This is something I've been working on in my spare time between things for quite a while now. It starts here, and here is a very good solid opening, I think. The next bit is both considerably longer and still in polishing to mirror sheen mode, so it may be a whee bit of a wait, but I do have the entirety of (at least this story) mapped. Blame the Avengers getting involved.
unelmoija is Finish for 'dreamer' and 'lotus eater.' Lotus eater is a mythology reference; Loki uses it here as a term of endearment, a verbal soothing and sign of love for Vali about Vali's particular talents.
warnings: character death, blood, wolves, trauma
Part I
"It was well done, brother! Truly no one has a sharper tongue than you."
Loki chuckled.
"Of course not, Thor." He pushed open the door to his and Sigyn's chambers. "Do you want to see the boys?"
"Should they not already be put to bed?"
Loki rolled his eyes.
"Hilda is with family for a birthing and we both know Sigyn will not have put them to bed yet."
"You should not speak ill of your wife, Loki," Thor scolded. "And listen how quiet it is!"
"Not with you so loud," Loki snapped. Silence settled in the room. Even if all were asleep, there should be some noise: Vali's dream muttering, Narfi's snores, Sigyn gossiping with her handmaidens. He quelled first thought—Sigyn hardly wanted them, she would not take them; they were of no threat to Odin, children of proper political marriage—and strode out into the hall.
There were no guards.
"Thor," he said, looking back. The smile slid from Thor's face at his tone. "Look in on Sigyn."
And for once in his blessed life, Thor did not protest at command.
Loki walked to his sons' rooms; his beloved twins, reality and dream, lion and lamb.
Vali was not in his bed. He told himself this was not unusual, especially not on these evenings where insults and jests laced the air. That Vali would be in Narfi's bed, Narfi with his arms wrapped around his brother, safe.
But he was not.
They were not in bed, not in these chambers, and he did not need Thor to tell him that Sigyn was not here.
Surely, surely they were both safe. Surely Sigyn had only wished to stroll the gardens late at night and had been actually responsible and taken them with her instead of leaving them unattended, Narfi who would slip out at the slightest sign he could, Vali who would follow his brother rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"Loki—"
"I know."
He walked into the hall again.
Surely all was well.
There were no guards in the hall.
XXXXXX
Blood calls blood.
"Where are they?" He kept his voice pitched low, restrained his fury.
"I do not know! If I did, do you think I would be here, searching for them?"
He studied Sigyn, her face drawn tight.
"What did Narfi ask to do?"
It was difficult, keeping his voice so calm. So quiet. Never in his life had he so hated this woman, never had he been so stunned she could share the blood of his boys, that she was so blind to what gift they were.
"He wished to go outside. I sent Auden with them; I am not so absent-minded as you think." She glared at him.
"I will reserve what I think for when they are found and safe." He took a breath. "Vali? What was he doing?"
Sigyn remained silent and looked away.
"You don't know." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Of course not, not Vali, Vali the empath, whose actions and behaviour would speak loudest of the mischief Narfi could hide so well. The son that Sigyn was ashamed of for his emotions, his pacifism, his being all that Asgard found argr.
"Brother!"
Thor pulled his horse to a stop, Loki's own steed just behind.
"One of the guards says they left the grounds."
His mouth went dry.
"Vali, was Vali holding Narfi's hand? Think!" he asked Sigyn, desperate, near pleading.
"He was close to his side. He may have been; Narfi was keeping his hands behind him."
He leapt onto his horse, grabbing the reins and twisting it about, digging his heels in and setting off at a gallop. Using his legs to guide the beast, he tore off one of his gloves and bit deep into his own hand. Rich tang filled his mouth; he spit it out and called over his shoulder:
"The forest, Thor!"
He left Thor cursing, his loud voice booming over the courtyard and spitting orders, and focused on the blood dripping from his hand, poured energy into it. Not accurate, not nearly enough, but it would have to do—general direction would be better than nothing.
Blood calls to blood.
XXXXXX
"No."
XXXXXX
His hands shook as he washed them.
Dawn light was beginning to spill through the halls when he finally left his room. Loki had not slept, would not sleep, not for some time yet. There was a thread, distant now, tugging at his blood.
Blood.
He blinked and visions of blood-soaked earth filled his head, small body and black hair, sweet and brave and clever Narfi whose pale green eyes stared bla—
He opened his eyes.
Vali lived. He would find him.
Peaceful Vali, empathic Vali, changed to bird and fled.
"Loki."
He paused and turned to look at Odin.
"Take Sleipnir. You will need him."
He blinked; some conflicted surge twined around his heart.
"If I or Heimdal find anything, I shall send Huginn and Muninn to you."
There were so many things he could say, so many thoughts that pressed into his head sharp and angry.
He nodded.
He did not have time, then, to question this sudden benevolence for one of his children.
"Thank you."
XXXXXX
When Vali and Narfi were born, it was already clear they were as night and day. Vali firstborn twin, whose initial cry quickly died away, tiny hands clutching for what skin he could find; Narfi secondborn twin, whose cry became laughter, hands reaching and exploring. Mere hours later, Narfi's eyes were the hue of newly unfurled spring buds and Vali's so deep a green they looked near black.
Loki remembers first seeing them as he follows the tug on his blood. Remembers how as soon as he could crawl, Narfi would try to roam away from watchful gazes, utterly fearless. Narfi was always always so quiet in his wants, preferring to simply do instead of ask, only emphasized more as he grew older and could walk, could speak with clever tongue and endearing charming smile that was inherited as much as it was learned.
Narfi was so much strength, beloved by the court in a way Loki never quite could manage, so much curiosity, and so much fight. Little frightened him, and what did he faced with courage, charm, and guile, aware somehow what danger he was in and always always rising to meet it.
A good liar, too, though rare was the lie that Loki missed.
Always before, though, that strength had blended with some measure of caution when Vali trailed in his wake, caution usually ignored as too girlish become proper where his brother's safety was concerned.
Loki does not know what had inspired Narfi to go to the forest. Does not know if it was his own stern reprimand to not, if it was listening to Vali's whispers of glens where one could find deer so calm as to come to one's hand, or if it was simply Narfi being Narfi: fearless, bold, and ever ever curious.
Only knows that Narfi is dead, blood spilled and body broken in defense of his brother. His heart aches at this, this failure to keep safe. He should not have left them in Sigyn's care alone, should have begged off the evening's festivities; he knew that Sigyn would not look after them so well as their nursemaid Hilda, that Sigyn would pay no mind to all the subtle signs that Vali's posture would hold for whatever mischief Narfi planned.
He rides and he thinks and he remembers and sometimes, when the wound on his hand begins to clot, he will reopen it and bleed anew, magic swirling.
Searching.
XXXXXX
He is close now, closer than he has been since that first night. It lights a desperate hope in him, some emotion not darkness and near too painful after two months of searching. Sleipnir is tireless beneath him and never has he been so grateful for this jest he played, this idle trick done while young and bored for no more than the scandal it would cause at court.
Sleipnir is not Loki's blood, but he is filled with Loki's magic, and the stallion responds to Loki's hope in kind, surging forward.
Blood calls to blood.
They crash into a clearing and his blood aches at the closeness; he near goes blind and deaf for its swell. Here! it sings, here here here! and he tugs sharp at Sleipnir's reins, holds tight as the stallion rears and spins around in a tight circle. Loki searches over the clearing, warmth beginning to seep into his bones.
But Vali is not here.
He dismounts and makes himself look at the clearing. Tries to grasp his emotions to calmness or something like it; he must not spook Vali, Vali lost two months, not now. Not so close.
Knee-high white poppies rustle slightly, dappled by sunlight. A pile of rocks sits near the center, old and weathered, covered in moss. Things are quiet but for the heavy breathing of Sleipnir, the own pounding of his heart, the whisper of the breeze.
He lets go of Sleipnir and wades through the flowers, circles around the stones. They do not lie so that any could crawl between or under them. He turns to look at the rest of the clearing. Vali is here, his magic says so; he trusts it, trusts blood and bond, and does not allow hope to fade. Does not allow the distress that wants to rise back up come so easy.
He closes his eyes, leans his head back, and lets himself fall to stillness. Imagines deep and dark ocean shores, the repetitive noise of wave on sand, steady and certain—an old exercise, from when he first taught Vali to focus his own mind and one Loki returns to now, when he most needs calmness, peace. Anything else will only frighten his son who must be here.
There is a flutter of wings.
Loki opens his eyes slowly; perched on one of the rocks is a small bird, black but for a splash of yellow at its crown. It tilts its head at him, hops about uncertainly on the rock, and looses an unsteady warble. Around it hums magic, and its shadow...
The bird's wings spread at the surge of emotion and Loki forces himself calm, smothers heady rush of something, and takes a slow step forward. Holding out the hand still wet and crimson, he croons softly to the mynah bird, an old lullaby once used to hush a babe sensitive to slightest ill, and edges further forward. The bird warbles again, dances back and forward, feathers ruffled and so very uncertain. Gently, gently, so gently it would not disturb even dust, he tugs the thread that binds blood to blood.
Freezes.
The bird looks ready to spring to flight, nervous warble dying off. Loki closes his eyes, thinks of oceans and shores, thinks of repeating crash of wave, all of it, with his whole self, dark and quiet, until he is nothing but serenity.
Small claws prick the flat of his hand and he opens his eyes to gaze at the tiny little bird perched there, staring up at him with liquid green eyes deep as dream, so dark they are nearly black.
Magic tears through him, an exhausting flood of light that whips through his every nerve and swirls around the bird. Emotion rips through flimsy erected dam and leaves him weeping, clutching tight the confused and frightened little boy to his chest, bird no more, but Vali, Vali, his Vali, his darling little empath, dreamer and lamb and dove, child of his heart, emotion to Narfi's spirit, wisdom to Narfi's intelligence, ocean night to Narfi's mountain day. He sinks to the ground, joy tight band around his chest, and weeps into auburn hair as Vali's panic eases and then his little boy is clinging back, caught in Loki's own emotions, staring up with confused black-green eyes.
"Unelmoija, lamb, Vali, oh Vali Vali Vali, sweet darling unelmoija," he chants and chants and chants, rocking back and forth, pressing kisses to soft curls. He pulls back, touches Vali's face and Vali looks back at him dazed, face streaked with sympathetic tears; Loki closes his eyes, kisses his son's forehead, then pulls him back close. Two months a bird, his Vali, and he knows that even a day shape-shifted can be devastating to so young a mind, to so young a sorcerer, but it does not matter, will not matter. He will out-wait time if he must; person-hood can be relearned and he will be as patient as he must for that, do everything he can to aid. "Heart of my heart, unelmoija, love, Vali, my son," and he chokes on the word, that it is not 'sons' and thinks fiercely that he will not let any touch this son, his last son, child he has managed to keep, child he has managed to find once more and child he shall not lose again. That he will not fail, not like this, not again, not if he can help it, and he kisses and hums soft song, cradles and rocks little Vali against his chest, until Vali's eyes close and he drifts to dream, hands still tangled in Loki's clothes.
XXXXXX
They do not go back to Asgard.
He dresses Vali and, when Vali's hands tangle in Loki's cloak, he pulls it off and wraps it about him. Loki keeps one arm wrapped around his son as they ride and he debates where they shall go.
Because they are not going back to Asgard.
Perhaps they will one day, but not now. Now when Vali flinches at slightest twitch of emotion, when he stares at the world around him in confusion, his sorcery sensitive and wild, his mind still caught in the form he wore. Asgard would only cause more harm with its attentions.
Vali does not speak as they ride, but he listens sometimes. He has always listened, used speech to ground himself when his mind was distracted, so Loki talks as they ride. About nothing, about what they pass, points out landmarks, explains plants and their many properties, until his voice grows hoarse, day turns to night, and Vali sleeps against him. He runs a hand through Vali's hair and he thinks.
Vanaheim, he thinks. Freyr owes him favour and what little he remembers of children there suggests that Vali will not stick out so sorely.
He clucks his tongue at Sleipnir, gathers magic around them, and they vanish between realms.
XXXXXX
Childhood on Asgard suited Narfi perfectly. It rewarded his daring, praised his wit, swooned at his smile, and sighed relief he had not a drop of magic in him.
Not all things suit all children.
Vali was always a clingy babe, crying late and often for what seemed no reason but always hushing as soon as he was picked up. His eyes would stare in solemn wonder, hands reaching for and tangling in clothing, hair, always seeking contact. When he grew older he was most satisfied by toddling at an adult's side and ever questioning why. He did not take to the mock fights and chases other boys did, instead slipping away to listen to how things were created—yarn and thread and dye, clays and glazes and pottery, drink and bread and meal.
Loki noticed. How could he not?
When he pulled Vali aside to speak with him, Vali had only frowned and looked down, mumbled how he did not want to fight, did not like fighting, and why did they need fight at all? Loki had little to say to that; his sons would not begin formal training for a season yet and he took the time to think.
If Vali did not wish to fight, then he would not. Asgard would never lack for warriors; what was it less one prince's blade?
He only worried what rumour would whisper, what other children would do, how it would affect Vali. He knew more than enough of how words did not need to be spoken to be heard; had heard enough of them himself growing up with his interest and use of magic, and he had never foregone use of blade. Not that Vali used magic; neither twin had shown talent and he was beginning to suspect the gift had passed them over as they approached their fifth year.
Shortly after their sixth birthday, Narfi came to find Loki in the middle of going over treatises, pale and frightened in a way Loki had never seen him prior. Vali was curled in Narfi's bed, caught between drunken laughter and broken sob, eyes wholly liquid dark green and seeing elseways. Magic twisted about him, left blue swirls and patterns in his flesh, but it did not seek change and fire as Loki's had; no, no it dreamed and sought and felt. Empathic, sympathetic magic, so lacking in control and refinement that the whole of Asgard's emotions were crowding Vali's head, mind caught in a thousand dreams not his own.
Always there and Loki had simply not seen it. In how he loved people, how he disliked combat, how his interests were in things that brought joy and creation.
How he was always, always mirror to Narfi.
And if Loki had been going to force Vali into combat training, he would not. Not after that day. That day that stretched to weeks, of rushed wards and then careful coaxing.
Asgard whispered, then; never anything that anyone could pin to one person, oh no, never that. But how it whispered of the prince born the wrong sex. Rumour that swirled every which way, because what son would ever inherit a magic given to women for healing, such a weak magic that had no use real use to a man, if not because his father were too womanly? Loki did not care a whit for whispers of his own faults; he had heard enough of them for lifetimes. But Vali could feel the disapproval, the half-hid disgust, the pity. Could sense Sigyn's disappointment in him, and grew more shy for it, more quiet, tended himself to shadows and out of sight, so perhaps people might not speak so of him, until sometimes, sometimes, Asgard would forget him.
Loki despised it.
Not Vali, no, never Vali; when Sigyn withdrew, he brought Vali with him when he would work alone in his study, explain politics and treaties, set him to reading and studying. When he sat down to speak with Narfi about how it seemed he paid more attention to Vali, Narfi had just shrugged it off and flashed his brilliant smile, already understanding what Loki would say. Loki said it anyway for he would not let resentment build—Narfi was his child after all.
Vali had been doing so well. Things had not been perfect, no, but Vali had been given to laughter more often, lost a little of his shyness, been more willing to trail in Narfi's wake instead of stay hidden in his room. Had learned, a little, how to ignore the unspoken disgust.
XXXXXX
"Father?"
Loki starts awake, runs a hand through his hair, and looks at Vali. He has put on a little weight again, speaks sometimes, and most days he does not drift so that Loki worries he might not return. Vanaheim is not perfect, either, but it has done well by them both. Certainly Vali has relearned a little of being person and not bird.
"Yes?"
"Where is Narfi?"
Vali's eyes are wide and serious, his hands worrying at the edge of his shirt, mouth set in a distressed line. Loki swallows and ignores the dark twisting thing in his chest.
"He is outside, Vali. It is not quite noon yet, he has practice in the mornings." The lie is sour on his tongue, clumsy, and anyone else would see it for what it is. Vali only regards him, hands catching hold of stray thread and tugging it loose.
"He is not gone near the forest, is he? He shouldn't go near the forest."
"No, Vali. You will see him at midday meal." That this lie is better than telling the truth does not make it any easier to tell.
Vali nods and looks away, fingering the the thread he has been tugging.
"May I go to go to the stables to see Sleipnir, Father?"
"Of course." He reaches over the desk to a bowl filled with fruit and hands Vali a pear. He ruffles his son's hair, smiling.
If it is bittersweet, Vali does not take note. He smiles, brief flash of brilliance, some echo of his brother's smile, then leaves. Loki watches him, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.
When midday comes, Vali does not ask about Narfi. Does not remember asking, does not remember Narfi existed; mind erased all signs of his brother but for fear of forest and wolf, and two times of day: just before noon, when Narfi must have first mentioned his idea to Vali, and just past sunset, when they slipped out.
When Vali asks after Narfi just past sunset, Loki lies. Vali believes him, settles by his father to read a story, and when Loki puts him to bed, Vali does not note lack of his brother, only yawns before falling asleep.
Loki does not leave his side, not for another hour. He dreads it, the slow drip of time that always moves a little too quickly, reminder after reminder. Vali wakes screaming exactly fifty-two minutes later, reaching for his magic and trying to change shape; Loki grabs him, holds him close, murmurs to him and soothes his magic.
It takes exactly seven minutes from when Vali first wakes for him to stop screaming and struggling, drifting back to sleep as if nothing has happened.
He does not remember in the morning, only tumbles out of bed smiling and demanding breakfast, laughter delighted and high birdsong in the halls, asking Loki when they will return to Asgard for he wants to see his grandmother, wants to tell his uncle of his adventures in Vanaheim, wants to have his paints and draw all the sights they have seen. Loki smiles, tells him soon enough, and then Vali is distracted by some new curiosity, racing down the hallways, so close to how he once was.
XXXXXX
Asgard is not sure what to make of them when they return. It has been near a year since Loki left; he is surprised by how little seems to have changed and yet how much at the same time.
Despite wanting to see them, Vali stays close to Loki, eyes watching the rest of the family thoughtfully. He may have smothered all memory of his brother, but he has not forgotten all the time before and how he was treated then. It makes Loki a little viciously proud, that even his most trusting son is not so stupidly blinded to think these people will continue in their smiles and welcome over the long term.
Only appears weak enough he does not give them cause to take him away.
He tells them to not mention Narfi, though he does not tell them why.
XXXXXX
Vali stops having nightmares.
Vali stops asking Loki where Narfi is.
And for months, that is it; silence, the occasional flicker of a frown or restless toss in his sleep. Vali's smiles are reserved, and he never remarks upon the second set of rooms by his own.
Nearly a year after they've returned to Asgard, Loki finds Vali running a hand along the wall as he walks, eyes distant, trails of frost spidering from his fingertips. He asks Loki about the halls' memory of a dark haired boy who looks like Loki, only with pale green eyes and no magic. Loki hesitates to tell him, if only because he does not know what Vali's mind has done with Narfi and how much it will stir.
Vali keeps asking though, taken on some of his dead twin's insistence, until finally Loki tells him about Narfi. Though he is nearly adolescent, Loki sits him in his lap as he talks.
"He was very important to you," Vali says solemnly, eyes dark as dream. He brushes away a tear that escapes despite Loki's best effort, examining it for a moment before he licks it off. Loki can feel shift of magic around Vali, watches the pale blue patterns that whorl over his son's skin as he tastes Loki's emotions. Loki does not understand Vali's magic, how some days Vali does little more than drift in and augment his every sense with it and how other days it wanes and Vali is entirely physically in the present.
"Yes," Loki says simply. Vali looks back up at him seriously.
"What was his name?"
"Narfi."
Vali's face flickers oh so briefly, then stills once more. The whites of his eyes vanish, drowned in the black-green of his irises.
"Blood," Vali whispers. His mouth parts, a shudder running through his entire body and hands clenching unconsciously. Loki swallows as the temperature around them plummets, drawing his own magic in case he needs use it.
Then Vali's eyes return to normal, whorls of blue energy vanishing, the air warming once more. Magic lingers beneath the skin, smelling of ice and pine. Loki searches Vali's face, but Vali only looks tired.
"I do not want to talk about him anymore," Vali says, resting his head against Loki's collarbone. Loki wraps his arms around Vali, stroking his hair.
"You were the one who asked," Loki replies, meaning to tease but he cannot get rid of heartache and it comes out flat.
Vali snorts against Loki, nuzzling in closer. Loki's hair stands on end for a moment; he feels as if some weight he was unaware of is gone, letting him breathe easier and perhaps laugh again.
"Stop that," he tells Vali.
Vali smiles into his neck.