Unlucky Traveller
1. The soul has illusions as the bird has wings.
The wind danced along the waters edge, cooling the riverbank and glowing meadows beyond. A sweetened tang travelled across the yellow terrain, a faint mingle of flowers, fertility and idleness. The trickster loosened his lips and with one agile strike of his pointed tongue, sipped the afternoon air. Nature flowed much in the same twine as magick, Loki was able to decipher both with tremendous ease. Something would alight within him. It would gradually gather force and surge eagerly throughout the trickster until it rendered him ridge, bewitched by his own power. Then the answers would come.
Each exposure rekindled his initial excitement and often prompted Loki to behave frivolously with his innate abilities. Yet it frightened him into caution at the same time. No one knew the full extent of his magick. The hard part was letting go. It was a slow and sorrowing procedure that left him feeling deflated and occasionally nauseous. He paused, awaiting his mind and stomach to settle.
It was Gaukmanudhr, too early for spring to have ripened, but it would soon and this year it would be unpleasant in both length and temperature. Unmindful Loki touched his high collar, the humid seasons did not agree with him anymore then they did his wardrobe.
Nevertheless a smile played upon his compressed mouth. At best his dim-witted elder brother and his insufferable cohorts would be otherwise occupied with the numerous hunting parties, tournaments and general gallivanting around that the season always seemed to call for, to be concerned with pestering the younger princeling. At the height of the spring activities, Loki could disappear for days at a time and never be missed. The breeze lightly stirred his wispy hair as his keen eyes darted over the quiet pastures. Loki relished the undisturbed solitude that the glades provided. The opportunity to sit and think and simply be without constant reprimand for being surly and sour-faced was something of a luxury in the realm of Asgard. One he treasured deeply and was determined to keep. During his late teens, Loki had developed a peculiar desire for self-dependence and isolation, a concept entirely alien to the Aesir. Now a little older, his private nature asserted itself much more frequently and Loki spend most of his time alone, typically within his living quarters or the library through both sanctums were easily invaded by his overbearing brother.
Resting with his back against a sturdy oak tree upon a slight mound, his position gave Loki the clear advantage from all angles. He sat confidently with his elbow propped on his raised knee, pouring over a thick leather bound grimorie open in his lap. Three more hefty textbooks were untouched to the left of him. Advanced transmogrification demanded a level of concentration that Loki currently lacked. It was his express desire to master shape-shifting by the coming winter and at present his skill was excruciatingly limited. Now in between his fingertips, the black ink was starting to merge into the rough pages. His eyelids drooped and he allowed the bulky book to slide shut. In a rather haughty demeanour, Loki stretched out his long legs and let one crossed the other. The warmth enveloped him and shortly Loki was dosing softly under the cloudless sky.
The trickster drifted aimlessly for barely an hour before there came a rusting from the forest clearing as the streak of pure silver crashed through the low thicket. Some distance from the sleeping prince, the creature motioned forward to survey the landscape and then took a leisured trot towards the nearing stream with some anticipation. Lowering his neck to drink with a vigorous craving, the cold water cut the heat blissfully and the creature's dark eyes glinted with satisfaction. With his thirst quenched, the stallion reared and flicked back his eminent mane to release a stringent neigh skyward. Svaðilfari was appeased for the moment.
Throughout the nine realms there were many stories concerning Svaðilfari, the legendary stallion, some were common knowledge but most had passed out of recollection. Only Svaðilfari remembered them all candidly. He saw no reason why not; they were always so complementary towards him. In particular he enjoyed the stories which embellished his speed, strength and cunning the most. It seemed the Aesir preferred to portray him as close to invincible as possible in their candlelit tales as so to explain their dismal failure at claiming him. The last attempt had come at the hands of their overzealous young prince, Odin Borson. Svaðilfari made a sound close to a chuckle, the same noise he had made upon learning Odin had become King of Asgard. Borson was brash, pompous and foolish, a strapping example of Asgardian leadership. Yet it was a horse who had schooled Borson in humility.
It was then Svaðilfari sensed he was not alone.
The stallion spun on his heels, preparing either to charge or to flee from the potential threat, whatever it might be. In his current supercilious fuelled state, the former was the most likely. It had been a while since Svaðilfari had engaged in an opponent. It had been a while since there had been an opponent to engage. The creature pondered whether he had fallen into legend more so then he would have liked. Vanity would be the death of him.
Svaðilfari turned to study the terrain with his sharp sight but found nothing amiss. He then reached out with his mind and wielded more success. A deep-seated power flowed across him like an incessant tide rushing against an anchor. Bearing his teeth, the creature pushed back gingerly, attempting to trigger the owner into revealing his location. When no change to the magick current came, Svaðilfari decided to take the risk and gauged the distance between him and this very curious entity.
Approaching the lifeless trickster, Svaðilfari steadied his trot. Mechanically he dropped his head and peered down at the smaller creature sedulously. From the clean cut and well sown garments, the delicately embroidered outer coat and earth coloured breeches, Svaðilfari concluded that this one was an Asgardian of noble birth. Through fashioned as a lord, his physique did not resemble that of his kin. His build was much slighter and leaner, his muscles were slender and his limbs lankier. The stallion imagined this one was much swifter and more agile than his bulky, knuckle-headed brethren. Turning his attention to the youths latent face, Svaðilfari noted it's uncharacteristic pointiest. Heavily outlined by raven tresses, his pure white skin looked as if it had never seen the sun's light. Svaðilfari could not look pass those dark curls, uncommonly so for an Aesir. No, this creature was too refined, too diminutive to be one of those barbarians. And yet Svaðilfari was more than aware of Asgardian pride, interbreeding would never be permitted, nor would a half-breed bastard be granted such high status. Clearly there was more to this little one than what met the eye.
The stallion arched back his head. Whatever the small one was, he was intriguing. Probably unrecognised by the Aesir, there was an attractiveness that seemed to transverse boundaries. It was almost a shame their species were so different, Svaðilfari began to muse at what a fine companion the small one would make. Such an outlandish thought and yet Svaðilfari was already enticed. How ever much the stallion appreciated his freedom, he could not deny his lonesomeness. Other horses were incompatible, possessing neither the intelligence nor the stamina to satisfy the mighty steed. Ordinary horses were inferior creatures. Svaðilfari was the only of his kind, whatever his kind was. He had long since resigned himself to a life of loneliness.
Only to stumble upon you…Svaðilfari panted, he felt overwhelmed. His fascination only served to heighten his longing. You shouldn't be so quick to delude yourself. This is not to be. Reason spoke with an ugly voice. The creature was Asgardian, if not by lineage than by culture. Svaðilfari knew he would never be regarded as an equal and he was a beast with no master.
With a causal nod, the stallion noticed the mount of grimories and felt pained at how suited they were. Transmogrification, I could certainly teach you a trick or two…
Loki let out a soft moan and stirred quietly. His deep green eyes popped open and magnified. Svaðilfari was riveted at how intensely they shimmered, drawing in focus. How exquisite set against the white backdrop and raven curtains. A bewildered expression was imprinted across his limber features, as Loki scrambled to his feet, he gave a strange gasp. Fully animated, the deal was sealed. Svaðilfari formulated his next move.
"What do we have here?" Visibly thrilled, the moment stretched on without a response. The trickster wracked his brain for the name of the stallion that had appeared often in the adventures Odin had regaled him and Thor as children. It did not come to him immediately but when it did, it simply rolled off his tongue.
"To lay eyes on Svaðilfari would pass only in a fleeting glaze," Loki restated, daring not to let go of his breathe. Already he had accomplished a feat that had surpassed his Father. A tremor of excitement sent his skin aflame. Something Odin had never achieved, something Thor had never achieved, now stood calmly before him. Loki licked his lips in anticipation and prepared to approach the stallion with extreme vigilance. Somehow he would have to capture Svaðilfari without startling him. The trickster's mind became a whirlwind of possibilities only to fall blank as the horse simply walked right up to him and began nuzzling his dark curls.
Astonished Loki felt his mouth slip ajar. "Well, aren't you… affectionate," Could this really be Svaðilfari? Couldn't there be other large, silver steeds roaming the fields of Asgard? How could he have succeeded in a task that had eluded the All-Father? Loki sighed diminished and disappointed. Nevertheless he raised a hand to give the creature a strong pat to its broad neck. Without warning the ground was pulled from under him. Loki jerked backwards, realizing that his body had already smacked into the earth before he could prevent it. The world continued to spin, faster and faster until the sky merged with the land and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.
Notes: According to my 'How to be a Viking' book Svaðilfari means 'unlucky traveller' and Gaukmanudhr refers to April.