disclaimer: i don't own any of the products or services associated with MARVEL; including Thor
author's note: because children are a little hot headed – and frankly, I personally can't stomach serious wounds or conditions very well
summary: it is only a murmured spell and a needle with thread/but watch how she bleeds/on fighting/eirxloki
It was a game they played, who was the strongest of them all. Who would they trust their city's safety to when they were away. And it was great fun, a game that needed strategy (for none would leave Asgard with flighty Amora) and quick wits. It was unfortunate that it quickly turned into taunts.
She was passing by the ring when Fandral chuckled her name.
Eir always carried a knife, and was far older then the companions of the princes. Her smile was soft, her eyes hard. Within a moments one the veins in Fandral's wrist had been sliced and he was a hair's breadth from losing an eye.
"Combat is a tricky thing," the healer explained. "It is a measure of strength to withstand wave after wave, or to bludgeon their heads. Being not of this nature does not make one weak children, it makes you efficient. Remember that."
The spell was spoken, the bleeding mended – but her eerie smile stayed with them long after she left.
Heimdall, timely as ever came with reinforcements.
It was only out of the corner of his eye that he saw her, wrapped in armour of her own and with a satchel strapped to her back. Her hands were covered in blood, turning the pale gleam of the metal a sickly grey. The warrior had almost been cleaved in two, his abdomen open and his mind thankfully unconscious. He felled his opponent and drew back to cover her as she worked.
She made quick work of it, the needle and thread glinting against the light of the hot sun, murmured spells under her breath and the thick application of salve and bandages.
After he had been taken away, Loki vomited and held the vial Eir gave him with shaky hands, the glass stained with the blood she had been immersed in.
"What would you have me do?" Eir says as she wraps the baby carefully. Loki is spent, trembling. Outside he knows the Allfather is coming. The baby is beautiful with pale skin and careful curving of white bone. The bundle is held securely in her arms, and her face is calm.
"Keep her safe." he rasps, reaching out to touch her.
Eir's gaze is heavy, knowing. But she disappears with the baby and Loki never asks questions.
If the Allfather has misgivings over the truth that they weave, he says nothing of it and the ravens stay silent.
She is splinting an arm in the sun, hands confidently snapping and rearranging the bone to lay properly and then setting it with the patience of one who has seen it all. No one notices her work, only rejoicing in the return of the conquering heroes. Loki cheek is split, Volstagg and Hogun are carrying Sif and Fandral is leaning heavily on Loki's arm.
Heroes? No. Foolish children.
But Eir heals them anyway and only Loki notices her quiet suffering.
This is the end, and Loki is barely able to keep his head up.
Eir stumbles over, her satchel long gone and wearing the pinched expression of when one's spellcraft is spent. Her hair is matted with sweat and blood, her armour battered, a dark bruise lining her face. Her face is not one of despair, only resignation.
Her fingers are trembling, nails cracked and he has never seen so pale a face. Loki cannot feel his legs, his thoughts are sluggish -
"Please-" he whispers.
Eir cannot fix this. He cannot manipulate his way out.
(he remembers her face as the world fades out)