A/N: Yeah, I know, I've been hitting the Avengers area of the fandom world pretty hard. And there'll be a lot more before we're through.
But welcome, one and all to something a little out of the ordinary for me: an AU! I don't usually deal with AU's, either reading them or writing them, but I got the idea for this and had to write it out. …but I had to make it a little more complicated than that. So this is an Iron Man, Thor, and Norse mythology fusion AU. Basically we're back in the time of Norse mythology and dealing with the Norse mythology version of characters (their histories, relationships to each other, personalities) with a few exceptions. Loki's personality is a bit of a fusion between Marvel and mythology, and his design is pretty much all Marvel, and after some conversation with my Beta, Thor and Loki are brothers as they are in Marvel. And to this we add Anthony Stark – a Norse version of him. :)
More notes at the end, for now enjoy the fic!
Betas: SkyTurtle
Music:
Soul 4 Sale by Simon Curtis
Kingdom of Welcome Addiction by IAMX
Skilfingr by Adrian von Ziegler
Crann Na Beatha by Adrian von Ziegler
For the King by Adrian von Ziegler
Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man, Thor, nor the characters from them. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
…
The Ironmonger's Heart
Part I
Raven Ehtar
…
Many are the tales told of the Æsir, the gods and goddesses who reigned in Asgard. Many are the accounts of their lives and adventures, be they mournful or content, full of horror or brimming with joy. Fewer, perhaps, are the tales of common men, those who made their lives on Midgard, and whose gaze rarely lifted above putting meat on the table or fire in the hearth. Oft was better for the men and women of Midgard to stay well clear of the Æsir, their great wars and convoluted schemes, but that was not always possible. Many times the Æsir and mankind crossed paths, usually to the detriment of the man or woman involved.
Once there was a man, a blacksmith by trade, who was so skilled in his craft that his name became renown throughout the Realm. Such was his skill that it was said he could spin the very light of moon and stars to the finest wire or chain, that he could fashion the strongest of axes from the scales of Jörmungandr himself, or the fleetest of arrows from a hawk's hunting cry. Many fantastical artifacts were attributed to the Smith, and perhaps many were also exaggerated. Nevertheless, his work was the finest to be had, and his reputation well earned, if a little overly embellished. So great and wide spread that reputation was, that even the Æsir knew his name, as did the dwarfs in Svartálfaheimr. The Smith, in many regards, was fortunate to only catch their curiosity and not to inspire the jealousy of those proud craftsmen.
The Smith was called on by many warriors and leaders of warriors, and praised on all sides for his work. So loud and universal were his accolades that none seemed to remember the Smith had a family, and in particular, a son.
The Smith's son was a clever lad, who had the forge very much in his blood. But while he possessed the talent of his father and learned much from him, the two did not get along. In truth the boy resented his father for the fame he gleaned, how he allowed it to take his attention away from his home and family. He had a child's selfish nature to demand that all be for themselves, while not seeing the necessity of labor that takes away the attention of their parents. As he grew he learned how to kindle the fire and work the metal, and he learned well, but in truth he resented the Master Smith. So much so that he determined never to be satisfied until all acknowledged him as a greater craftsman than his sire.
To accomplish this, the son planned to leave his father's house, to travel to every land and learn all they would teach him. With his innate talent and their varied knowledge passed to him, he was sure anything taking shape under his hands would surpass what his father could craft.
When the Great Smith heard of his son's plan he became furious. Not for the intention to surpass him in craft – he well knew the reasons for that – but because he feared for his son's safety. The roads were not without peril and the boy was young, trained to fashion weapons rather than to use them. But the son was determined to go, and after an argument that shook the rafters of the family home, the boy left, swearing to not return until his skills were at least as great as the Master's.
The Great Smith's son's travels were long and fraught with adventure and its fair share of mishaps, but he accomplished what he'd set out to do. He met with and learned from many blacksmiths of distant lands, some nearly as skilled as his father, and all presenting some unique talent or specialty at the forge. The son's skill increased each day, his knowledge grew immensely, and his experience became varied and rich under so many tutors. It was not long before his own name came to be known, not attached to that of his father but as itself, and he swelled with pride at the fruits of his labors.
When at last he felt he had achieved his promise, the son, now many years older and no longer a boy, travelled back to the town of his birth, to lay some of his finest creations at his father's feet and determine who was the greater craftsman.
However, when he arrived at his father's shop, he found the forge dark and cold, the fires unlit, dust gathering on his father's tools. In all the time he had been away and after all the dangers he'd faced, it had not been the son who had perished, but the Great Smith. Staying at home, it was he who had died while his son was away.
When he learned his father's fate the son fell to his knees and beat the earth. Twas not grief that shook him, but rage. In his death his father had escaped the challenge he would have put to him, to learn who was the greater craftsman. Indeed, by his death the Great Smith had achieved a kind of godhood, his superiority in the craft practically untouchable, even to his offspring. The son's hopes of ever besting his sire in the eyes of his fellow man were practically extinguished.
But the son held a fire in his breast that was unto the forge itself. He took his father's house and workshop and tools as his birthright, and set about making himself into ten times the blacksmith his father had been. He delved deep into his knowledge, experimented with metal and alloy and design, the forge never once cooling for weeks or months in his fever. He discovered in his endless work that he had a particular vision and skill for weapons. His metals were the strongest of any and his designs the deadliest, so that any who came to face his handiwork were almost sure to perish.
It was in this way the son came into his own fame, his skill sought out by many. His handiwork became known and feared on the fields of battle, his family line simultaneously praised and cursed.
He cared not how his name was remembered, either as benevolent or evil, so long as it was remembered as greater than that of his father.
The son's reputation spread, and he became a wealthy man. The forge and workshop grew, was expanded upon, and he took on apprentices to do menial tasks and free himself for skilled work rather than to teach them, and became popular in his village. But despite his fame, wealth and reputation, he never took a wife. He was far too engrossed in his work and never intended to have a family; the forge was in his blood and it consumed him from rising light until dusk, and thence into his dreams.
So it was a height of irony when one day a thief, in taking some precious thing from the Great Smith's workshop, burst in on the son, and in his fear shot him through the breast with an arrow. As the thief fled and the son fell to the ground, gasping for life, he recognized that it was one of his own weapons, his own craftsmanship that had felled him.
But the thief was no warrior, the arrow did not strike true and did not slay him, though it surely would not fail to without swift aid. Seeing his life ending ignominiously in his father's old workshop, the son prayed to the gods, any of the gods, to save his life and in return he would serve them with his skill dedicatedly.
The god who answered his prayer was Loki, the Trickster god.
The Smith's son was reluctant to make a deal with such a one as He, but feeling his life's blood ebb away, he had little choice…
…
Battle was something that had never truly been a part of his life. Not directly. He was in one of those few professions that allowed him to remain out of the fray and at the same time still have the respect of warriors. He had the so-called privilege to share beer with fighters without having to spill blood first. He was not a fighter, he merely provided the necessary tools. The swords, the axes, the armor…
The arrows.
Another labored breath wracked its way through his frame. The sound terrified him as much as the pain, and the pain was beyond anything he had ever experienced. He was no stranger to pain, warrior or not. A blacksmith took the wounds of his profession: the burns, the knocks, the cuts, the occasional horse hoof; but this went beyond any of that. An arrow lodged in his chest, the shaft caught between his ribs, the barbed head somewhere in his lungs, all of it moving and tearing with every breath he took. But it was the sound that truly frightened him, that told him how certainly he was about to die.
It sounded much wetter than the breath that had come before it. His lungs were filling with blood, he was going to drown on the dry floor of his own shop.
With an effort that Anthony found hard to believe, he managed to lift one arm and to fling it in the direction of the forge and, with a new surge of pain that made his vision go white specked with dancing black spots, dug his fingers into the packed soil and pulled. He dragged himself towards his forge, still hot from the day's labor. It wasn't far, only a dozen feet or so, but it seemed leagues away.
It had been his father's workshop when the old man had been alive, and Anthony had spent his earliest years in it. As a toddler he had run back and forth over the very floor he was now inching across. His small toes had helped pack down the earth, he had walked this particular path hundreds of times a day, and now he may gasp out his final breaths on it, his nose full of dust. Some might find it poetic, but Anthony felt cheated. To die on the same floor he had beaten down while running after his father as a child? Was that really all he had travelled in his life?
And to make matters all the worse, he was felled with one of his own arrows, fired from one of his own bows. Didn't that just reek of poetry?
Poetry could shove it.
It had been a slow day, but that was fine. Anthony rather liked the slow days, they gave him time to tinker, to design and to experiment. Traffic brought trade, but it was when he could be creative that he had the greatest joy. So he'd gone through the day, the crackle of fire and ringing of his hammer a cheerful accompaniment to the steady, constant patter of rain against the roof. Only occasional visitors interrupted him, and most of those were handled by his apprentices. As the day drew to a close and the two youngsters left for their own hearths Anthony began to close up for the night. First tidying the back of the shop, the forge, where all of the labor for the day took place, and then moving to the front, where a selection of items were on display for curious patrons, though most came knowing exactly what they wanted.
It was then, walking from the back to the front, that he noticed he had a late visitor, one who had braved dark and damp to come. He had his back to Anthony, but he was thin and short, with a head full of waterlogged curls hanging around his ears. It was strange to receive someone so late in the evening, but not unheard of. Anthony gave it no thought. Nor did he notice how the lad held his right arm, nor how furtive he was, nor that he didn't seem to have noticed Anthony at all.
Anthony called out a welcome to the boy, who whipped around in surprise, a look of guilty terror in his eyes. And then Anthony felt something hit him in the ribs, hard enough to make him stumble backwards.
He didn't know what was wrong at first, confusedly clutching his counter, trying to catch his breath that was suddenly labored and short. It wasn't until the lad – a child, really – looked down from Anthony's face to his chest, eyes wide as saucers that he thought to look down himself.
And saw a short shaft of wood, fletched with eagle feathers, jutting out from his breast.
The boy had fled, dropping the bow he'd shot Anthony with along the way and Anthony had collapsed to the ground, narrowly avoiding landing forward on the arrow shaft in the process. Who the boy had been he didn't know. It didn't seem entirely important, now. What was important was how many long, painful drags of his body it would take to get from the front of the shop to the back. It was how many breaths he would be able to draw in before he drowned in his own blood. It was the one battle he fought now against time – get to the forge before death claimed him. He'd tried calling out for help, of course, but it was late. All of his neighbors had long returned home, closed their doors, possibly even turned in to their beds. Even had there been anyone in the streets, the rain pouring down would have smothered his cries, and raising his voice had the nasty effect of making his vision dark around the edges and flames lick at his heart. He would not call out again, when all it did was bring death closer and brought no assistance flying.
So he clawed his way across the floor, dirty and littered with carelessly dropped items, towards the forge. With no one to help him, Anthony knew the forge and its heat was his one chance at surviving. He may never have wielded a blade or axe or bow himself, but he knew war well enough to be familiar with the wounds, and to a certain extent how to treat them. He would have to remove the arrow, that was certain; it couldn't stay in. But after its removal the open wound would have to be cauterized. For that he would need the forge, and the poker lying in the glowing coals.
Dragging himself along his side, Anthony managed another few inches, a foot at most. When he gasped, he could taste the blood at the back of his throat, the heavy, metallic taste of copper and iron.
'The forge is in my blood,' Anthony thought, remembering one of his father's favorite phrases. Then he scowled, shoving the memory of his father roughly away. What the hell does that even mean? he thought furiously. Stupid old man and his idiotic proverbs.
With an effort that made his muscled shoulders tremble as though he were eaten through with fever, another portion of the floor was crossed. Then another, and another. Each time less ground was covered, and each time it took more strength to achieve.
Finally he had to stop. Just raising his hand, he no longer had the strength to do even that. He lay, on his side and impaled with one of his own arrows, gasping for air.
It hurt to breathe. Who knew it could hurt just to breathe? It was something he had done all his life and never given even a passing thought, and it was agony. His very heartbeat – was the arrow lodged in his heart? – was a steady, rhythmic pounding of pain, like the rise and fall of his hammer as he beat out the metal.
Oh, the old man would love that, wouldn't he? Anthony thought sluggishly. My heart is the hammer that drives the blood of the forge through my veins. Bet you wish you'd thought of that, eh, you rank dead fool?
He coughed, and blood sprayed as spasms wracked his body. A fine mist of red patterned the dusty floor, the legs of a stool, and a cloth left on the floor by one of his idiot apprentices.
It was so hard to breathe now, to even hold his eyes open and stare at the bright red of his life splattered out in front of him. And what would be the point in trying to do either one, when he couldn't even move, he wondered? Even if by some miracle he managed to drag his corpse over to the forge, what then? Removing the arrow and then cauterizing the wound had been his only idea, but that would mean shoving a red hot poker into his lungs, possibly into his heart. Even in his failing state Anthony could see that was a bad idea. He had already tried calling out for help, to no result, and if he couldn't so much as crawl across his own floor there was no chance he could seek help from a neighbor. With his current position and given how much it was raining, he was in as much danger of drowning in a muddy puddle as he was his own blood.
Anthony felt his muscles begin to slacken, as if from a long way off, and it didn't really register why that was a very bad thing. His eyes unfocused and he felt a fresh jab of pain as his body rolled slightly, weight pressing into the shaft. He couldn't care enough to even try rolling back, away from it. Blood dribbled freely from his lips now, the taste of iron thick on his tongue, coating his teeth.
As his eyes, heavy as full casks, began drifting closed for what felt like the final time, all Anthony could think of was how he would be found the next morning, and what would be said. It would be his apprentices who found him, he was sure. They were lazy but they were good about being the first in to light the fires at least. They would be the ones to find him, and they would rush to bring the village healer – even if Anthony were blue with death and beyond all mortal aid. From there the news would spread fast and wide, the loss of the local blacksmith being an event of region-wide import. Tongues would wag over his demise, possibly for months. And they would say…
'The Great Smith's son is dead.'
Anthony's eyes flew open.
That is what they would say, wasn't it? His father was still better known than he was himself, despite the superior quality of his work. When they found Anthony dead on the floor – the floor of his father's forge – they would remember him as his father's son, not for his skill. He hadn't had enough time to truly perfect his art, to leave the mark on the world that would have overshadowed anything his father had done in his lifetime.
Too late, now, and if history remembered him at all it would be in deference to his father's lineage, not on his own merits. His work would be forgotten.
No, he thought, new strength rushing through his limbs. It wasn't enough to allow him to rise, but it fought back the encroaching darkness. No, I refuse to die now! Not! Now!
Anthony had never been an overly pious man. He was more prone to trusting his own strength and ingenuity than that of any deity. But he prayed now. He poured that rush of energy that was holding death at bay into a supplication to the gods, any of the gods who would answer, to save him. Save him in return for whatever they desired of him, he would trade it up for more time to become the legend that would supplant his father.
It was with that prayer still on his lips, tasting of iron and death, that the dark came in on him again, faster than before. As he sank he wondered where his spirit was destined for in the afterlife, and if one spirit could choke another; in case he found his father waiting for him.
Then… the sound of footfalls, slowly approaching him.
More than halfway to leaving his body forever, Anthony frowned into the hard packed earth. Footfalls? Why would he hear footfalls, when he hadn't even heard the door open? Who was it come to witness his final moments?
Somehow Anthony forced his eyes open. That, for how difficult it proved to be, was still easier than trying to convince his swimming vision to settle and focus. When it did he wasn't inclined to believe what he was seeing.
A pair of feet, very near to him, in very fine, very deep green slippers. Even as he was, Anthony knew that couldn't be right. The slippers and the hem of the gown he could see – also a fine, dark green – were far too well made for any of the households of his village. These belonged to a highborn lady, not a farmer's wife. What was more, they were perfectly clean and dry, not a speck of mud on them. That would be an impossible feat in their streets with the rain pouring down as it was, where mud sometimes came up to the knee. These slippers weren't even so much as damp.
Not knowing how he was doing so, Anthony's gaze travelled up, following the flow of a fine woolen skirt edged and embroidered with silver thread. Whoever it was that stood over him, she was tall and somewhat slender, and wore a smokkr held up with intricately designed dvergar brooches, a delicate finger woven belt at her hips, and many shining necklaces at her throat. When Anthony's eyes made it up to her face he was losing focus, his vision becoming bleary with the distance and the dark that crept into the room.
In the deceptive flickering of the forge's dying fires, Anthony saw a woman who under normal circumstances would have made him stop and stare. What he had initially thought of as a slender frame he now wanted to call lean when combined with the sharp angularity of her features. High cheekbones, broad brow, a strong jaw, hers' was a face that would be obeyed, even in firelight. But she retained her femininity by her wide mouth, the overall delicacy of her face, and her long hair, black as a raven's wing, held from her pale face by a wide green band also embroidered with silver thread. She stared down at him with dark eyes.
If he thought that his predicament would unnerve her, then he was very gladly mistaken. Her expression showed not an ounce of surprise or fear at finding a man with an arrow embedded at his heart, more dead than alive, bleeding and gasping on the floor like a fish. If anything he thought her eyes revealed a certain curiosity, but not concern.
Anthony's breath rattled painfully as he forced more air into himself, tried to form words. The attempt reminded him why he had found it so much more preferable to just lay still.
"L… lady-" he managed, then had to stop to cough up what felt like a pint of blood onto the floor. The slippers, somehow free of mud and moisture, were not impervious to that red stain. The Lady's reaction to the soiling of her shoes was the same as finding a dying man – none. He tried again.
"Lady, pl-… please. Fetch- fetch the healer." It wasn't likely to do any good at this point – even with this new hope focusing him the world was becoming darker. But this woman, whoever she was, was like an answer to his prayers, and he wasn't about to squander the chance, however remote it might be.
The woman, her dark eyes shining, didn't answer immediately, but rather stared down at him from her impressive height, her head tilted inquisitively. It was a strange response, layered atop already strange behavior, and Anthony began to feel apprehensive. How wrong was it to feel apprehensive about a Lady rescuer when he was dying?
"The gods have answered your prayers," she replied at last, her voice surprisingly low. A half smile quirked her lips. "But an answer in itself is not always a good thing."
It wasn't what he expected at all, and his heart jolted. Which was unfortunate, as it triggered a fresh bout of coughing. Lights danced before his eyes and his breath was impossible to catch. As he felt his grip on consciousness slipping away from him, the woman sighed.
"Stop dying. It's irritating." With that she waved her hand disdainfully, and suddenly he could breathe again.
He could breathe, but the pain didn't subside, nor did renewed strength rush through his limbs. But at least he could draw a breath without feeling as though he were drowning. Anthony did so; three long, deep breaths before he dissolved into exhausted pants. Taking in air still hurt and made the room swim before his eyes, so he tried to find a happy medium that would give him the most air with the shallowest of breaths. Lifting up his head, which felt so heavy, he stared up at the angular goddess and wondered which one she was. It was his first time seeing one that wasn't an illustration or carving, so he didn't feel too bothered that he couldn't recognize her right away.
The goddess, whichever she was, was studying him as he studied her. Though it could be said that the interest showing on her face was very different from the kind of interest he felt. She was looking at him much the same way someone would look at an odd leaf or new kind of insect: thoroughly, not missing a detail, but with only a vague sense of connection. Whoever this goddess was, she felt little to no sympathy for Anthony's plight, and may leave at any moment if her whim swayed her to do so. Unless he could convince her to stay, to save him.
"As you see," he gasped out, but did not cough. "I am at your mercy, my Lady, my life is in your hands. I am-"
"I know who you are," the goddess interrupted, still staring at his face. It was hard not to get lost in the goddess's eyes. They were incredibly dark, almost black, but with a gemstone shimmer of green flashing out of them.
"I have heard tell of you, Smith," the goddess continued with a small smile. "The Great Smith's son."
Anthony hadn't realized that he had felt a tiny lift of pride, knowing that a goddess, an Æsir had actually heard of him until that pride collapsed in on itself. He was known by his father, as the son, even to them. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but the goddess was not fooled. Her smile widened, a sharp grin full of white teeth, and turned away to walk around the room, examining his tools and wares, speaking as she went.
"The Ironmonger," she said, skirts swishing as she walked. "A talented young man, skilled and strong… They say you can fashion weapons to rival the god's own, though I have yet to see such myself." Anthony had to turn his head to watch her as she walked around him, then paused to lift up and examine a small hammer he used for jewelry. "The little sapling, not only sprouting, but managing to grow in that shadow of the oak."
She looked down at him, gemstone eyes shining at him mockingly. "What a tragedy, then, to be felled so ignominiously, eh?"
Anthony felt his face grow stormy, knowing he should keep his expression placid. He was a supplicant, depending on the goddess's good humor and generosity to save him. Losing his temper could mean losing his life in the same instant. But some things he could not endure quietly. "Was it your intention to come here to mock me? My Lady," he added.
The grin didn't budge, in fact she spun in place, skirts billowing out around her blood spattered slippers, her necklaces rattling musically. She still held Anthony's little hammer. "It is my intention to mock wherever I go. It is not always the purpose, but if the opportunity arises, one does not let it go to waste."
"Charming," the smith bit out, still fighting the pull towards unconsciousness. "Perhaps there's another god willing to hear me that's less prone to kicking a man when he's down?"
The Lady seemed to give it some thought, idly letting the little hammer swing back and forth in her fingers like the pendulum of a clock. Anthony tried hard not to see the parallel between the swaying hammer and the inexorable passing of time – time he would very soon be out of, if he wasn't already. "I sincerely doubt it," she replied at last. "I do not think you will find any of the other Æsir are as kind as I am, particularly when it comes to little mankind and his mishaps."
"A comforting thought."
The grin widened again. The angular woman had a smile like a blade – sharp and dangerous, and oddly compelling. "Isn't it? Now," she pointed the hammer at Anthony, "what is it you have called me here for, Smith's son, or did you call to the heavens for some company in your dying throes because the neighbors despise you?"
"I thought perhaps the bolt between my ribs might have been a clue."
She shrugged, slim shoulders making her long hair sway. "One can never be sure with Midgardians. It might well have been a desire to have two shafts, rather than to have the one you already possess removed. …That is your preference…?"
"Yes!"
"Mm," the Lady nodded, studying Anthony's wound carefully from a distance. "And you wish to survive the process, I assume."
Anthony couldn't draw a deep breath to calm himself down without sending daggers into his lungs, so he settled for gritting his teeth to stem the ill-advised comment that came to his lips. He'd been told he had a loose tongue, most especially when it came to figures in authority, probably stemming from his father and their stormy relationship. It had made some of his apprenticeships interesting, with impressive collections of bruises when he'd not curbed himself in time. In one case, it had earned him a hard week of walking on foot when the Master had thrown him out of the forge with nothing more than what he'd arrived with. The blisters had done little to teach Anthony anything other than it paid to invest in good cobblers. He still ran at the mouth when it came to speaking to anyone in a more advantageous position than himself.
Apparently this extended even to the gods themselves.
"That would be the best of possibilities, Lady." The words came out nearly a growl, but was at least semi-polite. It was better than he thought he could manage.
"Perhaps it only seems that way to one who has known so little," the Lady commented drily. Putting the small hammer aside, she came close, until her stained slippers, now soaked through their bottoms with his gore, were inches from his face. With a complete disregard for her fine clothes, she came to her knees, her skirts pooling about her legs and onto the bloody floor, and leaned over Anthony, one hand hovering over his chest, long fingers outstretched.
For a moment Anthony thought she intended to remove the arrow immediately, to tear it out of his chest with her bare hands, but she remained still, slender hand and fingers floating inches above his struggling body. When he looked into her face, hoping for some clue what the goddess was doing, her eyes were closed, a fine line appearing between her brows and her mouth pulled into a small, tight frown. Anthony remained as still as he was able, unsure what she was doing, and paid careful attention to his own body for any clues, for any telltale shifts within himself or feelings of repairs taking place. But nothing happened. Other than the steady hammering of his nerves courtesy of his heart and the wet burbling of his breath, there was nothing.
When the goddess at last opened her eyes again she seemed… not quite subdued, Anthony decided, but there was a seriousness in her face that hadn't been there before. She looked at him and every smart comment he had died in his mouth.
"The wound is grave," she said quietly. "But I believe not beyond my skills. I can remove the arrow, save your life, and to an extent even repair the damage that has been done." With a single finger she touched the shaft of the arrow. Anthony could see she touched it with so little pressure that had it been against his skin he may not have even felt it. As it was, a new wave of agony rocked him. He grunted, biting back a yell.
"But it will be painful. More painful," she insisted at Anthony's incredulous half-laugh, half-sob, "than it is now. What you would have to endure to survive will make what you are suffering right now seem a drop in the sea. And you will be awake for it all, I assure you."
Anthony tried to imagine that much pain and failed utterly. If the goddess did what she said she could, then he would have no need to in any case. He would know. "But I would live?" he ground out, the taste of iron still heavy on his tongue. "I would… surpass my father?"
The sharp, dagger grin came back to the goddess's lips. "Oh, yes. If that is your wish, little sapling, then you may supplant your sire. What is done with your life is entirely your choice."
With a strength he didn't realize he had anymore, Anthony lifted his hand and wrapped his fingers about the Lady's wrist. He dared lay his hand on a goddess. In his pain and fear, Anthony did not perceive the disrespect – or danger – of such a gesture. All that registered, dimly, was how slender her wrist seemed, yet how at the same time he could feel the power and strength crackling through her. Her eyes flicked to his hand, then refocused on his face. "Goddess, will you save me?"
Gemstone eyes stared at him for what felt like a small eternity, his life balanced on the whim of a nameless goddess who seemed changeable as a zephyr. It was a relief just to hear her speak again, so Anthony almost lost the meaning of her words. "That remains for you to decide, Smith. For there is a price for the saving of your life, and it's your choice whether you are willing to pay."
Of course there was a price. "What is it?" he asked bleakly. "If you want my firstborn – if I have any – you'll have to search some wide countryside to find it. Though you could always take my apprentices," he added offhandedly. "They're both dummies, anyway."
The goddess chuckled, a throaty sound. "I rather like you, Smith. Even staring your own mortality in the face you find the courage to joke. But no," she tilted her head. "I do not demand children, either the fruit of your loins or of your instruction. I would demand something a little more dear to you."
"And what might that be?"
A slow stretch of that dagger smile. "Your heart."
In his chest, the abused organ stuttered painfully. For an instant his mind went blank as he tried to comprehend what had just been said. "What?"
"It's a fair trade," the green clad goddess purred, removing his hand from her wrist easily and spreading her fingers over the wound, ignoring the blood. He expected it to hurt, and for an instant it did, a shock of pain arcing around his ribs, but then a curious thing happened. A cooling, almost numbing sensation spread from the goddess's palm, chasing away the agony and giving Anthony a moment of blessed relief, a moment that felt as though his entire universe wasn't about to end. It was a taste, he realized, of what could be if he agreed to the Lady's offer, her bargain. Life, the ceasing of pain – after a relatively short bout of unimaginable pain – the chance to continue his work. There were no guarantees that his life would prove to be all he wanted to become. It was only life that was offered… but compared to the alternative, could her really call the offer 'only' life?
Fingers spread over his blood soaked apron, trails of chill worked their way deeper into him, chasing away the firebrands of pain, reaching for the hammer in his breast. "I save your life," she murmured to him, her words floating like ice crystals in Anthony's confused mind. "And in return, I take your heart – remove it from you. It will belong to me, in all senses of ownership, and in its place I will leave a talisman to replace it." She paused. "Truly, you lose nothing in the bargain. You keep your life, and instead of this frail organ you get something much stronger in its place. The poor thing is very damaged, and not only from the arrow that has rent it. It'd be a favor to relieve you of the messy thing."
Anthony was hardly registering what was being said anymore. He knew he should be paying attention, that his life and possibly something even more important were hanging in the balance, but focus eluded him. He was too comfortable, and he was so tired… "Yes," he croaked out. "Yes, take it. I accept the bargain as fair."
The hand moved away, and fire shot through him. Anthony gasped, his eyes flying open again in shock. The goddess smiled down at him. Not a cruel smile, but neither was it one meant to comfort. "One last thing is required before you can accept, Ironmonger. One of those petty rules that must nevertheless be obeyed to legitimize the transaction. You must know to whom it is you give your heart in payment for your life. …Have you guessed my name yet, Smith?"
Anthony squinted at her face as the names of the goddesses reeled through his brain. He held each one against the Lady hovering over him, who dangled salvation before him like a bone to a dog, but none seemed to fit. None of them rang true. He shook his head silently, words finally failing him entirely. Since the returning of pain it only seemed ten times worse, and Anthony was so very tired.
In the surly light of the dying forge fires, the grin of the goddess shone like a sliver of the moon, like the edge of a knife. Her green gemstone eyes glittered.
"I am Loki."
Anthony stared. He knew he should be afraid, yet he couldn't muster the energy to truly fear. Loki, the trickster god, had heard his prayer and deigned to answer. He, out of any of the Æsir, and had as good as said he was the only one who would. In the guise of a woman he had come and made an offer, a deal that involved taking his heart as payment… Anthony was not pious, but he knew the stories. One could hardly fail to know the tales of Asgard, of the Æsir and their doings, most particularly those of Odin, Thor and the Sly One. If he was here and offering this deal to Anthony, then there must be come hidden advantage for him. Anthony was no fool, he could plainly see the risks of tangling with an immortal trickster, knew that giving up his heart in 'all the senses of ownership' was a fool's path, and no good could come from it…
But neither was he willing to die. He saw all the reasons to refuse this offer, thanked whatever rule it was that made it so he had to know the identity of his benefactor before he could accept, but to refuse was to die. Whatever it was Loki had done thus far to keep him alive and awake was already wearing off, and if he let it slip away entirely then Anthony would founder within a handful of minutes. Perhaps less.
He would not die. He would not let his father best him by some thief's ill aimed arrow.
He would take the bargain. Let Loki take his damaged heart and much good may it do him.
Anthony gritted his teeth, glared up at the god / goddess who watched him with the alert patience of a hawk. "I… accept."
Loki smiled, and then the world became nothing but fiery agony.
…
It seemed weeks had passed before the pain finally subsided, though it did not die away completely. Rather it became a constant, dull ache that throbbed all along his nerves, centering around his chest. The center of his chest, where once there had been an arrow, but now there was not.
Where once there had been a heart, and now there was not.
Anthony tried not to think about it. He tried to not remember what his heart had looked like as it was lifted out of his body, cradled gently in long, slender fingers dripping with his blood, so thick it was almost black. He tried to block out the way it had continued to beat in Loki's hold, a live, fluttering thing being stolen away from him, seeming to glow with a deep red light, especially bright along the gash left by the arrow. The bloodstained god put it away in a little box of silver and iron and locked it securely. The box and the key disappeared almost instantly into Loki's clothing, he knew not how, and it was almost a relief to no longer see the thing in the open air, a piece of him but no longer a part of him.
But then, even watching his own heart being removed and the unbelievable pain that accompanied it, was as nothing to what followed. The father of lies did not lead him astray for that, and Anthony came to know the depths of that particular ocean.
Now…
The blacksmith looked down hesitatingly, the first time he had dared to since the ordeal had begun. He knew that no gaping wound would greet his eyes. He had watched as the Lady Loki had set inside him some thing made of metal and stone, but he was not so prepared for what did meet his gaze.
Perfectly round and set in the center of his muscled chest, was the object, the 'talisman' set in place by Loki. He had expected it to reside within him as his heart had done, hidden and unknown, but no. Like a small plate set in his sternum, it lay level with his skin. Skin which appeared whole, though slightly bruised where it came into contact with the talisman. As for the talisman itself…
It was unlike anything he had ever seen before, either in his travels or in the designs he set down himself. Round, slightly smaller than his palm, the first inch of its edge was metallic, silver at a blurry guess, and worked with complex, intricate patterns. It was difficult to see in the poor light of embers and a watery, rising sun, but he thought he could make out some script woven into the design. A spell? For now the interest of the edge was overshadowed by the talisman's center, which at first glance was stone or crystal, cut flat to the shape of the metal that encircled it.
Anthony had watched as the talisman had been put into him, had seen it before it had become a part of him. It had been to his eyes nothing but a large chunk of some fine gem. Now the center of the talisman glowed with a life of its own, it color shifting as his eyes moved across it, now blue, now green. He peered at the strange stone as closely as he could, curling on himself awkwardly in attempt to see. It was a strange gem, more like quartz in that he seemed able to see into it, and at its glowing center was a floating, shifting cloud, like mist or fog caught within.
Carefully, Anthony touched it with an unsteady hand. He'd expected it to be warm, like a brand or ember that burned as it gave light, but it was not. It wasn't even warm; it was cooler than his skin, almost frigid.
Shivering, though not with cold, Anthony took his hand away, letting it fall to the ground with a thump. It was beginning to sink in, the weight of what he had done. His heart belonged to Loki, and in its place was some foreign, magical thing that somehow kept him alive. How it was doing so he did not know. He could feel, all too well, his blood still pulsing through his veins, but where his heart had once been was strangely, eerily still. He was literally heartless, kept alive by a trinket of Loki.
In the back of Anthony's mind, he wondered if the talisman was also a mark of the god, some kind of stamp that marked Anthony as his.
"Adjusting to your new heart?"
Anthony looked up to see Loki, still feminine and in bloodied skirts, wiping her hands on a discarded forge cloth, though to say they were coming clean would be too optimistic. She… he… was watching him with a mixed expression, though all Anthony could discern for certain was humor by the slight quirking of her lips.
The blacksmith scowled and turned his head away, shifting himself a little higher on the wall he'd been propped against towards the end of his 'operation.' If he could, he would have stood and walked away, but he doubted his legs had the strength.
"Oh, now, let's not be like that, Smith," Loki chided, nothing but humor in her voice now. "We've accomplished a feat never before seen by Æsir or men, which is by no stretch a mean feat. And you will live for many years, forging your pretty little devices of death. Truly: be proud."
Anthony closed his eyes and sighed – blessedly pain free, yes. But the god's words stung him like barbs. He needed sleep, he needed solitude to just think. "I am too tired to be anything," he replied, barely more than a whisper. "Leave me."
There was a pause. Possibly it was shocked, possibly only thoughtful, Anthony didn't bother to look up and see. Even at the risk of offending a god, he was just too tired.
"Of course," came the eventual reply, much closer than he had expected. And the voice only came nearer as it continued, the soft sound of footfalls and swishing skirts an odd accompaniment. "You need time to rest, to adjust to this new arrangement. As you may already suspect, it involves more than the simple relocation of a damaged organ. For who can say what power a man may have when they own another's heart?"
Anthony opened his eyes, and discovered the god much closer still than he had thought. Loki was crouched down beside him, her nose almost brushing his, dagger grin in place, green eyes so dark they were nearly black staring into the back of his head. "And your heart is mine now, blacksmith. And I am no man."
Lips were suddenly pressing against his, soft as petals but hungry and demanding. Anthony froze in place, and while he remained thus motionless, fingers that were strong as they were slender wrapped around the back of his neck and pulled him forward. Anthony would have it as his pain and trauma that kept him still, with perhaps a small amount of fear, and his absolute exhaustion that allowed his eyes to slip closed, and not enjoyment found in the unexpected caress. Whatever the reason, close they did, and he did no struggle. It wasn't until he was able to pull away again – when he was released – that he saw what change had taken place.
It took a moment to notice, in the dark and slightly dazed, but when he did it must have shown in his face, for Loki's grin widened to his ears.
And it was most certainly his ears.
The eyes and the smile, they had not changed in the least. They remained the same and told Anthony that this was indeed the same person, though not the same gender. His face was as smooth as it had been as a female, and his features were still angular, but more so, no longer softened by the gentle curves at cheek and jaw. His figure, too, was leaner, no longer feminine but purely angular, narrow at hips and waist. Even his clothes had changed. No longer a gown and smokkr, Loki wore a finely fitted wool kyrtill edged with silk and fitted britches tucked into calf high boots.
The trickster god laughed softly in Anthony's face, his breath fluttering over his mouth, and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. Anthony was too bewildered to protest or pull away.
"Until we meet again, Smith," Loki said, his voice a little deeper than before, but just as smooth.
And then… he was gone. And Anthony was left alone on the floor of his forge, propped against one wall, the eerie glow of the talisman his only company.
…
A/N: You guys would not believe the amount of research that I've done on this thing already, and for the smallest of details. I'm picky. Anyway, here's some notes:
Anthony's Name: I thought about changing Anthony's name to something a bit more time appropriate… but no. Anthony is Anthony.
Smokkr: A smokkr is basically an apron dress, and part of a woman's typical garb at the time. There's some debate as to whether or not 'smokkr' is a period term or not, but I wanted to have something else to call it than 'apron dress.' So, 100% accurate or not, that's what we're using.
Dvergar: 'Dvergar' literally means 'dwarf,' and in this case is referring to the big tortoise brooches used to hold up a smokkr. Usually they're just called tortoise brooches… but I liked the name dvergar brooches that I found while researching period garb, so used it here.
Kyrtill: A kyrtill, as everyone could probably tell from context, is the outer tunic worn by the men of the time. It looks very simple, just like a long-sleeved shirt with a very long, almost dress-like body, but it's actually quite complicated to make, and depending on a man's social status there are some interesting differences in make and fabrics. For example, the higher a man's status, the longer the 'skirt', as this showed they could afford superfluous fabric. Trims were usually restricted to braids, but silk could also be used – but this would have been something only the wealthiest could afford.
If you couldn't tell, yes, I did a huge amount of research on the costumes of the time. And I rather enjoyed it, too. (Sometimes I really miss being in the SCA.) For future chapters I'm expecting research on everything from food, to ye olde metallurgy, to politics.
That being said, I'm just going to point out something right now: There are going to be historical inaccuracies. I've done enough research to know that I'm going to mess things up. I know enough to know I don't know enough, if that makes sense. So rather than trying to keep as close to the real-world as possible – because that would fail horribly – we're going to say that we are in a place that is veeeery close to our own world… but it isn't. There are parallels and similarities that would boggle the mind, but we're not on Earth. For the sake of my own deteriorating sanity. (I'll still be keeping as close as possible, but I'm taking this scapegoat now while I can so I'm not banging my head against the wall for snarls in the timeline, geography, customs, etc.)
Thanks for reading, and for putting up with my rambles, everyone!
