Chapter 2 – Stifle the Choice

Dreams, even when vivid, leave one with a primal sense of their ethereal wrongness. Some law of physics blatantly denied, or perhaps a recognized truth is twisted and the heart feels the lie. Centuries ago he found himself in a garden the visual texture of an oil painting. Surrounded by an insurgence of flowers in all colours and a handful of white bearded nisse. Their goats – who else could they belong to? - sat upright, enjoying chilled lingonsaft from their own horn cups. Loki could not see the liquid and yet he knew in that peculiar way one does in their own dream, that the goats enjoyed the tart sweetness of that cherished childhood drink. All while knowing – somehow- that he ran through his mother's private garden. Even though it looked nothing, smelled nothing, felt nothing like her garden. Even though he denied the existence of nisse and their little red hats and their damn goats well before his 277th year. He knew, even in sleep.

This, if it could be called a dream, left Loki with no such comfort. His mouth felt dry as cotton. The scents on the air called home. The girl before him too… earnest.

"Thor's coronation?" he asked. Torfa vigorously nodded. Too many questions perched on his lips. He swallowed them back down his throat and forced a tight smile. The tense aggression bled from his frame. He ran a hand through his too short hair again and granted the girl a berth. Torfa remained wary, her gaze on him.

"It seems," she said, "that I cannot keep pace with your jests this morning." Her brows lifted, opening like a flower. She tested a smile.

The corner of his mouth twitched. No, considering the revelations she laid at his feet, they did remarkably well during this little exchange.

"This is all so exciting," Torfa twittered. She slipped by him, laundry in hand. "Do you suppose Prince Thor will,…"

"Make a fine king?" Loki prompted, following her at a respectful pace. He spoke with just a hint of humor. The question Asgardians all asked while wanting but one single answer. He cocked his head to one side and managed a smile rather than a sneer. "Come now, my dear. You cannot expect me to speak ill of my dear brother on his big day."

She reddened.

"What hour is it?" he asked.

"Nearing the end of day mark, your highness" she answered. "The Queen bid you join her for the midday meal."

That gave him pause. His mother. Alive. Well. He declined to visit with her, his first time through, for fear that she would sense his mischievous intent. It remained a real risk.

Rage and justice and pride be damned. He lost her once. He would never deny Frigga again.

He smiled. "Then I best not keep her waiting."

Torfa brightened. "Yes, my prince."


The midday meal was to be shared in her chambers.

From the moment he passed through the threshold he wrapped himself in the gossamer of her essence. This familiar set of chambers where he learned the art of seidhr. Before his wide, elated eyes mother conjured gilded butterflies and emerald doves to soothe his tempers. Then he graduated to plucking at the threads of her beautiful, numinous weavings under her watchful eyes. She shared her notes, her wisdom. Her heart. He learned to lace the magic himself, how to see the threads and their relationships to all things.

Frigga stood on the sun soaked balcony, framed by rosy white blossoms. Slender hands rested on the carved stone bannister, staring out over the churning waters of the bay, the waves of her flaxen hair piled atop her head like spools of burnished gold. A crystal collar glittered from clavicle to chin and lengths of heavy yellow and ivory satin flowed around her elegant frame. No, not quite yellow. More green. Fresh leaves shot through with sunlight, bursting with promise.

Let Thor have her trust.

Mother turned and smiled, genuine. Loki exhaled an unconsciously detained breath. He held his mouth in a tight line, though his feet moved forward all the same toward a treasure once lost. His arms found her tangible and whole. She hummed and embraced him, held him still. He did not want to let go.

By the Norns, let this be more than a dream.

She withdrew slightly, remaining in the circle of his arms, her hands resting on his cheeks. Her palms so warm. Her smile widened though her brow creased with concern. Those blue eyes searched every inch of his face. She tilted her head to the side.

"Are you alright?" she asked, eyes narrowing with scrutiny.

No.

He blinked once and nodded. He could not look away.

"You have not greeted me thus in ages."

"I've been a fool," he said. Even beneath the weight of so small a truth his voice threatened to crack.

Mother's smile widened into a grin, the apples of her cheeks brightening. "I hope you intend to make it habit."

Loki released her reluctantly so she could wrap her arms around one of his own, settling against his side.

"So!" she began, bright and winsome. "Am I to assume that you did not celebrate as vigorously as some?"

"Have I ever been as vigorous as my illustrious brother?"

Mother's lips twisted playfully and conceded with a graceful nod. "You are night and day, much to my delight. Your brother has ever been one to enjoy a good celebration."

"Prematurely perhaps. A testament to his overconfidence, surely."

"If memory serves well," she quipped, leading him back into her chambers, "you followed him into a good number of his follies."

They moved toward a round table set with light fare; cold marinated salmon, fresh baked bread and fruit to hold them until the feast. Two crystal decanters, one of chilled spring water, the other of golden Alfheim wine stood ready with two goblets.

"Someone had to bring him home," Loki said. He pulled out a seat for her. He sat next to her. Across seemed too formal now. Too far.

Mother laughed, ringing clear in the airy chamber. She reached out and clasped his hand, giving it a brief but firm squeeze. "You've caused your own brand of mischief over the centuries and Thor has ever been there to speak in your defense. When you were caught, that is."

"Harmless fun, I assure you." He poured them each a sampling of the wine.

"I doubt Lady Sif agrees, dear heart."

"Honestly, you shoulder some of the blame." He tasted the fish first, too fresh, the peppery tang too fine to be dismissed a dream.

"Oh?"

He smiled brightly. "You taught me the best tricks."

Mother hid mirth behind pursed lips, moving some sliced pear to her plate with deliberate poise, determined not to grant him a victory. Loki watched patiently. Lying and indifference were not her strengths. She hummed as the smile broke through.

"Have faith in him," she said, directing the conversation to her own ends. "All he will need is some advice, cautions for temperance. He needs you."

Ah. Clever, perceptive mother.

"Truly?" Loki did not celebrate the idea of Thor surviving the throne on the lifeblood of his advice. "Pulling from my own vast experience, Thor listens to no one."

"He listens to you."

"Hm." He thought of his dull witted brother on a shattered tower, chaos churning round them. A hurricane of glorious pandemonium, and Thor clinging to the past despite every threat and insult. The look of sheer desperation, of hope, in those damn blue eyes, Thor imploring for him to call off war. To fight at his side once more. Deep, in the pits of his heart, Loki felt the stirring of temptation. He chased away the sentiment with the thrust of a punching dagger.

"He does," she insisted, beseeching with those same earnest blue eyes. "He loves you, trusts you. He does not listen always, but often enough." Though her lips hinted at a smile, he noticed other things now too. Things he ignored three years ago. The creases of her brow, the worry etched around her gentle eyes. Gravity threatened the corners of her mouth.

"I know," he conceded. "It's hard to see at times, but… I know."

She took a relieved breath and smiled. The few moments passed, a comfortable silence settling between them. Guilt and relief warred within and eclipsed his desire to eat. He watched her, each familiar mannerism, committing them to memory. Mother took a leisurely sip of her wine. She set down the goblet, and, pinching the stem between graceful fingers, she pinned him with an intent gaze.

"Fate is sealed by choices, dear heart."


Smoke gathered in the rafters of the mead hall, a mixture of wood and pipe. Firelight danced across the walls, the brightness shuttered down by the press of bodies seeking to bask in the glow of their golden prince. Pipes and drums fought the rumble of conversational boasting for dominion over sound. Thor and his companions drank with voracity.

"Another," Thor boomed, hurling a near empty tankard to the stone floor. The crowd cheered with him, guffaws ringing out over the shattering of earthenware mugs and carved horn cups.

"A toast to our future king!" someone shouted from the back of the throng. More swilling. More crashing. More splashing. The air reeked of honeyed liquor, sweat and smoke. The floor became sticky beneath his boots.

Loki returned to the palace in the murky hours before dawn.

Thor never stopped.

"Another!"

The flames of the great open fire pit roared to life.

Even in the antechamber of the Hall of Asgard, the future King announced his presence with the clatter of a bone goblet. Embers hissed and skittered across the hallowed marble floors, narrowly missing the rows of decorative cloth of gold drapes that ran from floor to ceiling. Decency would demand to at very least drain a cup before throwing it. Never mind tossing accelerant onto an open flame.

Validation increased in the glaring light of re-experience.

Loki stepped from behind the golden draperies. Each languorous step measured until he came to stand beside Thor. Again. Trussed up in armor that matched Thor and Odin, the illusion of the good little second son.

"Nervous, brother?"

Thor laughed, casting Loki a supercilious smile. "Have you ever known me to be nervous?"

Yes.

Loki remembered. How the twisting natural passages of the Nornkeep quickly led them lost. They heard the shuffling of pursuit echoing off the supernaturally worked stone, bouncing at their heels.

"This is the wrong way," Loki whispered, perhaps too harshly. He understood the danger they found themselves in, hunted by equals.

"Silence," Thor commanded. He led the way despite his ignorance, as was his right. He grew steadily agitated.

Nervousness began dancing close to fear.

"Thor, I'm certain we've passed here before. I can sense the - ."

Loki found himself slammed against the natural stone wall, Thor's paw over his mouth, crushing his jaw. Powdered stone caked brass and verdant velvet. Rock dust, dry and suffocating, drifted into his nostrils.

Right then. Silence.

Loki could render himself invisible. He could abandon Thor to blunder about. He could leave his brother to reap the rewards of brash folly.

He stayed. Distorted their trail. Muffled their sounds. Shrouded their passage. Followed and manipulated the threads. He found the path. They fought their way out. Together. Thor slaughtered five for every warrior that Loki felled. Conjured shards and daggers, no matter how efficient, could not match the sheer indiscriminant devastation of Mjolnir.

Asgard cared little for efficient. They thirsted for grand tales. Even though other Aesir called Nornheim home, Thor boasted a hundred kills. The people loved the story all the more.

"No," Loki said, staring forward. "I suppose not."

A portly thrall brought forth the commanded wine, bowing a dark, curly head over the proffered tray of refreshment. Thor tossed the contents into his gullet. With no time for another he set the vessel back to the try with no theatrics.

One of the family's attendants approached with the crown prince's winged helm, holding it up in deference, eyes cast to the ground. Thor casually took the item so solemnly offered. He jounced the symbol of his station, testing its weight, indeed nervous. Refreshing and difficult to watch at once.

"Oh… Nice feathers."

Thor chuckled under his breath and cast Loki a playful look of warning.

"You don't really want to start this again," Thor asked turning to face Loki with a lopsided grin. His eyes flicked up to the sweeping horns of Loki's own helm. "Do you, cow?"

Loki brought a hand to his chest in mockery of a wounded heart. "I was being sincere."

"You are incapable of sincerity," Thor parried.

"Am I?"

"Yes."

Lies were best wrapped in a measure of truth. Medicine with honey.

"I've looked forward to this day as long as you have," Loki said. He met Thor's gaze, held it, delivering each line for what it was and nothing more. Without a shred of compunction. "My brother. My friend. Sometimes I'm envious, but never doubt that I love you."

Loki hated him, too. Still. Hated how easily they forgave him on the basis of an easy grin and boyish charm. Thor could crush a skull then laugh about it, and the carnival of fools waiting in the Hall would laugh with him.

Thor reached out for Loki, palming the side of his helm, gripping the back of his neck. He's seen Thor handle his favorite hound in this manner.

"Thank you," Thor said.

Still too uncomfortable. "Now give us a kiss," Loki said. He grinned. Thor shoved him away and pointed at his face in a show of warning.

"Stop it!"

They laughed together. This whole re-experience shifted from pleasurable to vexing to affirming in turns.

"Now, really," Thor spoke again, his voice more subdued. "How do I look?"

Thor's eyes were deep, rippling pools. Uncertainty settled about him like frost, noiseless and steady. Yes, mother. There were times that Thor listened, when he wanted to hear. Times like this. Loki loved this Thor.

Truth passed through his lips with a struggle.

"Like a king."


Loki escorted his mother down the Hall of Asgard's marble expanse, her smooth fingers alighted in his hand. She seemed to glide across the reflective surface. The masses gathered under the soaring arches of the colossal structure, pressing in to watch the Allfather proclaim the succession of his heir to the Nine Realms of Yggdrasil.

They reached the dais and bowed to the Allfather, imposing in his full regalia, the mighty spear Gugnir in his grasp. Huginn and Muninn, black as onyx and all seeing, perched atop the massive golden throne observing the pomp and quietly preening.

Loki and Frigga found their places on the steps of the dais. Arrayed with Sif and the Warriors Three. Behind his mother and higher than Sif, but lower than Hogun. Loki released the slight in favor of strategy.

He could abandon the deal, if it could be called such. The terms slanted entirely in his favor. It would spare the lives of several wretched creatures, and he could play the part Odin wrote for him – wherever that lead. The prospect of avoiding the Fall, and all that followed, provided a certain temptation.

Only, Asgard would have Thor as its King.

This Thor.

He could be trapped in this time with this Thor. Being forced to kneel to this pre-Foster boor who assumed deception and negotiation to be elective pursuits in the portfolio of a king's skill set. This Thor who could plunge Asgard into war at a mere whisper of imagined slights.

Thor marched towards the dais a conquering hero, hefting Mjolnir in the air, the crowds cheering and chanting his name. Tall, shining and regal. It made the notion of facing Thanos again tempting. Almost. Whatever strange brand of magic Jane Foster worked, it seemed to have the same effect on Thor's arrogance as a chisel to stone.

Thor finally came to the bottom steps of the great throne and took a knee. He grinned at Sif. Winked at mother.

She spoke of choices. What other choice did he have? No. Loki would resubmit his little coronation gift a thousand times over if it halted Thor's climb to the throne. Loki closed his eyes. Focused. Located the right strands. Plucked them, just so, and opened the path for his special guests.

Odin droned on. Thor answered with the simple words that were expected, loud and confident. They rang more like a threat than a promise.

"Thor Odinson, I now proclaim you…" The Allfather paused at that most perfect moment and Loki again enjoyed the confusion rippling across Thor's face at this withheld triumph. Again. See how it tastes, brother. Whispered confusion began to ripple through the crowd then, realization coming clear that no, this is not a pause for dramatic effect. Odin, despite appearances, scoffed at spectacle and illusions.

The ravens quorked a moment before the Allfather spoke.

"Frost Giants."