A Prince of the Blood
Seeing an annul chamber from the outside had always given Loki a sting of discomfort; living inside one now proved his feelings justified. Well lighted, comfortably ventilated, rigidly guarded and sparsely furnished, it held all the basic needs anyone could want.
All except magic, which it cancelled with silent perfection.
Of course, there were small "changes" he could affect without his talents. More than once he destroyed the chairs, pulverized the glassware, shredded the tapestries, even used a knife to slash across the walls in torment, giving full freedom to his fury. And each morning his handiwork had been neatly undone, as though his vented rage was little more than a passing dream.
Time here meant nothing. He cursed and paced, thrashing about like a wounded animal, trying every trick he had learned in his travels to escape the unyielding gaze of his captors-or at least annoy the guards into looking away for an instant. They proved as immune to his attempts as the room itself, as unchangeable as the marble carvings that graced the outer corridors of Asgard, not even showing amusement at the need to shadow their rightful one time sovereign.
Sunset, and the fire of day faded. He gazed at the clear night sky, only slightly relieved that he could see something of the outside world. True, it was not wholly unpleasant in here; in fact, it was not unlike his secret chamber beneath the great hall. But the constant ill-focused spectrum emitted from the room disturbed and shifted his thoughts, preventing his mind from carrying out an act as simple as mentally turning the page of a book.
It was no wonder that even the All-Father avoided this part of the palace.
Star-rise, he now thought sullenly, turning to step away from the freedom denied to him. Yet he had noticed tonight that something caused a variance in their twinkling. Somehow their luster had been diminished, as though they were in pain. An invasive force was disrupting the hallowed realms outside Asgard, causing even the air of what was once his kingdom to feel unsettled. Loki turned again to stare at the sky until his eyes threatened to bleed—but he saw only points of light against the blue-black canopy.
There was nothing obvious. He knew, however, that his senses never lied.
With a shrug, he slumped into the chair facing his supper. At least it was fit for royalty, he told himself, picking idly at the fresh bread, fruits and meats that adorned the tray. Imprisoned he may be now, but once he gained his freedom—which he had no doubt would come—he would properly reward the cook for catering to his tastes.
His heart skipped a beat as he reached for the goblet of wine. The room had changed ever so slightly, though the guards seemed not to acknowledge it. Nonetheless, the hair rising on the back of his neck told Loki that somehow, in some way, he was no longer alone.
Impossible, he scolded himself. Nothing could penetrate the room with that type of magic; after all, no one aside from the All-Father himself had such ability. Yet the feeling grew stronger, and his skin tingled when the intruder brushed close to him. He dared not reach out with his hand, since it would attract the sharp-eyed guards who, without knowing whether he was truly alone or merely pretending, would doubtless burst in to cause an end to the unexpected visit—and then find a way to taunt him for the disruption.
Nevertheless, his mind reeled as he tried to think of who would take such a risk.
A familiar voice soon whispered to him, as much in his mind as in his ear.
"Mother…?" he breathed into the rich dark vintage. But how? Of all those in Asgard, she had never shown strong teleport ability. Though he knew she could drift between rooms—and she had, after all, helped him with his own talent-this required far more skill and proficiency than anything so ordinary. Besides, he could usually perceive when someone's essence appeared to him, but at this moment she was more transparent than air.
As his mind raced, a sliver of icy warning flickered along his spine. It disappeared as quickly as it came, but it was enough. Whoever this was had made a good pretense of his mother—but not good enough to completely fool him.
"It pains me, dearest love, to see you this way." Loki felt sadness in the voice. "But I must be brief in case someone should find me here. We are too far apart for me to hold this touch for long."
Touch. Loki frowned, but remained silent as he tried to understand. He was stunned to sudden immobility as a ripple of heat found its way through his body; only the swift nullifying effect of the room prevented him from an embarrassing sigh of pleasure. Spearing a morsel to quiet the guards' suspicious looks, he managed to keep relaxed despite the sensuous excitement. As his control returned, his eyes quietly flickered from blue to green to the deep orange of resentment that whoever this invader was—and no matter how important the message—could so easily manipulate him. But he ate slowly, waiting for the speaker in his mind to continue.
"I know of your anger and hatred at finding out your origins," it went on quickly. He could feel furtive glances from somewhere outside the palace, along with a another slight change in tone, since only he was able to hold such a disguise for longer than a few moments-but he dismissed it as something to worry about another time.
"With reason," his thoughts responded bitterly. "What of it? I've been ripped from my rightful place as king, so what difference does my heritage make now?"
He felt himself flinch when the eldritch visitor brushed against him again, and he suppressed a growl of irritation. His reaction had been instinctive, not because the person had attempted such closeness but that he felt that the approach held within it a veiled threat. In spite of the muddling effect of the room, he now was positive this presence was not what it seemed. Unable to pinpoint the exact source of his unease, however, Loki chose to let the scene play out, carefully watching for any clues leading to the truth about this visitor's identity.
"It matters," the voice went on. "Loki…you know you are…"
"Yes!" he hissed with a barely audible snarl, bristling at the reminder. "Of course I know exactly what I am!" He spit the words between his teeth, not caring if the guard heard him. "The son of Laufey, once king of the race of monsters everyone fears-and it would seem rightly so!"
He felt an amused smile, and his annoyance increased. But though the response held no rebuke and seemed to slow his thoughts long enough to want to keep listening, he was now certain the intruder—likely a woman he knew-had an agenda all her own.
"Yes, and no," she corrected, her voice losing some of its gentle tone. He felt her move in his mind and his jaw tightened: the presence had lost some of its protective shadow and while he could not tell who it was, he was convinced the person was not Asgardian.
"Remember this, my dear one: it is true that you are the son of Laufey… but Laufey is not your father."
Loki nearly strangled on the sip of wine in his mouth, spraying the fluid with a heavy cough that caused one of the guards to raise an eyebrow of slight concern. Loki managed a wry grin and a wink, catching his breath and trying to grasp both his composure and the visitor's words. The guard scowled with a shrug, rolling his eyes at his partner, who hoarsely whispered a crude remark. They both chuckled at their joke, unaware that Loki understood every word.
For now he chose to ignore the insult. Retribution would come in its own time.
"That makes no sense…" he almost said aloud, steadying himself against the table.
"Shhh…" came a stern command, fading even as it continued. "Think deeply while in your solitude. No Frost Giant is able to teleport across the distances you have mastered; in fact, almost none in Asgard can do so. After all, who else in Valhalla can shape shift, walk invisibly between the realms, or be considered a master of magic? Oh yes, Loki: you are a true son of Asgard. Remember, Frost Giants are able to blend somewhat into their background, but they cannot shift to change what they are—and they do not name themselves as others do."
He wanted to hear more, clenching his fists beneath the table as he strained to discover the source of the presence that had touched him. But even as the significance of the message itself became clearer—and the shadow of the messenger became mist-so did a final warning:
"You will not be able to tell anyone of this meeting. If you try, the words will not come. Do not fear, though; when the time is right, you will shout it from the top of the mountains so everyone will know. In the meantime..."
The presence was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving Loki still choking and confused.
He uncurled himself slowly and paced the short distance from table to window to bed, then back again. Nothing he heard from the strange voice matched with what he had been taught or recently learned about his heritage…or did it? Glancing down, he noted that his hands were white with rage, still curled in frustration. As he relaxed his fingers, he felt the words flow once more.
Laufey is not your father. If true, why did he leave him exposed to die? Even he understood that no king would want a son that could prove unworthy of the royal legacy, and Jotuns would not tolerate any infant that was not considered an acceptable specimen.
Frost Giants do not name as we do. Suggesting what? His name did not come from them? That perhaps Odin named him as an Asgardian…
Suddenly Loki fell into a chair with a thud of understanding. The truth of his visitor's words struck him with more force than a blow from his brother's hammer—and the implication had just as much impact.
A slow smile of pure delight and malice crossed his smooth features. The unsteady twinkle of the stars, the feeling of discord and unease that was beginning to overtake the palace now brought him a comfort he hadn't felt since his capture.
Stretching his lean body with pure feline pleasure, he once more found delight in the aura of frigid strength coursing through his muscles as it strained to escape. But he was now unburdened with the overwhelming desire to burst from this cell to freedom, to find a release for the anger that still festered inside. He comprehended the message far more deeply than his informant might have intended. Whatever the motive-an attempt to give him solace or ignite his need for revenge—the visit served to refresh his determination to take back what he saw as rightfully his.
Gazing at the smooth flesh of his hands, he pulled his thoughts together and focused his mind as he had done every day since his imprisonment. But this time he allowed his energy to be fueled by a cold, unclouded understanding that magic, malice and passionate fury were not enough. No, he would need to completely transcend the unbending glacial resolution of his legacy. Once mastered, he could prove once and for all that he was the true and rightful master of Asgard—and not even his hammer bearing brother would be able to stop him.
With a slow, careful breath, he gently he coaxed the icy force inside him to the surface, if only for an instant.
The tip of his finger gradually flared into soft azure, striated with tendrils of clear crystal that briefly reflected off the starlight from the window. Just as quickly it vanished, spell reversed by the anti-magic of the room.
But he had succeeded. Given time, he might even gain his liberty without help from others—but his instincts told him it wouldn't be necessary. He had more than time and power on his side: whoever or whatever this enemy was that had perturbed the stars of heaven and thrown the great hall into an uproar of such severity as to coerce someone into defying Odin's orders of isolation must possess a magic equal to his own.
Or perhaps greater—which meant that he had to gain control of it by any means possible.
His eyes flashed deep yellow in a sparkle of devious delight. Sooner or later all of them—like it or not-would need him. And he already had his price in mind…