Notes: There should be a couple of oneshots between The simple passing of time and this, but, try as I might, I can't seem to write them down. Since I don't want to put the series on hold, I will go on and work on them when time is right. Hope that doesn't bother you too much.
All you need to know to continue reading is that now Thor is king and he and Loki have made peace ;)
...Couldn't resist replacing Asgard for Rome.
Concrit and general feedback are always welcome!
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Casket, revelations, certainties
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He finds him in the treasure vault.
Loki hasn't crossed that threshold since the day of the revelation. Nothing has changed since then: soles whisper upon the pavement, an azure light reverberates on the arches (only sorrow is less acute, because less recent). There at the bottom lies the Casket of Ancient Winters, and forever it shall. Every road leads to Asgard.
Thought that is noose no more, but a dagger still.
Thor observes the relic, standing before its black pedestal. Loki descends the staircase and joins him in the contemplation, feeling his stomach knot. His not-brother's face is thoughtful. There are voices and sighs just beneath the silence's surface, currents a Jotun knows intimately. Loki tightens his fists, because he'd rather not be so reassured by them – but he cannot rid himself of his own blood more than he could be rid of what he feels for Thor. He knows: he's tried to.
He wonders if Thor can hear them; if the blood of Bestla, the mother whose origins Odin almost wiped out, filters for him their ancestors' voices even with the distance of time. If so, they could poison his mind, and it's something that Loki cannot bear. One monster in the family is enough.
When the murmur rises like the tide, he turns the head toward his–king, without lifting his gaze.
"What are you doing here?"
"Thinking."
Thor's mouth curves – conditioning of centuries of quips. Sometimes he preempts Loki's comments even before they're formed in mind; he knows Loki as Loki would be known by no one, and ever it is frightening.
While instinctively smiling back, Loki considers his thoughtful expression, thinks of the Casket, understands; and is overwhelmed by disquiet. Better to have a change of scenery. Why risk–
But it's too late. Thor has turned, cupped the back of his neck with a hand. He's smiling still.
"The advisors are looking for you" Loki says, in hopes of distracting him. "They resemble mad chickens. You should go back."
The fingers tighten. "The only one whose opinion I trust is here."
"Then you're a fool" he hisses, resorting to old defenses. "Only an imbecile would ask a Jotun advice for a war against Jotunheim!"
He should be leaving, but his mind is a tangle of threads where words of power are a mere stain ring. And freeing himself from the hold with force is impossible, obviously.
Thor doesn't even give him time to try. He draws him near and massages his nape with a scalding hand; the other follows the profile of a shoulder, of an arm, descending. "It's not a war yet, and it won't be, if you help me."
"You–"
The hand closes on his wrist and pulls him forwards, slowly, toward the–
"No!"
The cry erupts from Loki's chest. He manages to take the hand back, but Thor doesn't release him. He's encircled his waist with the left arm.
"Loki..."
"NO!" Loki shouts to his face. Then he takes Thor by his neck with curved fingers, because if he can't free himself, if he can't think enough to use magic, then he will pierce that mouth so that it cannot ask and will gouge those eyes out so that they cannot see, because Thor may not ask for this may not maynotmaynot. "Release me!"
Thor blocks his movement, looking at him in the eye. Then he bends and kisses him.
It isn't a gentle kiss – to many teeth and too much battle – but, in the end, passion wins. Loki feels his hand being guided back to the Casket and abandons his head on his not-brother's shoulder, in anticipation of the inevitable.
"Loki" Thor murmurs. "Let me see you."
Doesn't he know what he's demanding?
"Loki."
"Do as you like" he blurts out, choked.
"Then look at me."
He does, because he's no coward. In that very instant, his fingers touch one of the Casket's handle-grooves. Grip it. Thor leaves his wrist with a caress and covers his hand with his own.
He has to withdraw it almost right away, burnt by the chill. A miserable laugh slips from Loki's mouth.
"Happy now?"
"No, don't let go."
"Do you want to end up in the healing chambers? What do you intend to do?"
Thor is behind him, chest like the seatback of a throne. "Relax" he says in Loki's ear. He guides Loki's elbows through the fabric of the ceremonial clothes. "How do you think my father was sired, at iards of distance?"
Oh. Oh, Norns.
"And what did your august council reply to your inquiry?" His voice isn't completely firm.
"I asked our mother." By the Nine, it's even worse. Loki feels himself flush with mortification. That Frigga should discuss of Jötnar and couplings and– "She understands."
"I'm sure she does."
Thor laughs, low. The sound is relaxing. Before he's aware of it, damn him, Loki is pliant in his arms.
And he's touching the Casket.
"Here, see?" Thor murmurs, while the transformation completes itself.
With effort, Loki tears his gaze off the relic. Thor's eyes trace every contour of his face, followed by a light touch of fingertips, and each instant is a stroke that burns. In this skin, Asgard is suffocating. Even the treasure vault, buried in the dark bowels of Váláskjálf, has become hot. Thor's breath is scorching.
How can he look at Loki like that, even after centuries of mutual amends? He'll consume him to cinders.
"It's not difficult." A smile. "All it takes is trust."
Loki has a body of ice that desires snow more than fisical contact but, in this moment, he would gladly take refuge inside Thor's chest and never, ever come out; exist in molten gold for eternity, because who else holds his trust?
He's closed his eyes. He becomes aware of it when he feels a kiss on the forehead.
"Have you ever looked at yourself? It's always you, you know" Thor says, nuzzling at his neck. "The features, the expressions. I believe that any colour would suit you."
"Please" Loki groans, heart full to burst. "No forays into poetry."
Thor laughs and holds him tight, kissing his mouth.
Loki kisses back, blue, cold and free.
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Old wounds may never heal completely, but always there will be balms to soothe them and words to have them forgotten, as much as is enough.