A/N:

I wanted to write Loki practicing seiðr in a way historians actually think it was practiced. So I wrote this.
It was a fun one to write.

Comments are always immensely appreciated.

Loki parted his hands, palms upturned; his pale face held skywards, eyelids fluttering over glassy emeralds beneath the headpiece of black and white skins around his head.
It started out as a murmur, called forth from the unseen; then grew and gathered, wound like string, 'till it erupted to a yell. The seiðmaðr's voice turned high and came from higher.
His chanting descended upon the room like the din of battle. The cloak draped from his shoulders swayed as his body rocked. It cascaded down and pooled by his knees on the cold platform above the floor he was so unaware of.
Victor Von Doom did not recognize whatever it was that lay in Loki's mostly closed eyes. He thought it was something like peace, but maybe closer to chaos. The man had never been more aware that this magic was nothing like his mother's magic. The rapid movements of Loki's thin lips seemed to be effortless, as if that was the only way they should ever move.
Doom allowed himself a moment of amusement at the expense of Thor, and anyone, really, who had somehow foolishly doubted his God's power. Then he took one to be pleased with himself, for gaining an ally whose power, unlike many other's, could stand beside his own and make the world tremble; for gaining a partner who would not shy away from what he had become, and instead could stand beside him.
He thought no other human had ever seen Loki clothed in something so little like armor. The servants were banished to their quarters hours previously; this was not for their eyes. There was no high turned collar or stiff shoulders, no gauntlets or helmets; the only staff present was the distaff that lay so far untouched in front of the deity's knees.
There had been a brief moment, initially, when Doom had wondered if the robes were decidedly not male. They were certainly androgynous, and it was hard to discern, made harder still by the dark cloak wrapped around him. Loki had asked for silence, and Doom was not going to interrupt with a curiosity so trivial.
This was the first time Loki had ever revealed divination was something he performed. The only time Doom had mentioned it, he had received an unpleasant reply about how Loki "wasn't some sorcerer who gutted animals and tried to read the flight of birds", and no, Doom knew, he most certainly wasn't.
Loki had spread his arms wider and had turned his attentions ever farther upwards, bared throat having become more visible than his face. His face had never looked younger, nor his being seemed older, then when he was doing whatever it was he was doing just then.
Loki chanted and swayed like a child trying to bring rain, wishing it to pool in his hands and drink it from the skies. His squalling voice rose sharply and broke, being replaced by an electrified silence. He jerked forward like a marionette whose puppeteer had dropped its strings. Loki's long hands met the platform with a jarring slap, and he sank back to sit on his heels.
His eyes opened, un-bothered by the dark tendril of hair laying across his face. The ink colored hair that was normally so orderly was now discordant. The seiðmaðr took in a breath like it was his first, jaw slack, and looked up, a trickster mask-less. He appeared empty but in need of no bastion.
Doom wondered what had been inside him a moment before that so manifestly had slipped back from whence it came.

"Victor," his voice was reedy from use, "Come help me to my feet, will you?" He reached out to grasp the unadorned seiðstafr.

Doom left his sentinel position by the door's arch and approached the small mountain of undone hair, clear eyes, and anarchic robes that was Loki. He took an armored hand, and cradling one jagged elbow, pulled the God to his feet. There was no noise as Loki stepped down from the platform. He pulled his arm free to run a hand past his head piece through his hair, push the cloak back behind his shoulders, and smooth down his robes.

"Welcome back." Doom said, earning himself a small smirk.

"Thank you. It was quite the trip. I would've written, but there were many sites to see." Loki deadpanned.

Doom made a small noise that was most likely to signify either amusement or approval.

Loki took a few abrupt steps forward, and when Doom's metallic ones did not follow, stopped.

"Come Victor," He extended a pale pink hand, "I now know what we must do."

"No one orders Doom." The King of Latveria admonished, but accepted the hand none the less.

"Oh, well, I don't recall doing so, therefore I think we are without a problem. I assume you'd like to know what I've to say, yes?" He said, leading Doom from the room.

"Indeed. Are your omens good?" Doom asked as they emerged into the silent hall.

Loki turned back to smirk devilishly. "Verily."