A/N: I'm not yet as well versed in the Thor/Avengers fan fiction as the others, nor do I know much about Norse mythology, which I still find confusing most of the time. Even more so when Loki's father in the movie has been mixed up with…his mother… I have, with some reluctance, decided to follow the movie rather than the myth and have Laufey as Loki's father.
As this is my first attempt at Thor (Loki) fanfiction, I hope I don't mess up too much and if I do, you'll surely let me know...I hope. ;D
Inspired by "Den Fyrste Song", a Norwegian lullaby by Per Sivle (1857-1904). You can listen to it on YouTube.
In the golden twilight of an Asgardian evening, a very tall and lean man stood, still as a statue, beside a cradle.
After what seemed like ages, he tentatively reached an arm over to the cradle, thin sensitive fingers caressing the ornate, gilded wood, green eyes taking in the sleeping infant.
His son.
Hárkoll.
He whispered the name... It sounded pleasant enough and yet, he couldn't help but frown. He wondered - not for the first time – why, in Odin's name, his wife had come up with this name. Like many men, he had had little to say in the choice of the name.
Tall and dark... Hár koll.
Ah well; what's in a name. He would get used to it.
"Hárkoll Lokison..." His voice was soft and tender with a dreamlike quality as if he still couldn't believe his luck when seeing this small wonder.
There was a euphony as he tried it out, letting the syllables roll off his tongue.
Loki quietly wandered over to the other side of the large bed on which lay the most beautiful woman he could imagine.
His wife. The fair Sigyn. Dreaming dreams.
He sat carefully down at the edge of the bed, making sure not to disturb Sigyn as he studied her in the golden glow of the Asgardian sunset. His eyes took in her peaceful face, travelling down to her soft lips and her slender neck...like a swan's. Loki watched her breathe, mesmerized by the steady rising and falling of her chest, his own breath soon falling into the same calm rhythm to match hers. Such was the effect she had on him. Or rather, she was the only person in the Nine Realms having the power to control the God of Mischief and Chaos.
And, by Odin's beard, power she had! Galore! And with the new life growing in her womb, she had become even more powerful than before...and less predictable. It had pained him to see her moods swing like a pendulum and he'd started to look out for the signs that told him when it was time to leave her be and retreat to the solitude he'd been used to in his childhood. More often than not, though, he missed those warning signals completely and couldn't but endure the flood of emotions Sigyn poured all over him, no longer able to control herself as she turned from soft, loving and caring into a being akin to a raging winter storm personified.
He'd most assuredly been through the wringer during her pregnancy, and even more so as the date drew closer.
Oh yes. It was beyond any doubt that, after Hárkoll was born, Loki found that the most important improvement turned out to be Sigyn's mood. It was a distinct relief to see her so happy again. Motherhood became her.
And yet, he couldn't quite shake the vision of his wife as a Valkyrie...or a Frost Giant queen... The last thought invariably brought about a chill running down the full length of his already towering frame.
Those last months, his dreams were filled with images of his son as blue as the day he himself had been born. From Odin's private revelation about the circumstances of his own heritage, he'd understood the All Father himself hadn't hesitated to use magic to give the newborn Jötunn prince the appearance of an Asgardian baby; chilling glacier blue changing to a warm Æsir pink.
Loki had never quite been able to accept the fact he himself was one of those hated Jötnar, this race of monsters, and it scared him more than anything even if he took great care of not showing his fear.
"Don't let them grab hold of you!" Vollstag had yelled the warning at his companions when fighting one of King Laufey's hrímþursar…Frost Giants…
Would he ever be able to forget that memorable fight on Jötunheim when his opponent had clutched his arm in an attempt to freeze it off?
To his utmost horror and the Jötunn's undisguised surprise, his leather glove had disintegrated, crumbling to the frozen ground, exposing Loki's skin which gradually turned blue whilst otherwise remaining...unblemished.
He'd felt no pain. None at all. There had only been confusion…and fear.
This little stint with Thor and his friends had left him both puzzled and horrified.
Back in Asgard, he'd stomped off to the weapons vault where he knew the Casket of Ancient Winters was being kept; the Frost Giants' most treasured object. His heart beating a crazy tattoo against his chest wall, he stepped closer to the pedestal on which sat the Jötunn relic. It took all of his willpower to make his hands grab the handles and lift the blue transparent casket, waiting for…for what, really? What was he expecting?
Oh, deep down, he knew the possible scenario of what he might expect. Surely it wouldn't come to that? He was an Æsir. Not one of the Jötnar! His father was the mighty All Father, Odin.
Was that…?
By Búri's Cow!
It was exactly as he'd feared. He kept staring in horrid fascination as the pale skin of his hands was gradually taking over a distinctly blue hue which soon spread all over his body.
He stood transfixed, barely able to breathe, as he felt himself morph into a hated Frost Giant and he wondered if he also bore the other markings of that Jötunn race of giants. Would his eyes also be affected? He certainly didn't feel like his vision had undergone any changes.
How could this be? This couldn't be right! This was impossible!
"Stop!"
His father's imperative voice startled him, but he collected himself.
"Am I cursed?" Loki asked calmly, his soft voice like a midwinter chill which surprised even him, for he was in turmoil.
He let go of the Casket and slowly turned around to face Odin, his skin recovering its normal hue.
The outward calm didn't last and soon his emotions got the better of him. His already racing heart now sounded deafening to his own ears, bringing on more anxiety. With the blue fading to his normal pallid complexion, he felt also an overall draining sensation, making him lightheaded and trembling. There was a black void awning to swallow him whole.
Then, fear itself transformed into rage...and the need to know.
Who was he? More importantly, what was he?
So Odin had calmly told his youngest son about his true parentage and Loki had reeled at the revelation.
"I am the monster parents tell their children about at night..."
He had always felt like he was the odd one out, keeping mostly to himself. He had been a solitary boy by his own choice and, since the 'great' reveal, a solitary man by circumstances.
That day, the world had come crashing down around him. All his hopes and dreams had shattered. Nothing mattered anymore and so much had happened. In his despair and rage, he'd done unspeakable things he would regret till the end of times but had been powerless to undo. He didn't always have the power to tilt the balance from chaos to harmony. He tried, but some things simply couldn't be undone. There would always be the scars as reminders.
He had trouble accepting this, but gone were the carefree days of his youth. The innocent tricks and pranks from his childhood had taken a more sinister turn. Bitterness and an irrational jealousy had taken the place of his former trust and admiration of his older 'sibling' Thor. Fire and ice alternated his being, waging a war deep within his soul. The unreasonable desire for payback and the hunger for ruling Miðgarðr – Midgard, Earth - was festering, growing like a cancer.
He had become a lost soul, a man deranged...when before he had been ass - a god. What a joke!
For a long time, he had been treated like a pariah.
Oh, he'd come out smelling like a rose after his 'trial'. After all, he was the All Father's son, even if the public at large didn't know he was in truth King Laufey's son...or a Frost Giant...in disguise...
To his utmost surprise, Thor had stood up for him, convincing them all that his brother had not been in his right mind when trying to take Midgard because he'd been tortured into submission by the Chitauri; brainwashed. Then, the God of Mischief had been mercilessly pounded upon by the Avengers. It had been agreed he'd suffered enough already and even Odin had agreed his youngest, wayward son had learned his lesson. At least, he hoped so.
So Loki, having reached the absolute rock bottom of his existence, couldn't believe his luck when the beautiful and kind Sigyn had taken notice of him, working this enchanting effect on him. She made him feel like a little boy again: timid and nervous...but wanted. He couldn't help but feel attracted to her. Nor could he believe her showing a interest in him when there were far better and loudly and overall acclaimed warriors; more importantly, men who weren't burdened with such a bad record as his, even if he had been exonerated.
He had a reputation as the God of Discord, of Trickery and Mischief, of Destruction. He was a famed prankster and an incorrigible lie smith and manipulator.
That night at the banquet, he couldn't quite keep his eyes from wandering back to her. And each time his gaze fell on her, he'd found her ice blue eyes meeting his own and like some strange magnet, they'd been drawn to each other, running into each other wherever they went; be it on the balcony enjoying the sweet scents of that spring evening or in the banquet hall as he was in company of his friends, listening with an amused smile to their good humoured bragging.
There had been other girls interested in the dark, handsome young prince, but that had been so very long ago; before he...derailed. Besides, he hadn't the slightest doubt the interest in his person was more related to the fact he was Thor's, the Asgard champion's younger brother.
Not so with Sigyn who actually noticed him for who he really was. No other girl would ever understand him like she did. Sigyn listened to him, even if he was the most introvert person one could ever imagine – a man of few words who at least took the time to think well before uttering...wise...words.
Silver Tongue.
Above all, she displayed so much patience when he was being in one of his darker moods and, at those times, she could take away some of the pain and anger which often made him petulant like a spoiled brat...and acting like one, too.
And when Loki was in a truly nasty mood, enough to do his nickname of God of Discord and Destruction justice, Sigyn would still stand by him and douse the destructive fire with her love; melting his concealed heart with her never ending passion for him.
Her influence on him was so blatantly apparent it had become the talk of Asgard.
With her by his side, he was accepted again. Or rather, tolerated.
Yes: Loki the trickster, prankster, liar and cheater could be tamed.
It didn't even bother him when his brother Thor compared him to a colt being broken in.
So here he stood. After having weathered the worst storms and the murkiest waters, he had accepted the responsibilities of fatherhood.
A smile...a genuine smile like the broad smiles his wife had fallen for when he'd overcome his nervousness at becoming the object of her affection...lit up his pale face.
Loki leaned over his wife and stroked her golden locks which turned into shiny, simmering silver at his touch. Only in private...with his Sigyn...would he allow his Jötunn side to show. He still wasn't anything like his true father, the feared Jötunheimr king Laufey, and it wasn't just about the size. In fact, he was more than just a little thankful he didn't look like those hated monsters.
No. Not going there again.
Giving himself a mental shake, he stooped once more over his wife to plant a loving kiss on her forehead before slowly turning away, his skin's blue hue fading as he did.
A small sound caught his attention and he glided over to the cradle.
There he was; little Hárkoll.
Loki stared long at this adorable and sweet, yet fragile, little son of his. For the first time in his life, he didn't know what to do. He wanted to lift his small son from the crib and hold him to his chest. All his. His flesh and blood. On the other hand, he couldn't. What if he hurt his baby boy?
Indecisive, he turned around towards the bed, where his wife lay sleeping, as if waiting for Sigyn to give her approval, or reassure him he wouldn't harm his little son by holding him. Her eyes remained closed, her breath coming in a steady rhythm which told him her slumber was peaceful.
The infant became more restless, its little hands raised in the air and then...it started to cry.
Oh no! Not that!
Please don't cry!
The God of Mischief was at a loss. He turned back towards his young sleeping lady, running his long fingers through his raven hair. No support from that front. What was he to do?
He wasn't supposed to breastfeed his child, was he?
His parenting instincts kicking in, he returned his attention to little Hárkoll. Stooping his long frame over the cradle, he snaked his fingers under the infant, taking great care to support the little head, and ever so gently lifted it out of its cradle. Wrapping his arms around the little wonder that was his child – his flesh and blood – he lovingly held his son against his chest. Closing his eyes, Loki kissed the top of his baby's head, taking in the sweet scent of his boy.
As if on cue, the baby settled as if feeling comforted by his father's proximity and security.
The father relished cuddling his little boy. The tiny warm body against his chest. His racing heartbeat matching his son's.
Loki couldn't keep his eyes off little Hárkoll's face. So tiny, yet perfect. He briefly wondered if that was what his Æsir mother, Frigga saw when she first held him in her arms. And how about the mighty Odin, when he'd found the abandoned Jötunn newborn after he'd defeated King Laufey? What did he see?
Tenderly massaging the infant's back, Loki walked towards a chair and carefully sat down.
As he dropped his gaze to look into his son's blue eyes, he suddenly remembered a song his mother, Frigga, used to sing to him at bedtime.
Soon, his soft voice was floating in the tranquility of the Asgardian evening singing a sweet lullaby to his boy as his mother did to him.
The first song. Loki's first song for Hárkoll.
A smile played on Sigyn's lips as she, awake now, turned on her side to face her husband and child and her heart melted by the doting father's golden voice. It was a sound – and a sight - she had longed to witness one day.
I hope you liked this and I'd be equally interested to hear if I'm okay to write more for this fandom.
Thanks.