig in until his hands tremble. For Asgard has decided the time has come. While Odin has chosen to challenge one of the realms, the plague of his ambitions already threatens the others.
Malekith squints, his voice mocking: “Our swords are always sharp, but what do you sharpen — quills?”
A vertical crease settles between the elf’s brows, and Laufey raises a palm, severing the onset of conflict.
“We may attempt diplomacy to gain time to sharpen as many swords as possible before the last quills are worn down and the paper is torn to shreds. However, to draw closer to Asgard…”
“…is better on our own terms,” Sinagil completes the thought, though not as intended. The conclusion was not to his liking beforehand. “The common interest lies in not losing contact with Loki after he departs for Asgard. Consequently, he must step into the light and remain in its rays long enough for his disappearance to cause a widespread resonance.”
Sinagil slides his fingers into his sleeve and produces an envelope — the vibrant green of the paper and the pink wax of the seal — and, true to the habit of never passing anything from hand to hand to bypass guards, he offers it to Malekith. A gesture of trust, betraying the hidden depths of their intimacy. Without a flicker of emotion, Malekith hands the letter to Laufey. The dark elf’s palm bears the imprint of roses — he brings his fingers to his face and curls his lip at the scent of flowers. In their pairing, he is accustomed to the smell of char: all letters from Alfheim are eventually consigned to the flames.
“Why not burn Asgard to the fiery hells,” Malekith suggests as Laufey breaks the seal, “while all eyes are fixed upon Jotunheim? Surtur…”
“…is dead to all, and so let him remain,” Sinagil interrupts him. “The time has not yet come.”
“It shall never come if we do not begin to act.”
Laufey rebukes them like children.
“Shall we deliberate on who will be the first to pluck Odin by the beard?”
Sinagil and Malekith turn their gazes away from each other. One seeks to shroud everything in white flags; the other, to stain it with blood. From their incessant wrangling, a headache throbs; one would be endlessly at fault to either the one or the other by failing to account for a single opinion in their shared game.
Three equal slivers of ice lie upon Laufey’s palm. From one, he breaks off a third; from the second, a half. He covers them with his other hand and shakes them, mixing them.
“Svartalfheim proposes the path of open conflict — we shall do so if the short straw remains. Should the medium one remain, we shall heed Alfheim, however convoluted the plan may be. Jotunheim… is against interaction with Asgard — it shall be so if no one is destined to draw the long straw.”
Malekith is first. He snatches the narrow sliver of ice with such force he nearly snaps it. The long one. It shatters into fragments upon the ground the moment Sinagil draws the short one.
What has been predestined by the Norns cannot be contested — they know this. They know: the time has come for Alfheim to forge the destiny of their worlds.
Chapter Text
The writing stylus, soaked in resinous ink, glides effortlessly across the vellum, leaving behind a ligature of Asgardian symbols. The rounded script bears no resemblance to the handwriting of the Aesir; none among them would permit themselves to distort the pattern of the runes so severely.
Only one word — and then a second — stands out sharply: “Odinson.” The stylus nearly snaps under the pressure.
“My Prince, what is it you wish to break: your fingers, the stylus, or the table? Does the sequence matter?”
Loki shakes his hand; the ink is thick with cold.
They were fated to remain in the winter hut for a long time. Every hour, they had to clear the snow from before the door; otherwise, to open it was to plunge face-first into a snowdrift. The flames lazily soot the dense wood; there is warmth enough to keep from freezing, yet not enough to get warm. Two waterskins filled with boiled meltwater serve alternately to heat the bed and the body. With every new burn against the metal of the ladles, Ngai-I’s cursing grows more artless; there is no pleasure in listening to him.
“Warm the bed,” Loki responds dryly, his gaze boring into the vellum. “If you die, you’ll stink. If you freeze, you’ll surely die.”
“And I shall stink?”
“Inevitably.”
“Will you shed a tear of sorrow for me?”
“All the insincerity of my feelings is for you.”
“Does pity for my mediocre death no longer touch your heart with the sting of the first snow?”
“No. You are...”
“Vexing you? Distressing you?”
“Driving me mad with your chatter.”
The dark elf grunts. He wipes his face with an open palm. Fatigue is the trembling of his hands. Fatigue is the blunted weapon of his words. Fatigue is resignation.
Tucking one hot waterskin beneath his tunic, he carries the second to Loki. The latter halts the gesture with a palm: you need it more.
Loki burns eldritch candles to light the room, his gaze boring into the records. He has been this way since yesterday evening, since the moment the crystal register among his belongings announced a message with a brief chime and symbols upon its dull, translucent screen: Laufey had commanded him to tarry no longer than the quarter moon and to consider inviting Odin’s heirs to Jotunheim. His Majesty has lost his mind, Loki had concluded then, flatly refusing to seek help. Yet, he sat down to write the letter.
Could madness seize the mind without a close encounter? To call upon Asgard is truly madness. Yet it is the only plan for escaping this snowy deathtrap anytime soon.
Peering at the vellum from behind Loki’s back, Ngai-I reads:
“Hatred is like a blade that wounds both ways. Let the weapons of our ancestors remain with our fathers.”
The stylus slips from fingers weakened by tension. For the sake of those two lines, Loki had to turn himself inside out, to seek out that which was loathsome to his very essence, and to clothe that feeling in words. A lie, hideous in its allure.
“I do not believe what I write.”
He does not believe that he could ever easily cast aside the history that found its anchor upon his skin, etched in the patterns of his ancestral scars. That he would ever refuse the honor of taking up the weapons of his forebears, to continue the struggle for their ideals, their visions, their dreams. That Reginbanir would ever become merely a weapon. Merely a name. Nothing to him.
Blood for blood. Fear for fear. Death for death.
A rare smile touches the dark elf’s lips.
“You needn’t believe it. Moreover, it would be harmful for you to do so. Do not torture yourself over this letter; it has already said enough.”
Prince of the Blood, Loki Laufeyson of Jotunheim
To the Prince of Asgard, Thor Odinson
“Hatred is like a blade that wounds both ways. Let the weapons of our ancestors remain with our fathers.”
The sincerity of his intentions would be confirmed by the permission to pass through the gates of Utgard. Those words had been much easier to write — addressed to the elder and the younger of Odin’s sons.
A brief flash — Loki cuts his palm with a dagger of pure ice. Dipping his thumb into his own blood, he confirms the authenticity of the documents with his print.
Strips of clean cloth, a bowl of warm water — Ngai-I lays everything out on the floor, near the table. Silently, he settles at Loki’s feet to wash the wound and bandage the hand. He frowns, debating what to do with the bluish water. He will wring the cloth dry and cast it into the fire. Но blood with water... such wastefulness is impermissible.
Red eyes look down from above — with curiosity. Loki’s impatience is betrayed by the slight swaying of his leg. A sigh. The way he briefly purses — then licks — his lips. He squints, and in his eyes — fire.
Come on, then! Ask!
Loki leans forward: he craves the question.
A capitulation under the onslaught of another’s warmth and silence. A silence so loud, it is unbearable.
“My Prince... the knowledge that your blood lies somewhere upon the snow will not give me a moment’s peace. One cannot treat it so.”
“Because it is mine?”
“Yes. Because it is yours,” he smoothes the dry bandage. He touches the wrist with the pad of his finger, a stroke — along the fork of the translucent blue vein.
Head tilted to the side — Loki diligently feigns that the idea on the brink of madness is not in his thoughts.
Legends say that poison holds no power over the rulers of Jotunheim — that their very blood is venomous. It nourishes their bodies, only making them stronger, likening them to itself. Blood upon the skin is a burn of ice.
A charming rumor. One of his — Loki’s — finest creations. A work as intricate and laborious as carving upon fishbone. His blood — and his alone, no one else’s — stings with cold, yet through words, whispers, and marginalia in ancient books, a reality was forged in which Laufey’s blood is the same. The blood of his entire lineage is such. However, the poison — that is the truth. In its original essence, it was wrought through years of ingesting small doses, so the body might be capable of resisting greater ones.
The smooth wood of the bowl touches the dark elf’s lips. Loki commands him:
“Drink.”
Reverence. Terror. Eyes locked upon eyes — much is exchanged, and Loki finally feels avenged for his own fear. This scheme is far better than driving a servant out into the frost. It is a way to prove true devotion.
The empty bowl settles onto the floor with a dull thud.
Cold, thin lips touch moist, trembling ones, only for a fleeting moment.
“Good boy. Give me time to contact Asgard. I intend to deliver the invitations in person.”
Chapter Text
Thor touches his tongue to the pad of his finger and turns the page.
The first line reads: “Know your ally as you know your enemy: for he may always become such.”
Odin’s scion knits his fair brows; he mislikes it. There is excessive distrust in these words; to follow such counsel is to fear a knife in the back all one’s life. To have neither friends nor a sturdy shoulder to lean upon without fear or anxiety. To voluntarily strip one’s life of the light of trust.
Sighing, he slams the book shut. He closes his eyes, tilting his head back slightly.
A shiver runs through his entire body — a stranger’s voice in his head, in his thoughts. He cannot suppress a curse. Heimdall, an old friend, could have chosen another way to deliver news, one that would not make him jump like a startled rabbit.
“Your immediate presence is required in Himinbjorg. Such is the will of the envoy of Jotunheim. He wishes to deliver the message in person.”
Thor snaps his eyes open. The glint of gold within them fades as soon as he answers that he will arrive faster than the wind.
A multitude of questions fight one another like predatory wolves, struggling for the title of the paramount concern to be pondered as swiftly as possible. Will they truly open the gates of Asgard to Jotunheim? Were the Frost Giants not destroyed centuries ago? Why does Jotunheim seek him, of all people? And where, in Bor’s name, can a steed be found in Breidablik? Especially in his brother’s absence.
In Baldur’s blooming mountain hall, hidden among clouds as soft and light as swan’s down, there is not a single Aesir servant. Magic drapes the hall like a translucent veil; looped household spells prickle the skin with static electricity the moment one steps into their designated domain. The silence is peaceful, yet a deep sorrow takes hold of Thor in moments when the only voice he hears is his own.
A hall bereft of servants is bereft of bustle — and of help in navigating the labyrinth of its walls. Searching for a staircase, Thor wanders into a dead end and, fighting the urge to snap at the foolish, useless nook, turns back. He will shorten the path to the ground floor through a window, and he shall prefer flight upon Mjolnir to a steed.
The window yields not at once, opening with a creaking sob. A moment later, Thor stands firmly upon the ground, whirling Mjolnir.
The rarefied mountain air, yielding and meeting the power of Mjolnir without resistance, is not soon replaced by the dense viscosity of coastal winds; Thor has long ago learned a simple truth: proximity to the clouds favors speed. The price for this is lightheadedness and heavy breathing. He pays it all like small change, with the readiness and generosity of a rich man who has never had to earn a day's wages. Mastery over the elements is intoxicating, and there, in Himinbjorg, long after his boots touch the golden firmament of the floor, his gaze remains glazed, and his cheeks and neck are flushed.
One last uneven breath — and agitation takes possession of him entirely.
“Heimdall, what is this urgent business?”
Once again, anxious thoughts set to their wolfish brawling. Who is this envoy? Why so swift, so sudden? And what sound do the bones of giants make when they break…
The steadiness of Heimdall’s voice is like the soothing hum of interstellar spaces:
“I am permitted to see deeds and to hear that which is deemed necessary to be spoken. The secrets of thoughts and aspirations are not known to me. I dare hope yours are full of prudence. Diplomacy does not tolerate the warmth of a sword’s hilt.”
Catching himself, Thor unclenches his fist; he had been gripping his faithful hammer until his bruised knuckles turned white.
In the rainbow flash of the Bifrost, Thor expects to see something towering and sturdy as a mountain. A wild, animalistic gaze and the improper nakedness of a body.
But the rainbow flash holds something else entirely. Thor chokes on his breath, struggling to suppress a cough.
The Jotun is a youth.
Shorter than Thor himself, with features so fine and sharp, it is as if he were assembled entirely from shards of crystal ice. With a thin, insolent smile — a chance scratch upon a block of ice — and serious eyes; to believe in their sincerity would be suicidal. The gold of the observatory drowns in their redness. Thor feels nauseated; he imagines bloodstains upon the walls.
The youth addresses Heimdall. “Shall I present the papers confirming my authority?”
“There is no need, Your Highness.”
A stray smile and a squint of the eyes follow in response.
“Odinson...” he sounds like a snake slithering out of high grass. He sounds like a mist creeping along the ground. “...You are staring. Shall I spin around for you?”
And he turns on his heels. The heavy fur coat barely sways with the gesture, but before Thor’s eyes, the world somersaults. From shock. From the sheer insolence.
The youth smiles, baring sharp teeth: “I am as much a curiosity to you as you are to me. Thus, it is only proper that we accept this awkwardness as a given.”
“Your Highness,” a new voice speaks from behind the Jotun; Thor’s core turns cold as he realizes it belongs to a Dark Elf, “you are overbearing. Excessively so.”
“You haven’t introduced me.”
“Thor Odinson,” Thor finds his voice. At least in this, he is first.
In two long, swift strides, the Jotun covers the distance between them. Before Thor can gather his wits, he seizes Thor's wrist in a semblance of a handshake. Odin’s son counts the seconds before his armor flakes off and his hand turns black.
It does not happen.
With fingers numb from agitation, he squeezes the blue wrist in return. Cool, smooth skin marked by the patterns of scarred tracery. Without thinking, Thor strokes up and down with the pad of his finger. It feels like coastal pebbles.
“Loki Laufeyson. Do you intend to let go of my hand?”
His fingers release abruptly, awkwardly. A thought flashes: Baldur would have held himself better.
From the sleeve of his fur coat, Loki produces four sheets of paper. Upon closer inspection, it becomes clear they are of parchment. He proffers them lightly, passing them directly from hand to hand. Not everyone follows such a gesture — his brother had explained this once, yet by this moment, Thor has forgotten it all. Uncertainly, using two fingers, he takes what is offered.
“On behalf of Jotunheim, I invite the sons of Odin to visit the capital, Utgard, in honor of the anniversary of the peace treaty between our worlds. This is not an invitation to an audience, for objective reasons; however, it is a general celebration of which you may become a part, should you desire.”
Thor breaks the enchanted ice seal on the envelope addressed to him.
“...And should I lack the desire?” he asks, without lifting his eyes from the letter.
“I shall accept your coldness and acknowledge that your fathers’ enmity is dearer to you than the proximity I offer. Thor Odinson.”
His name from the Jotun’s lips is a commanding gesture. Illusory, on the verge of tangled senses rather than reality, the gesture is akin to thin fingers digging into his chin, forcing him to wrench his gaze from the sparse lines of the letter. His name from the Jotun’s lips is a provocation, a challenge.
Thor purses his lips, searching for a way to strike back with a word.
“Your father does not approve of this… union?” Thor finally manages.
The parchment crinkles between his fingers.
Cold radiates from the blue skin. Danger lingers in the eyes before him. His own blood — the blood of Thor Odinson — is what this Jotun might spill, should he choose to trust.
The answer forces him to exert every effort to keep his face composed.
“He will accept my decision. Such is the will of Laufey — to vest me with the power to mediate between worlds. Therefore, my diplomatic will is his will as well.”
“This is madness and demagoguery,” the words escape Thor’s lips before he can think them through.
In the tilt of Loki’s head, in the slight lift of the corners of his mouth, in the expression of his eyes — there is condescension. His voice holds the caress of a warm summer wind ruffling one’s hair.
“This is politics. Do not hasten to give me an answer; moreover, I am not demanding, and I do not expect one. You hold the permit in your hands: you shall be granted entry into Utgard and permitted to leave unhindered. I advise against taking more than two guards as an escort; you have no need for superfluous attention. Nor for being recognized. My readiness to receive you in Jotunheim does not equate to Jotunheim’s readiness to receive you. Be so kind as to convey to the All-Father my gratitude for the swiftness with which the request for my visit to Asgard was considered. Heimdall,” he turns on his heels toward the Guardian of the Bifrost, “I dare hope my request regarding my return to Jotunheim has been reviewed.”
Heimdall answers in the affirmative.
In the rainbow flash of the Bifrost, the Jotun and his escort vanish.
Thor desperately needs to lean his back against a cold wall and catch his breath — instead, he sits down on a step and takes a deep breath. Exhale.
Heimdall comforts him with the steadiness of his voice and the causticness of his words:
“I suppose you will be pleased to know that the Prince of Jotunheim feels far worse than you do. And not at all because of his first encounter with the Bifrost.”
Thor chuckles with bitterness.
“Know your ally as you know your enemy: for he may always become such.”
Perhaps the book is not so foolish after all.
“Tell me... Is there a way to learn more about this... Laufeyson?”
“Your brother’s wisdom is boundless, my Prince. As is his knowledge of the World Tree.”
Thor closes his eyes. He has taken the hint.
Thor spends the entire night in the light of a capricious lamp. Before him, upon the table, lies someone’s life. Before him, upon the table, are brittle yellowed sheets, heavy white paper, and thin parchment. A multitude of words traced by a multitude of hands.
Before him, upon the table, Thor has laid out Loki Laufeyson.
However ambiguous that might sound.
His gaze slides, time and again, toward the invariably alluring words: “Magical potential.”
Sorcery is a business either complex or feminine. For a man’s talent for witchcraft to be recognized in Asgard, he must be a glorious warrior first and foremost — much like the All-Father or Baldur — and only then may he distinguish himself with the craft of those who lack the strength to hold a weapon. The coarseness of one’s palms is valued higher than the pungent scent of herbs.
“Astral forms.”
The strangeness of the words intrigues him.
Thor runs his index finger along the lines, wishing to imagine what it feels like — that which is written. Does it chill the skin or warm it with a soft heat? Does it blind, or does it exist in space as a barely perceptible haze? Does it exist… the way a sturdy solid-wood table exists, or the way lightning does — which not all are permitted to touch and survive.
Involuntarily, Thor runs that same finger along his lower lip. He reaches for another sheet — one that hangs halfway off the edge of the table.
Against his ear — a breath. The fair hair at his temple stirs, as if from a stray breeze.
“Just a moment… I haven’t finished reading.”
Thor’s entire body shudders, jerking violently; the laziness of the voice is more bracing than a handful of snow shoved down one’s collar. A voice that is foreign. A voice that does not mirror, note for note, his brother’s own.
Mjolnir’s weight settles into his right hand; his left is destined to seize the shadow behind him — ...to no avail. Thor is unable to touch or wound it. He wishes he could. He wishes to punish the arrogance, the recklessness of challenging him upon his own ground...
The light touch of a blue palm upon his neck wounds deeper, a hundred times more painfully than a blade. This Jotun will carve out his heart with the madness of his gaze.
“I lied, little Odinson. I am impatient.”
A swift, effortless animal leap — and Laufeyson is upon the table. Clad in an obscenely ridiculous fur coat, white and puffy as a snowdrift. In the dimness of the room, it looks laughable.
“You petty wretch. Get out, or else...”
A slender finger rests upon hot lips. It seals the vitriol with a crust of ice. Each new white crack is a silent curse, striving to be uttered with a snap.
Loki’s smile is wide. Around his eyes, not a single wrinkle of mirth.
A crust of ice seems to form inside Thor himself. His heart is gripped by the terror of another’s madness. His stomach, too. He is so sickened he feels he might retch.
“Oh, do not think of falling into unconsciousness,” at Loki’s touch upon his lips, the ice sheds like snowflakes, “after all, I am your guest. To leave me unattended is a most indelicate escapade. I might conclude that you are bored. And I should entertain you to death.”
“What do you want?”
“To sate my curiosity. Would you not like to…”
“I would not.”
“A pity. For I — most certainly would.”
Loki sighs. In his sigh lies the bitterness of sensations untasted: to touch, to lick, to bite, to tear apart… He desires everything. In this unexplored, golden-burning, alien world, he is curious to test the resilience of his surroundings — and of himself. He sees — no, he knows of it — the thirst for new knowledge within Thor. Such is youth. It captivates, whispering that one must take everything, right now, giving nothing in return. To claim and to possess.
“How very dull you are, Odinson.”
“Am I?”
“And compliant.”
“Indeed?”
“Let us go amuse ourselves in a brothel.”
At this insolent proposal, Thor feels cramped and hot within his own body. He must rub his neck with his palm — with force, right now.
Fandral, the brash and reckless noble scion with whom Thor had recently struck up a fragile friendship, had more than once invited him to “taste the sweet fruit of pleasure” or, in other words — when ale gave his tongue free rein over sound thought — to “tumble the wenches.” Fandral’s vulgarity felt bitter upon the tongue despite the promises of sweetness.
Loki’s proposal brings that familiar bitterness. While awaiting an answer, he shrugs his shoulders — the fur slips, yet reveals no skin: his body is enveloped by the oil-slick blackness of his undergarments. The thin black fabric, stretching from the neck downwards without blunting the curves of his body, looks alien — a perfect match for a Jotun who has found himself in Asgard.
It angers him.
No one removes their outer clothing in a place they intend to leave immediately. Loki Laufeyson should have vanished at the first thunder in Thor’s voice. Thor had wished for it. He had needed it — to rid himself of this foreign, misplaced presence that chilled his core with icy proximity.
Night. And were this ice-translucent creature to stand in the day, under the sun, he would be like glass — burning everything with the light. Or so it seems to Thor. Dangerous eyes, devoid of laughter; burns of cold and combustible frost. Not with his mind, but with his skin, Thor feels that in this Loki, everything is “wrong.” An anomaly and a threat. One to be chased away, evicted, and destroyed far, far from home.
Thor stands before him, close. Their breath becomes shared, as one.
“Get out, right now.”
He reaches for a random sheet upon the table behind Loki, expecting to pass right through him, just as Mjolnir had.
Laughter — the chime of shattered glass right in his ear: Thor’s hand slips. Papers fall to the floor, the lamp falls to the floor, and Thor himself is against the table, face pressed into it, chest against another’s chest, his groin between another’s legs. Feeling the curves of a foreign body with his own. From the remnants of lewd thoughts and fantasies born of indecent proposals, it seems to Thor he is pressing far too hard; beneath the oily fabric, there is a smoothness — a cleft between the legs, like that of a woman…
Jerking back violently, like a headstrong beast — Thor opens his eyes. The lamp on the table, at the very edge, is falling asleep: it flickers, flares brightly, slowly fades, then flashes again, over and over, just as Thor’s eyes had been heavy with reading an hour ago. Now his left cheek is flushed, marked by the imprint of crumpled papers.
Washing his face with hot palms, he whispers something unintelligible.
“Odin forbid…”
Notes:
I truly adore this chapter, and not just because it’s Thor and Loki’s first meeting. Loki is so mysterious, chaotic, and magnetic, while Thor... I think Thor wasn’t ready to face chaos incarnate. He is definitely already captivated by it, even if he doesn't realize it yet.
Chapter Text
The sun does not caress the royal halls; the sky is as sullen as the younger of Odin’s sons.
Five dawns have passed since the Jotun’s visit. For five dawns, Thor has been lost in the depths of his own thoughts and the labyrinths of runes captured upon the pages of weighty tomes.
The frenzy of thought has consumed Baldur as well. His heart is heavy following the news of the unexpected meeting — the one at which he ought to have been present but could not be. He failed to shield Thor from the frost of the glaciers and the treachery of rancid, honeyed speeches.
“All-Father,” Baldur shows his respect before stepping closer to follow Odin’s gaze — he is looking through the clouds toward Breidablik. Hugin circles there, above the hall. Munin sits in an open window, preening his feathers. His talons are black and sharp, like freshly forged blades — as if those raven claws were tearing at one's very core.
“I have selected for Thor those books whose contents should not strike him more than necessary. Only those that have passed our censorship. I must confess, his fascination with Jotunheim concerns me. It borders on obsession. It is troubling that I...”
Odin interrupts him: “I needed you outside Asgard; Thor needed this meeting. Our whims do not always reflect our needs, being the offspring of our best intentions. Accept that which has come to pass, and do not reproach yourself for your lack of involvement. What tidings have you brought?”
The tidings are neither sad nor joyful; they hold an equal measure of both. Vanaheim, as before, is blooming and welcoming. The games of Sinagil del Pleione are wearying; he amuses himself with letters that never reach Asgard, intercepted by the Elves either as a hint at the weakness of Asgard's protected correspondence, or as if the Elf, like a restless otter, plays with little fish — releasing them only to give chase, creating an illusion of license and self-control. Svartalfheim is engulfed in the eternal fire of war, blackened by soot.
From Odin’s face, one cannot tell if a single emotion has been stirred.
Baldur lets fall: “Alfheim invites us to a masquerade ball. The time remaining is twelve moons.”
“And Jotunheim?”
“And Jotunheim.”
“Laufeyson has gone unsummoned to Asgard for too long,” Odin speaks. “He has left his mark upon many worlds, yet here he has only flickered like a reflection in turbulent waters. You and Thor shall accept his invitation; arrange a meeting with Laufey. Summon his son urgently, insist upon haste. Grudgingly allow him to bargain for fifteen moons. Laufey’s disposition is heavy; without a concession, he will hasten to ensure a foul reputation for us in every world of Yggdrasil. We have no need of that. It has been decided that Jotunheim is not our enemy; let them amuse themselves with the favor befitting an ally.”
Baldur remains silent. He cannot disobey, yet neither can he approve. Jotunheim is prone to great folly and great treachery. Laufey’s son is a mountain river bursting its banks. Give him free rein in Asgard, and he will destroy everything in his path.
The All-Father will not listen, yet Baldur cannot keep his warnings to himself.
“The Prince of Jotunheim is at an abominable age. Upon him, blades and teeth are broken; his amusements are dubious and dangerous. The fires of Muspelheim reach for him, and a foul reputation follows in his wake. Father, you yearn to summon Chaos into Asgard and into Thor’s life. Is the price of this known? Are we capable of paying it?”
Munin scrapes his talons against the windowsill, flapping his wings restlessly. Odin’s displeasure has found reflection in the raven's behavior.
“You fret excessively over Thor. You place his welfare above the welfare of the Nine Realms and Asgard.”
“Thor is not ready.”
“Is that what he says?”
Odin pierces with his words as he might with Gungnir. Swiftly, striking to kill. Baldur’s speeches within the family had always been about trust and readiness. But the words upon his lips were not warmed by Thor’s own mouth; they do not belong to Thor, nor to his sharp, brave nature. Thor would never admit that he was — not ready.
Baldur wishes to close his eyes, to detach himself from the traps into which he is being driven like a confused beast.
“It is what I feel,” he finally says. “As the brother who finished reading him the bedtime tales begun by nurses — tales of Jotuns as monsters used to frighten small children. As the brother who heard the exhilaration in the younger one’s voice as he shared his plans to slaughter those monsters, every last one of them. As the one whose boots once sloshed with Jotun blood. I feel that Thor will not desire to see a Jotun as a friend. He will not desire to see a Jotun as a sworn brother. He will not desire… a Jotun.”
“As the directions of the wind change, so may Thor’s moods. The weight of guesswork regarding the future is of no use.”
In Baldur’s silence, there is neither agreement nor objection. The All-Father’s love is false to the core — the fate of Hela speaks to that. Baldur wishes to shield Thor from her fate, to prevent exile and oblivion. Self-centered fathers have no beloved children; they love only themselves in their offspring, and they hate themselves too — those qualities of theirs that are vices, not virtues.
Leaving, Baldur promises to convey his father’s will.
The sun does not caress the royal halls, yet in Breidablik, Baldur’s domain, the sun is the whole world. The marble of the staircases is submerged in the whiteness of clouds; the gold of the walls is pure light. One would wish to know if Thor’s thoughts are just as pure. The sullenness of his face allows for no such illusion.
A rustle of pages — Baldur closes the weighty tome. The blue, coarse fabric of the cover is a reminder of Jotuns. Blue skin. Blue blood. They have no place in Asgard.
Thor rubs his face with his palms.
Upon the cover is a daisy. A long, slender green stem. The petals are fair and white—like Baldur’s eyelashes. His brother loves daisies. Thor used to weave them into his fair, fair hair on feast days, and into his coal-black hair on all other days. Their father forced Baldur to grow out those fair curls. He did not wish it. To the question of “why?”, silence was ever Thor’s only answer.
The hall is bright and welcoming… yet long shadows follow at one’s heels. What shadow of the past blackens his brother’s hair, Thor is not free to discern.
The legs of another chair creak against the floor. Baldur sits down beside him, and Thor exhales.
“Must we go to Jotunheim?”
“Yes.”
“Permission?”
“An order.”
They fall silent. The world outside the window freezes; everything within Thor goes still. He was meant to exterminate the Jotuns. He was meant to remind them — to remind everyone — what it felt like to fear Asgard. Respect is born of fear; awe is sired by dread. Neither respect nor awe dwelt within that scion of Jotunheim — something wrong, something foreign.
The promise of eternal peace with Jotunheim is as bitter as wormwood.
“I do not wish it,” Thor confesses.
A touch to his face, to his cheek — like swan’s down. Light, soft. A tear is on the verge of falling from his lashes out of sheer vexation. It is terrifying to lose the self that believed the extermination of Jotuns was a blessing. It is terrifying to find a self that proffers a hand to the enemy. Warm fingers slide lower, taking him by the chin; Baldur turns Thor’s face toward him.
“Tell me what turns you away from this visit. The little Jotun? He is like a snake: he hisses if the grass beside him is disturbed, but he does not sink his teeth in at the first opportunity. What did you see?”
“The calculating gaze of a scoundrel.”
Baldur chuckles.
“In that, he takes after his father. I questioned Heimdall and was appalled by how swiftly you were lured into a web of lies. I suspect Laufeyson managed to inspect Himinbjorg quite thoroughly while feigning all-consuming interest in you. It would be a miracle if he even recognizes you at your next meeting.”
“So we can perceive this as an incursion?”
Everything within Thor stands still, like the world after a peal of thunder. Is there hope to avoid betraying his ideals? To not have to kiss the enemy, feigning joy, while electricity sparks at his fingertips and Mjolnir hums in anticipation of battle?
His brother smiles condescendingly and strokes his hair. Everything that had frozen within Thor clenches painfully and drops away.
“By exercising restraint, we can take possession of Jotunheim. What remains of it — something greater than the ruins left by a new war. Such is the All-Father’s desire. Both his hands and mine can never be washed clean of Jotun blood. Upon yours, there is none. Therefore, there is more power in your word than in Mjolnir — but only until the first drop of blood is spilled. Your most deceitful word will seem more honest and sincere than our most truthful one. Charm the son of Laufey; let him surrender without a fight.”
Chapter Text
Darkness is everywhere. He is in the darkness, and he is a part of it.
The candle flame trembles. A tiny serpentine tongue, ready to sting. Within the fire — green sparks, seen through the flame. Those are his eyes. A serpent stands before him, a serpent tempting him with fire.
Thor sees only the green sparks — deceptive marsh-lights — and the whiteness of fingers gripping the slender candle. Wax drips onto them, hardening. The flame trembles — not from a tremor in the hands, but from breath. A flicker to the left. A flicker to the right. The green sparks are heated to a red glow; white becomes blue.
An obsession. An illusion. Thor wants to wake up. He is certain he must wake: there is no such darkness in Asgard; there are no Jotuns in Asgard. In Asgard, there is no…
“Loki.”
He has been tormenting him in his dreams since that ill-fated meeting. Thor has confessed to himself: it is fear. The fear of the unknown, of a meeting unwanted, feeds these unbearable dreams. He admitted this fear reluctantly, by force, hoping that such a confession would grant him release from the agonizing visions, but it did not happen. On the contrary, waking is now harder than ever. He only managed to rid himself of Loki’s chatter, of his own thoughts about what the other might say. The silence proved more terrifying. The absence of words implied action.
Sometimes Loki had knives. They cut the skin, and blood seeped from the wounds like juice from a crushed cranberry — the Jotun would stain his hands with it and lick them clean while looking him in the eye. In the morning, Thor felt nauseated.
Sometimes Loki brought the chill of ice and of his own body. Thor’s skin turned crimson and then black from his touch; mercifully, the dream would break before he was destined to lose a limb. To rot alive from frostbite.
Most terrifying of all was his magic. Asgardian gold melted, scalding, liquefying skin and bone. The palace melted like the candle in his hands now. It was harder to recover from this nightmare. After this vision, Thor stopped sharing the contents of his dreams with Baldur — and Baldur began to spend his nights sleeplessly by his brother’s bedside. Both had decided to delay their return to the palace, so as not to trouble their mother with such alarming news.
The candle flame trembles. A tiny serpentine tongue — Loki’s tongue. His words sting, but there is no pain. Only a sickened feeling.
“You have gorged yourself on your own hatred until you are sick. When will you become sick of yourself?”
Thor wants to cover his face with his palms, to hide — to find the native, saving darkness. Not this darkness surrounding him.
He cannot feel his body. In none of these dreams has he felt it, except perhaps the very first, when he fell asleep over his papers. He cannot lift his hand or summon Mjolnir, otherwise — he would have done so instantly. It is no easier to move his tongue; his voice seems non-existent, yet words — from somewhere — emerge.
“Fight me, coward.”
The fire goes out.
Hot flashes of pain trail down Thor’s cheek. They break the numbness: he touches his palm to his cheek, smearing droplets of rapidly cooling wax.
He would cast Jotunheim from the branches of Yggdrasil.
“Is that all?!”
A cry into the void, the whistle of a spinning hammer, a silence pressing against the ears—as if he is alone, screaming to himself. At himself.
An alien presence to the side, behind, further away, closer, in front, behind again — Thor loses his way, circling in one spot, searching for a chance to send Mjolnir flying and destroy the enemy. Rustles, whispers, the wordlessness of silence, bare footsteps, the ring of armor… Breath burns the neck behind his ear:
“Is that the only question you ask yourself?”
A lunge to the left; Mjolnir almost reaches its target. Almost. Not accurate enough. Not fast enough.
“‘Is that all?’ Not ‘why?’ Not ‘from where..?’ Your bloodlust. Your desire to destroy. When all of that was directed at you… it repulsed you. It was so,” Thor illuminates the space with a flash of lightning; there is no one, nothing but himself and the quiet, insidious voice, “unfair. After all, you had done nothing. To anyone. How familiar. And yet your hatred is so... righteous? You are sure of this because...?”
Thor grinds his teeth: “Because.”
Because it is right. Because it must be so.
The darkness hums. The darkness commands:
“Do what is intended.”
Lightning, the lethal energy of Mjolnir, hurtles in every direction to force the dream to snap shut with a crack.
A sharp crack in reality, in the chambers — a whistle and a hiss. Sparks singe the tapestries and Baldur’s sleeves; his trembling hands hold the clusters of electricity roaming the room, shaping them into a blinding sphere of ball lightning. The ring of glass — a window broken by an elbow, the restless magic cast out into the night.
Restless magic in Jotunheim, swirling, a frost-haze trailing from under a door into the corridor. The veil of seidr, which hides them from the gaze of the Bifrost’s Guardian, trembles as if in a wind. Rare is the Jotun sensitive to magic — yet everyone in the palace felt its prickle; a wave of tremors rolled through, followed by a wave of anxiety. Beyond the doors, the nervousness of footsteps grew more frequent.
A small crowd gathered outside Loki’s chambers. In the stiffness of their movements was the fear of bad timing; in their eyes, an apprehension of a different sort.
A dangerous silence reigned there, behind the doors. The frost-haze no longer trailed out; only the hoarfrost sparkling near the threshold served as a reminder. Only Laufey remained calm at the sight of it: he was not surprised. With a short nod, he dismissed the others and flash-froze the metal with a touch; the door lock cracked brittlely and shattered.
A scorch mark of lightning stretched along the wall to the door, burnt into the stone, grown into it.
A lecture on prudence would be misplaced; the moment for it was hopelessly lost. Loki looked at him like a beast caught in a trap — exhausted, made entirely of broken ice and glass. In his sharp gaze, in a body stripped of its last traces of softness.
“How many hours did you weave your spells?”
The answer was clear without words: the stubborn child required the intervention of a healer. Sorcery torments the flesh as much as the cold does. It drains strength, which is why the intervals between meals should be short — Loki had always neglected sustenance, devoting himself to other interests.
A rarity — Loki averted his eyes, unable to withstand the weight of his father's gaze.
“Until Jotunheim has regained its former glory, we cannot know the luxury of death. Be it by the sword or by folly. Do not forget, Loki. We do not live for ourselves.”
The burden of a ruler is the relinquishing of one’s own desires for the sake of the common good. They both know this. Sometimes they are weak, wishing to forget this knowledge. Laufey had never uprooted from himself that which is forbidden and dangerous to possess: parenthood. Therefore, he took Loki by the hand and led him to the healers, trusting no one else with the task.
Through the walls of the infirmary, someone could be heard falling into a fit of coughing — that Dark Elf who watches over Loki with a zeal as commendable as his reports to Svartalfheim; though in those reports, there was nothing that could be dangerous. A pet bringing dead vermin to its master’s door: the impulse is praiseworthy, yet unjustified.
Laufey preferred to handle the thin IV tubes himself: he had no need for extra ears; it was enough for the healers to fetch and carry, let them tend to the straining Elf. He was capable of finding the veins on the thin arm himself, of placing the catheter. Loki watched this with silent resignation.
“They say the younger of the Odinsons is unwell,” Laufey said circuitously, carefully. One never knows what might be overheard in Asgard. “You saw him — is it true that he was already poor of health then?”
“No more than in a state of confusion. I suspect there is no illness he could not overcome. To be honest, discussing this is more than wearying,” a quick, short glance at his own arm, “in my condition.”
Laufey fell silent.
Minutes passed — the veil of seidr was woven anew, fencing them off from everyone. Loki grew pale and closed his eyes. He spoke hollowly:
“Only nightmares to make him doubt. Who he is. What he wants. Whether he is as fearless as he perceives himself to be.”
“We lack the strength for a new war, Loki. Do not overplay your hand.”
“I am as gentle as possible. The boundaries of necessary cruelty…”
“You are exposing yourself.”
“I only wish to repulse him. Are you suggesting I resign myself to the fact that Odin intends to lay me under his younger son?”
“There are no guarantees that there aren’t similar plans for the elder. In case of failure. Does he intend to wear us down one by one? Pulling the same trick a second time will be harder.”
Reluctantly, Loki conceded the point. It could result in something foul.
“I suppose repulsing the whole family would be better. If the rumors of depraved liaisons are as plentiful as mud after rain…”
An unfamiliar smirk appeared on Laufey’s lips. Thin as a cut.
“Asgard conceals truths far more significant and horrifying than someone’s bedroom dalliances. While your scheme is amusing, it is not at all effective.”
“You are only partly right: a foul reputation will buy us time. A delay would be a blessing for us.”
“If it amuses you… The winds of Alfheim carry gossip swiftly, right along with the flower pollen.”
Chapter 11
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“This is madness!” Sif lunges forward with her whole being. She is like the churning waters of hot springs; one must not draw near, lest they be scorched. She will scald with her indignation. “Thor, you cannot endure them!”
Fandral interrupts her: “He shall have to, shall he not?”
“They began all of this in vain,” Hogun responds. He merges with the shadows as his voice merges with the silence. “No letters were sent to Vanaheim. This news would have caused a stir.”
Among the fragrant trees, away from the training grounds, the battle of opinions is fiercer than the recent clash of blades. Sif spills her resentment more generously than the most hospitable of hostesses pours mead for her guests. Meanwhile, Fandral, in his disagreement, polishes Fimbuldraugr with excessive zeal — ever and anon checking his reflection in the blade to see if his brows are knit too hostilely in response to Sif’s outbursts.
The warriors’ dispute sprouted from Thor’s ‘innocent’ news — that he departs for Jotunheim with his brother this very day. The Jotuns' invitation is by no means flattering, yet should there be a desire to provide company... Thor is uncertain exactly when the moment came, but it seemed Sif reached a boiling point at the mere fragment of the name of that stiflingly cold world, the instant she heard the foreign word: “Jotunheim.”
Unexpectedly, Fandral sighs: “Ah, the food of the Frost Giants must surely be immense. Sufficient to sate our dear friend Volstagg. I should think he would be delighted to receive such a souvenir. Do giant boars dwell there?”
“For Jotunheim, a boar is far too comely,” Hogun shares his thoughts. “Something a hundredfold uglier — grey, hairless — seems more akin to the truth.”
Closing his eyes from weariness — as if the others’ dispute had drained all his spiritual strength — Thor shares the little knowledge he possesses:
“The only Frost Giant I have encountered is not as vast as they are described. I would not say he was hairless... Has any among you ever seen a boar with anugliness of the soul?”
It grows quiet. One can hear a flower, disturbed by the wind, fall from its branch. Thor feels it, though he does not look at his friends: they are exchanging glances. Anxiety and doubt gnaw at them like woodworms.
Since that incident with the lightning and the singed tapestries, Loki of Jotunheim had not once appeared in Thor's dreams. The happiness brought by this was as vast as the sudden melancholy that washed over him days later: in his dreams, he had been tormented and savaged to his heart's content, yet he had not managed to repay the debt in kind. But Thor thought. And he fantasized. Beyond Mjolnir, nothing else came to mind. To incinerate him to ash with lightning, to send the hammer into flight — the wet crunch of bones would signal the end. Mjolnir in his hands — and nothing more. During a sleepless night, full of fantasies as feverish as a malady, a thought haunted Thor: it was not he who thirsted for blood; it was Mjolnir that demanded it. The thought was ridiculous. The thought was terrifying. Could the weapon granted by his father as a mark of his recognition as heir to the throne have brought into his life not only honor, but cruelty as well?
Sif’s warm palm rests upon his shoulder. He flinches as her knuckles, by accidental contact, graze his jawline.
“Thor? Are you unwell?”
“It is grievous to know that I am not alone in my apprehensions. Farewell, my friends: it is time to prepare.”
Everyone wishes to sigh heavily — yet no one does.
The parting is silent. In their posture, in the sound of their footsteps, in the way a cloak billows — in every detail, one reads doom and reluctance.
A dashing, springy gait overtakes him in the corridors: as bright as a polished coin in the sun, Fandral shines with the resolve to stumble into a dubious adventure. He nudges Thor’s side with an elbow, with just enough respect — and a desire to rouse him:
“Prudence has surrendered to the onslaught of natural curiosity,” he winks. Not as he would to a maiden he intended to charm, but to one he means to draw into a questionable escapade.
Thor exhales soundlessly: it becomes a fraction easier.
The smile fades from Fandral’s lips when the tailors bring the garments for him and Thor. The abundance of layers makes the process exhausting, the mood — sour, and the regret over his consent more palpable. The weight of fabrics and furs pulls downward, and Thor is half-inclined to feel a kinship with seals: their urge to move by crawling finds an echo within him.
“I should like to know how we are to saddle horses in this.”
Unaccustomed, Fandral’s first steps are clumsy; he lurches from one side to the other as he walks, resembling those short-legged winter birds that dwell upon the pages of children's books. Thor chuckles:
“In such a guise, you shall enchant more ladies than usual: they have a passion for helpless creatures.”
From embarrassment — or perhaps exhaustion — Fandral puffs. Whatever barb he might devise for Thor would now apply to himself as well.
To their great fortune, horses did not have to be saddled: they were to reach Himinbjorg upon the aerial waves. A covered skiff was to carry them there within a quarter of an hour.
Fandral’s distress over the journey to Jotunheim is not nearly as great as his dissatisfaction with physical discomfort. Upon the cramped seat, he writhes incessantly, checking locks, buttons, and latches. A click — he tests the buckle’s fastening. The rustle of lacings — the greaves are loosened, then cinched tighter; a clumsy movement — the clatter of a leather-bound plate striking home.
“Absurdity… How does one intend to answer the call of nature in this?”
With a smile, Thor parodies the intonations of his elder brother:
“The path of the warrior sometimes compels one to tread the trails of humility…” He grows solemn. “My brother said that during the war in Jotunheim, the Einherjar wept from the cold. Not from weakness. Cold is pain. In ordinary armor, we would last but a few wretched hours.”
For the first time since he joined Thor, Fandral falls silent.
In Asgard, it is not customary to speak of the war in Jotunheim. In Asgard, it is not customary to remember the war in Jotunheim. There are Jotuns, and there is a truce, but there is no war. Those who participated in it harbor the horror of the knowledge of past battles within their scars, within their mutilated minds, closed to everyone — including themselves.
Baldur said almost nothing of the war in Jotunheim.
Fandral asks Thor to tell him something. If he knows.
Thor chews the inside of his cheek. He knows little. Tales of warriors whose only weapon was a projectile clutched in the palm. To sleep with it, to eat with it, to step aside to relieve oneself with it. To perish by it. Better to die by it, having killed or wounded the enemy — otherwise, death is meaningless.
Until they reached Himinbjorg, Thor’s hands remained as cold as the foreign land that had laid Asgardian warriors to rest. They turned to ice with every new story. They were destined to thaw only at the sight of his elder brother: he is alive, warm, warming others with his very presence. Thor wished to embrace him from behind, to press against him as in childhood, his eyes squeezed shut. In childhood, Thor could not reach him; he would climb upon a sofa and stretch out his hands: Come, embrace me, pity me, but let no one know.
In the center of the observatory’s sphere, an illusion sparkles. In the air, Baldur traces lines of light with his palm along the streets of Utgard; upon closer inspection — a snowflake with the sharp peaks of buildings, twelve rays grown from branches of minor roads.
“Here,” one, two, three bright rays “is too close to the mountains. The streets, I suspect, are empty. Nothing that could sate curiosity. In the east, there are strong winds; they will be at our backs… More tolerable than snow-dust in the face. Preference, therefore, should be given to the southeast… Heimdall, what say you?”
“Three hundred and thirty degrees is suitable.”
Thor remains silent, not out of a desire to avoid distracting his brother, but out of curiosity. Baldur had planned this visit for days, conferring with his father, his mother, with Heimdall, leaving Thor himself in ignorance. Vanishing from sight so often that Thor doubted whether they had seen each other at all that day, or if it had all been a dream.
Fandral — Thor barely notices — is filled with a carefully concealed awkwardness. Though he is a courtier, the eldest prince is rarely seen at court, preferring to sequester himself in his hall. In Thor’s memory, Baldur’s path had never crossed with that of his friends until this very moment.
Therefore, the quiet command struck the ears unexpectedly:
“Heimdall, open the Bridge.”
The swiftness of the Bifrost’s flash granted no moment to express astonishment.
The wind strikes them from behind, sharp and lashing. Jotunheim makes it clear at once: they are unwelcome guests.
To the left, a dark smudge — Fandral, having stumbled and sunk deep into the heavy snow, pitches forward, falling to his knees. His hands vanish into the drifts.
Baldur frowns and pulls his fur collar higher. He decides that a jest is permitted:
“Fandral, you are being far too formal. This is an unofficial meeting; pray, rise from your knees. You have paid enough respect for several encounters to come.”
Fandral's face burns so fiercely that Thor is certain: if he stepped closer, he might actually warm himself. To his credit, the warrior regains his footing firmly. Thor offers a responsive smile:
“Baldur is a lover of tempering the spirit,” a brief pause, “through unconventional methods. He never allows one to grow bored.”
“Splendid… The landscape is monotonous. It explains why Jotunheim is so devoid of poetry.”
Thor’s fists clench within the voluminous softness of his mittens. He cannot believe they are in Jotunheim. His mind has walled itself off from this truth so easily, refusing to comprehend, unwilling to acknowledge it. They are in Jotunheim.
This world seems to dwell in eternal shadow. In an everlasting sleep on the verge of dream and nightmare. The blue twilight is neither welcoming nor threatening; it is transparent, like watercolors. Before them, the city is a mass of stone, ice, and trembling blue light: the ice, the stone — everything within it is devoid of the colors of life. There is no fire.
The crunch of snow beneath their first steps sounds like the breaking of bones. The snapping of small ones, then larger ones. Of animals. And not only them. Of those like themselves. Thor must shake off the obsession at once — he has thought too often and too long of death, of how many Aesir, just like him, like them, remained here after the war. If they are here, they have long been buried under snow and ice. The voice of their remains will never be heard.
An anxious glance toward him — from Fandral. His words are lost in the hum of a skiff above their heads — somber, made of sharp angles, barely discernible against the dark sky.
“Is that… Svartalfheim craft?” Fandral doubts it until the very last.
Baldur agrees with excessive calm. He adds:
“Not the last one we shall see today.”
“I like it here less and less,” Thor frowns.
“Behold it in a different light,” Baldur advises. “An elder brother has brought you to an unfamiliar playground. Explore. Have fun. Amuse yourself.”
“…Freeze to death.”
Fandral tries to offer encouragement:
“We have not yet arrived, my friend. I am certain it will be more… lively. Perhaps after a drink or two.”
Perhaps.
Perhaps they had not yet encountered anything in Jotunheim that deserved their wrath. Но Thor’s wrath had been earned by Jotunheim long before this journey. So long ago that the reasons were clouded, blurred by time.
Jotuns… These Jotuns were immense. Thor would have measured them at twice his own height; and to the one who seemed not to belong to the guard, his body bearing markings that felt vaguely familiar, he would have granted two and a half. Loki Laufeyson had been altogether different. Measuring by him, Thor had believed that much in the books had been embellished. In truth, it was the single, solitary Jotun who had been an understatement.
Blue skin and jadeite armor — dense green ice, as if fused with the flesh, grown into the very skin. Despite the strength of their muscles, the bones were so starkly visible. The sharpness of facial features, the jagged angles of shoulders, the sunken bellies — had they not been near the capital, Thor would have been certain the people here were being starved. Perhaps, despite it being the capital, it was exactly so.
The Jotun, who was taller and broader of shoulder, with more flesh upon his bones than the rest, commanded them to identify themselves. In Baldur’s hands, the vellum crackled from the cold; it flashed as it passed from one set of hands to another, yet Thor continued to observe. The markings upon the skin, the ornaments of bone and unusual stones. Snow-white, with icy iridescence. It seemed that sparse, pale white brows had appeared — a detail he had failed to discern even upon the guards. The left eye was a wall-eye, clouded and sightless, bisected by a jagged scar stretching from the brow to the corner of the mouth.
Fandral whispered, at the very edge of hearing: “You are staring, Thor.”
He blinked, averting his gaze.
The giant’s voice was the roar of waves overtaking the shore, churning the ringing pebbles.
“Sons of Odin. Do not trouble the younger prince with your company. That is my advice to you.”
Thor bristled, craning his neck to look him in the eye. Insolent eyes, touched by a shadow of impunity. A desire to ignite a conflict flared within him: how dare they speak to them so?!
Baldur remained as calm as a dead-still sea.
“We shall take it into account. Your Highness.”
Thor’s wrist was caught in the firm trap of Fandral’s palm. He drew him persistently into the city as Thor began to realize the truth. The beauties of Utgard were invisible to Thor; the question at hand was too vital.
“Baldur! Who, in the name of all, was that?”
Fandral was awkwardly and uncomfortably wedged between them; in his question, in his urgency to know the answer, Thor had forgotten entirely that his brother was not walking side by side with him. He pressed closer until Fandral, as if by accident, dug an elbow painfully into him.
“Ow! Ahem, forgive me, Fandral. So, who?”
“Helblindi. The eldest child of Laufey. His regent in Utgard. It is of no interest.”
The pressure in his brother's voice was powerful, palpable against the skin. Effortless enough to break things. What things — it mattered not. It was unsettling. Why was it of no interest? Quite the contrary! They were in Utgard. They needed to know everything about the one who, for some reason, held sway here.
Thor opened his mouth to protest — the elbow pressed harder beneath his ribs.
“Not in the street.”
May Odin preserve Fandral’s prudence…
Baldur had more than once — with resignation, with condescension, with irritation — reminded his brother of the inappropriateness of many of his speeches. It was the wrong time or place; it was the wrong company. Thor had always expressed himself vibrantly and freely; it was natural for him to be as he was, everywhere and always. Naturally, this had turned into a new problem for an old reason more than once.
Here, they had no need for problems. It would be arduous — that was understood without a second thought.
The houses, resembling stalagmites, seemed as though entombed within a thin crust of ice. Uneven, slickly glistening, shimmering with blue and azure from within. Thor frowned, his gaze searching every irregularity, yet he could discern neither entrance nor window; they had to exist, at least a single door. Not a crack or a slit was visible.
A hot, fiery light — it flickered and vanished. Something clinked in the wind.
“I was too hasty with my words that it would be lively,” Fandral remarked in an undertone.
In half a hundred paces, they had encountered only the guards and a single Svartalf, who cast a strange look upon them before vanishing instantly. Nowhere was the colorfulness of elven attire to be seen.
“We arrived before the dawn. The cycles of Asgard do not coincide with those here. I did not wish to let too many at the gates know from whence we hail during the day. It might have drawn undue attention.”
“One would not wish to be lost as swiftly as those elusive beauties of Alfheim. Am I right, Thor? Do you not agree?”
Moments of silence.
To look around in bewilderment, to trace with one's eyes a chain of footprints veering to the side. Incredible. Fandral had intended to lose himself so passionately that he would have to be searched for — yet Thor had beaten him to it.
Like a moth, he was drawn toward the light. The iridescence of the stained glass, fine as a gossamer thread, entranced him. A Jotun, cradling a lantern tenderly between two fingers, used a spill to kindle the flame within. The azure gloom of Jotunheim splintered; light fell upon the snow like a handful of precious gems — emeralds, rubies, and amber. Warmth brushed against his skin.
“Lanterns from Alfheim, embers from Muspelheim,” the Jotun explained, moving to the next lamp, while Thor clumsily feigned that it was not true he had failed to avert his gaze for... a very long time.
In the eyes of the approaching Fandral, a hidden fear lurked.
“My friend…”
The words froze upon his tongue. What did he intend to do? Scold the heir of Odin for failing to announce his every subsequent step? Condemn him for sowing the seeds of anxiety within his own breast?
A small cloud of steam escaped with his breath:
“Your departure…” Fandral’s nose stung from the emotions he had endured, and from the cold “...echoed within me as alarm. Henceforth, grant me the chance to follow you without delay.”
The crisp, crunching footsteps of Baldur approached. The gazes of the prince and the Jotun met briefly, and the latter murmured, scarcely audible:
“The younger ones…”
One like the other — two quiet chuckles. Knowing. Understanding.
In the Jotun’s voice, there was the lingering weight of sleep:
“You are far too early. Nothing is open; you might beat your head against the doors in vain — there is nowhere to find warmth. Well... wait a moment.”
With no less curiosity than he had shown the alcove, Thor watched the Jotun — how his palm touched the monolithic wall, and it suddenly receded, forming a grand arch within the once-seamless ice. It created a passage. Thinking a moment longer than before, Thor remained where he stood. He tried to peer inside, yet there seemed to be nothing within. Dark and obscured. The returning Jotun offered Thor a lit lantern, but he hesitated. He longed to reach out, to press his chilled palms against the colored glass. It looked warm. It was warm. It radiated color and heat.
“Will no one decide that I have simply... how to put it gently... taken it and made off with it?”
Baldur stifled a chuckle.
The Jotun’s gaze flicked to the lanterns hanging upon the buildings, then returned to the one in his hands. A mirthful squint.
“You couldn’t reach those. Take it. Many have spares.”
In his confusion, Thor offered gratitude through a chaos of gestures, an unintelligible nod, and a multitude of words that bled into one. He clung to the lantern like a squirrel that had unearthed the final cedar cone, nearly pressing his nose against it. As they retreated toward the crossroads, he heard not a word of the embassy of Alfheim, nor of the suggestion that they might weather the frost of the morning there. He was entranced by the azure of the stained-glass iris, unaware that the flickers of fire and the tinted glass were staining his hands in fantastical hues.
Notes:
Finally, the ice has broken — both literally and figuratively. Thor, Baldur and Fandral have arrived in Utgard. Please feel free to leave comments, share your impressions and express your thoughts.
Chapter Text
By noon, Utgard hummed, growing feverish like a well-stoked furnace. The frozen soles of boots crackled, voices merged into a single roar, and the curious, gaudy attires of the guests vied in their brilliance — all until the resonant tolling of the bell. At its call, they surged toward the main square that encircled the palace — a structure half-ruined, bearing the raw wounds of war.
Thor was cast into heat, then into cold; the crowd fell silent, suspended between two heartbeats. He, too, grew still, pressing shoulder to shoulder with his brother, hearing the restless rustle of Fandral’s garments.
It was harrowing. He was almost certain he would not like what he was to hear, yet Thor craved to see. To see the insolent Jotun who had tormented him in his dreams.
He looked toward the high arch, open to the biting winds, in the heart of the palace — the place where, according to Baldur, the ancient artifact of Jotunheim, the Casket of Ancient Winters, had once rested. The very one that now lay in Asgard.
The dark, ice-covered ledge is stripped of the golden magnificence found in any palace Thor has ever visited — be it in Vanaheim, Alfheim, or the halls of Asgard. Laufeyson has no need for the radiance of jewels; being smaller than any Jotun Thor has ever encountered, clad in shards of metal armor, barefoot, carved from enduring blue ice and etched with scars — he is Jotunheim incarnate. A Jotunheim that does not look back at bygone glory, for glory is with it now. Glory is him. His gait, his posture, his voice — which is everywhere.
“We have gathered to celebrate not the end of a war whose scars run deeper in many of us than the eye can see. The yearning for a better life is what dwells within each of us. It is what Jotunheim was punished for seven hundred years ago. Back then, we were alone — no longer. Muspelheim, Alfheim, Svartalfheim… Midgard, if you look closely. The echoes, the presence of all these worlds are on the streets of Utgard this very moment. The time for chasing the echoes of the past is over,” Loki raises his right hand, a shimmering cold flame flickering upon his palm, “we are forging a present in the name of a great future. This is our glorious purpose!”
The strike of a palm against the stone tiles beneath his feet deafens like a thunderclap — snowflakes shatter into hundreds, thousands of ice shards. They soar upward, enveloping the palace in a translucent blizzard — healing old wounds. Icy veins crawl from the palace ruins, stone and snow mending walls licked smooth by years of wind; new structures shine with mirror-like symmetry, replacing the old — as it was before, yet entirely different.
Silence rings.
A shout, a wild cry, and a whistle; a moment — and from every side comes jubilation, admiration, a noisy triumph, wonder, awe, attempts to see, to catch a glimpse — but there is no one left in the heights of the palace.
Thor n e e d s to see. To catch him with his gaze, to remain eye to eye, breath to breath, and demand an explanation for everything that has happened to him. For the fear and the horror of those stifling nights.
Fandral’s hand slips from his forearm, his fingers failing to clinch tightly enough to hold him, and Baldur’s shoulder is already behind; it was easy to bypass him from the back and vanish into the crowd, rushing toward the palace. Let him run into the guards — he will try. The silhouette he needs flickers in the windows, then once more — a staircase down, there is no other way. If only he could find the right passage quickly, on the first try. Instinct leads him; intuition. The noise outside allows him to forget the softness of his steps: he cannot be heard even if one were to listen closely.
Hunted breath — he was running — and finally, like a wild beast, he has cornered his prey. The uneven masonry of the wall chills his fist; slightly below eye level — the other’s red eyes, with creases of exhaustion in the corners.
Breathe. Gasping at the air that sears his lungs. And look.
Look. Look at him. Seeking all the answers within him without voicing a single question.
It is uncomfortable against the wall. Loki is against the wall. Bare skin. Pressing into it — perhaps he has even scraped his shoulder blades, Thor thinks. Slowly, viscous blue blood flows from Loki’s nose, down toward his lips. Thoughtlessly, Thor curls his palm around his neck beneath the jaw, forcing his head up.
Thor’s voice, Loki’s voice — both tangle, intertwining with each other.
Thor says: “You’ve overstrained yourself, surely.”
At the same instant, Loki: “Did you not like the speech?”
From the side, nearly at his elbow: “Your Highness,” a sword slid from its sheath, a sound impossible to mistake. “Loki? Have you been harmed?”
Smooth skin and the thrum of a pulse beneath his fingers. A drop of warm, blue blood rolls down a blue cheek and onto his palm. The realization of how close he is, of being where he ought not to be, with the one he ought not to be with. With another's blood upon his skin…
Slowly, Thor withdraws his hand, then pulls away himself; one step back, then a second. He raises his hands high, away from any weapon. He stands frozen in the middle of the corridor. Slowly, he turns his head to the side to see who it is. The Elf who has caught them — gripping his sword firmly, steadily — has a face from a distant childhood.
“Your Majesty,” Loki’s voice is colorless, it almost does not exist, “there is no need for the sword.”
It grows crowded. Jotuns, guards. The sword remains. For some reason, the sword remains.
Mother will weep if he dies — like this. Stupidly. Unworthily.
A solid wall of armed Jotuns. They part. The wall closes again. Thor does not want to look; he already understands: Helblindi.
“Thor Odinson. I commanded you not to trouble the younger prince with your company. You did not listen. You trespassed into the palace and attacked.”
A glance at Loki — he is pale and grey, like ash. Scarcely able to stand. He could not say a word in opposition — in his, Thor's, defense — even if he wanted to.
Clench the teeth, remain silent. Neither deny nor agree. The Norns… Let the Norns help.
His raised arms begin to ache.
“Jotunheim desires no conflict with Asgard. Regardless of any reciprocal desire or lack thereof. You shall return with your escort as soon as the All-Father agrees to hear my demands and the account of King Sinagil del Pleione. He shall act as a witness. Surrender your weapons. Guards, escort the Odinson to the reception hall, seventh floor.”
Not a single touch follows the command — they approach Thor and wait for him to step in the required direction. Four of them. Breaking free from their watch would be no difficulty. The difficulty lies in submitting. In acknowledging his own folly not in thought, but through action.
From the sill of one of the arched windows, an owl, white as a daisy petal, hoots at him. His lips twitch in a vexed smirk. Baldur will come for him. He is entirely made of despair. Thor knows: he himself, right now, is the bitterness of a noxious weed.
Thor thinks he will explain everything to his brother. When he arrives, Thor remains silent. Father will punish Baldur for his lack of oversight. Through his fault, his folly, his self-assurance, Fandral might suffer.
Thor sits on the floor, hiding his face in his palms. He cannot explain it all in a way that proves he is guilty of nothing reprehensible. The bloody blue smear has dried — the thought to wipe it from his skin never occurred to him — and it looks like a delivered sentence.
Like a cornered, tormented beast, his brother paces the expanse of the room. The heels of his boots tap loudly — like wolf claws.
“Laufeyson overstrained himself while casting,” Thor no longer looks through his fingers at the heavy steps. He hopes to catch his brother’s gaze. “Baldur, you know how it is. The magic we witnessed — in such quantities, it could kill a man!”
Turning sharply, stumbling slightly, Baldur’s voice breaks in a wave of hysteria: “Exactly! He could have died! And you were right there. You were right there, Thor! We have no idea what might happen — I have no idea! Not about what you did, nor about what you didn't do. You... you acted as you always do, and that is all, Thor! Your antics will drive us into Helheim. Enough. Sit here. Wait. Breathe, blink — that is it. No more follies. No more.”
Put him on a leash; his brother would be right to do so. Right in his anger, his harshness, and his cruelty. Yet he is led not by them, but by a sense of fear of loss; the world collapses into these four walls and the two of them — they share one face between them and two facets of despair, one for each: rage and resignation.
Baldur’s palm slips from the door handle as he exits. The door slams against his hand, clipping his elbow. An agony of pain is heard in a long hiss — or so it seems to Thor, until he notices: the metal of the door handle has melted. Thor has seen his father in a rage, but never Baldur. Never has his soft light been something that sears.
Guards are behind the door. Fandral flickers like a pale blur in the doorway and vanishes. They did not let him in.
To wait, to breathe, and to blink — for an eternity.
Those who come to him are a void. They monitor, they check. They bring warmth: a thin, burning cloak for his shoulders and a strange, heating light.
Through the voice of Heimdall, he is told:
“The All-Father has chosen a punishment for you. It has pleased no one, and for that reason, it is the best of all possible choices. As a testament to the lack of intent to cause harm, you are bound to care for Loki Laufeyson as a brother, as a guardian, and as a valet. Consider the day of your punishment’s end to be the day when the healers confirm there is nothing more to fear. Your family is hopeful that you will manage within a week. Some of your belongings will be delivered to the palace of Jotunheim. Mjolnir has been returned to Asgard; you shall receive it upon your return. Good luck, Thor. Be prudent.”
His head drops — a thoughtless nod. He needs to comprehend it all.
He must be a brother — he must be an equal. In the power of words and promises.
He must be a guardian — he must be superior. To patronize manifestations of strength, to conceal manifestations of weakness. For the sake of the one who is weaker than he.
He must be a valet — he must be inferior. To forget his own well-being, his own desires.
Is this how he is to interpret it? Since childhood, getting lost in layers of meaning has been commonplace. The clarity of orders is more understandable and desirable than diplomatic stratagems.
Thor licks the pad of his finger. He moves to wipe the blood from his palm but hesitates. In that letter, delivered hand to hand, where Loki had left a mark of himself upon the parchment with blood and the patterns of his skin, there had dwelt magic, and cold. To scrape the mark away with a fingernail had been impossible; back then, his arm had been seized up to the shoulder by invisible ice, and he could not pull away. Absurdly, incautiously, and foolishly, Thor had later tried to lick it, to check if it were truly blood, if it were salty... His tongue had frozen for a minute. What if — now? No. No, he will not. He will ask how it is properly done, lest he lose his hand otherwise.
He is distracted — a Dark Elf, vaguely familiar, burns his palm against the door handle. He hisses like overheated oil.
“My... His Highness Loki Laufeyson, Prince of the Blood of Jotunheim, wishes to see you and your shameless eyes. Do you accept this unassuming invitation, or perhaps do you wish to be brought by force? The Prince is not in the mood; however, he believes such a thing might amuse the guards. Without dampening the festive spirit.”
An eyebrow arches in surprise. The words are excessively bold, even considering Thor’s current predicament.
“Are those his words, or is this your insolence?”
“His Highness intended to scribe a note with his own blood; rest assured, the message has been delivered word for word.”
Colored spots dance before his eyes, so tightly does Thor squeeze them shut. He will drink his fill of the wrath of Laufey’s son; he will sear the throat of hatred with boiling water.
“I will go of my own accord. Persuade your ‘His Highness’ Loki not to mutilate himself.”
“You wish to do it yourself?”
The ambiguity of the clarification feels like a slap in the face. For the sake of his brother, his mother, and his father, Thor will endure this. Clenching his fists and his teeth — he will endure.
Loki’s chambers are akin to a music box: a multitude of carvings, shimmer, and adornments. Patterns are woven into the bas-reliefs of the walls, into silver and blue stone — veined with white, like precious cracked ice. The furniture is sized for a Jotun, the upholstery fabric expensive and foreign: blue velvet seats and a floral exterior — a field of cornflowers. Thor examines the reception room with the curiosity of a child tearing the wings off a beetle. The Dark Elf has vanished behind a door that is less conspicuous than the one leading to the corridor. The bedroom, most likely.
A script of ancient symbols — Thor does not understand them; the Allspeak fails to decipher them. He feels the pack of wolves running in the stone one by one, touching them between the ears, trailing his palm along their backs. They are cold. Yet their fur — one could believe that with enough effort, fingers could sink deep into it.
One of the cabinets holds delicate porcelain from Vanaheim: a tea set, floral vases. Tucked away there, too, are silk tablecloths, smelling of mint. The crystal of ringing goblets.
“I could have pinched your head in the door hard enough to crack it like a nut. Thor Odinson, do not kindle that desire within me.”
“Do you know that worrying is energy-consuming?” Thor inquires, closing the cabinet door. “Worrying is very harmful. Especially for you. Especially now. Especially when what is very harmful to you is very harmful to me as well.”
If Loki were to get any worse, Thor would be stuck here forever. If there were even a 'worse' to be had: Loki had lost all color. The blue had bled from his skin, replaced by a muddy violet-grey, a hue Thor could not have imagined even on a corpse. His eyes did not burn red; they were barely smoldering embers. Instead of the usual metal kilt of the Jotuns, he wore that dark, thin second-skin fabric — Thor knew that both Dark and Light Elves used it to preserve warmth in the cold or coolness in a hot climate. Jotunheim was not about warmth. Loki was freezing. A Jotun was freezing where he should not. Thor felt faint and leaned against the cabinet, unwittingly mirroring Loki’s posture. The latter supported himself in the doorway, feigning serene boredom. One could almost believe in it. Thor might have believed, had he not known from Baldur how an excess of magic can kill.
“Don’t you dare,” nails scraped the doorframe. “Because of your antics, I am locked in here with you. Your punishment is for me. Yours, you brainless starfish.”
New lines appear on Loki’s face — he squints, wrinkling his nose. Not in anger, but from a headache.
“A very poetic… insult, I suppose,” Thor takes a step toward him, intent on catching him like a small animal, “and I would even listen to more.”
Easily — into his arms; though holding him is not quite as simple. Loki does not struggle — he has no strength left — but his body is tense, with the unyieldingness of marble. A curse whispered like either a wicked word or a failed spell.
“Your tongue is as venomous as your blood.”
“Do you like it?” he warmed Loki’s neck with the question, with a breath that was barely warm.
“I’m delighted,” Thor huffed.
Against his back, he feels it: Loki’s servant has gnawed all the meat from his bones with his gaze. A watchdog driven mad by jealousy. In his eyes lies a promise to bite off Thor's arms to the elbows. The arms that touched, that held, that lingered on the cotton fabric of pillows and sheets. The grinding of teeth. Loki reacts to none of it; all his attention is on Thor. He is not the one delivering grand speeches, weaving magnificent magic, and leading the way. Not now. In the heights of the palace, in the sincerity of his discontent, Loki is a weary youth and nothing more. That is how Thor perceives him. He himself is a dangerous stranger — a fact he is not allowed to forget for a single moment.
“Did I hurt you? When I…”
“No.”
“Good. I did not mean to.”
“I was in pain before that.”
Thor draws back and sighs.
It was high time to catch a dagger in the back. A sword’s blade against the neck. The back of the head meeting whatever came to hand first.
“Ngai-I will teach you how to heat the rooms. After that, stay out of my sight.”
“But…”
“I do not trust you.”
“You must know what I have been commanded. To not leave your side by a single step, to do everything to ensure you recover.”
“Oh...” Loki pushes himself up on his elbows to sit, leaning against the headboard of the bed. “Wonderful. I know exactly what will make me feel better: the thought of you being comfortable here, in Jotunheim, surrounded by familiar things. This evening, go spend the night in the barn. The goats are the only things here from Asgard. They shall relieve you of your gloom.”
Difficult.
Norns... how difficult it is.
A capricious, spoiled child, certain of his right to tyranny.
“You are right, Loki. I accept your invitation with joy. It is pleasant to know that the Prince of Jotunheim is not indifferent to my mood.”
Thor spends half the day in the reception room, becoming acquainted with Loki’s habits. Ngai-I gnaws at him with his gaze, explaining the nuances of routine and relaying a small fraction of what constitutes a valet’s duties. A dozen times Thor attempts to draw up lists for the kitchen; Ngai-I tears them up and tosses them as kindling into the fire. Gritting his teeth, the Elf threatens to start striking Thor's hands for his mistakes. Absurd. Thor had never been to the kitchens in Asgard — it was beneath his station. He had never given thought to what he would dine on in the palace, and on campaigns, he ate whatever he managed to kill first. What to feed the sick was beyond his comprehension.
“What do the servants eat?” Thor inquires, having lost count of his failures.
The corner of Ngai-I’s mouth twitches.
“It matters not. Jotunheim cannot afford to insult the Prince of Asgard — you shall be served the same as His Highness.”
Recalling those words in the evening, Thor laughs: lying on a bedding of hay, amidst the bleating of goats, the scents of damp wool — during a scuffle, one of the horned beasts had tumbled into the watering trough — and manure, it is ironic to think that the insult of one prince by another is something else entirely. Not on behalf of Jotunheim. Jotunheim cannot afford to insult him. Loki, however — he can. His emotions stand above the rules. Thor accepts them, finding a reflection of himself in Loki's behavior.