Though Jotunheim has been cut off from travel to other worlds, trade is a common language. Not all are as foolish as the warrior-class Aesir, and soon a swift black market of commerce springs up. The artisans of Svartalfheim, Alfheim and some brave souls from Vanaheim dare to defy the edict of the so-called All-Father, and continue to travel to Jotunheim by whatever means they can obtain. They are, after all, as oppressed in their own ways as Jotunheim has been, though none has been taken so low. They bring both necessities and luxury items and keep their wares far from the cursed runes of the Asgardian bifrost site. Sometimes they don't return and whispers spread of the probable punishments doled out by the Golden Throne to those who ignore Asgard's ideal of 'peace'. The Alfar poets come and trade many tales, most of them so florid with riddle and symbology that truth is often quite relative. It was never wise to take what they said at face value in any case, as any well-taught child could tell.
So Laufey has no mind nor care for these whispers when they spread. He sits deaf and silent to the stories until he hears of the Odinsons; to tales of the elder Golden Prince and the younger Silvertongue. It does not escape those of Jotunheim's notice that where Odin had but one son before the war's end, now Odin has two. Two sons and yet Odin, always leading the charge. Always in the thickest of the battles. Two sons, yet even the licentious Alfar whispered of the scandal; the second Prince looked nothing like Odin. The second Prince was tall by Alfar estimate, slender yet deceptively strong. Dark haired. Leaf-eyed. Their poet spoke of him in appreciative tones, used filthy words in their liquid tongue to describe his grace that Laufey had no desire to hear. She (Laufey is mostly certain she is female, in any case) shared that the second Prince was clever and quick, a knife in the darkness. That his affections were often as deadly as his temper. She said that he had the heart of an Alfar and so he often ran afoul of troubles; blessed with an overabundance of both wit and magic as he was. The second Prince, the sly-eyed Alfar said deliberately, burned with magic.
Their poet was even so bold as to twist the subject, to begin speaking of the eldest Odinson (as though she thought Laufey wanted equal knowledge, when she knew he did not). The Alfar grew cruel-eyed and laughed as they spoke ugly rumors of how foolish the golden son was, how gullible and animalistic, a hairy brute, un-cultured despite his station and uncaring of the same - an Odinson in truth. Yes, an Odinson for truth, they laughed, but no Friggason. They sought to deflect Laufey's anger by showing their trust in speaking these words on Jotunheim. They sought to share in his rage at the fetters of Asgard, and Laufey, he wanted nothing more than to crush Alfar skulls and watch blood like star-shine bleed out.
Let it not be said that Laufey was without self-control. Through the torrent raging in his ancient blood, he most assuredly did not crush the tale-teller's skull for their well-informed mockery. Nor did he bring retribution on them for their audacity in using the Utgard dialect of 'burned', by refusing them hot foods while they supped - though poetic, the opportunity to take pleasure in their discomfort would have paled in the face of their refusal to speak further. It was clear that the Alfar knew something of how this second Prince came to be, yet their favor for him was equally plain.
Laufey remembers well and fondly how Bestla's strength shined, how she could take on form and appearance of other races at will. How when pale and pink, her hair was the color of the void and her eyes were chips of Svartalf jade. Laufey knows the value of informants, and knows further the value of true information from the Alfar. Though their mockery stings, it is their way. He will not spit on his own hospitality simply to assuage his honor. He plies the Alfar with warm fermented drink and warmer furs, orders more fish set to the fires and listens with the rest of his people in attendance.
They have renamed him. Loki, the lock, the ending. Odin and his Vanir witch have stripped the protections of truth from his child and renamed him. Truly Odin's viciousness knew no bounds! In the renaming, by Jotunheim custom they had unmade and remade him, taken the truth of nature Loptr earned by his emergence into the world and stripped him of it. This fact makes it obvious that they could not have told the child of his true lineage. Indeed, they have locked him into their deceptive reality of his true nature and quite possibly ended any chance the child had at feeling whole or one with his origin. Laufey pray it is not so and mourns anew. Even the lowest prisoner of war is free to keep his name.
Laufey wonders if his child has heard the song of the Casket, if he ever pined for crisp air and deep drifts. He wonders how his child fared in the burning Asgardian summer; whether he grew ill, strapped and laced into layers of Aesir fashion; if they knew how to ease his pain; if he had any surcease or cool place to rest from the relentless sun. Did his child yearn for the spicy scent of Ash needles and wonder why they plagued his sleep? Did he still smell of Jotunheim? Was he sickly, fed on an Aesir diet of red meats and over-sweet grains? Was he mocked for craving fresh fish and fruits? Did he thrive physically? True, the Alfar found him fair, but they were notoriously perverse at the best of times. Notoriously slippery in word and deed.
Laufey wonders if he has been lied to twice-over, and curses himself for wishing to see the child.
He wonders what stories they told his son, and what they tell him now. Perhaps they have told Laufey's child that he was named for the end of the war...or some other such sweet sap. His own child, raised in the halls of his enemy and doubtless fed tales of his true father's monstrosity alongside Vanir mother's milk. Laufey knows well the Kin-Slayer's talent at small humiliations, and mastery of underhanded mind-warping. He has seen the civilizations of Jotunheim laid low, made a proud and industrious people despair in less than five generations. Laufey wishes he could not imagine Odin's results with a defenseless child. This cruelty of Odin's design is unbearable, and Laufey-king knows it to be intended as his true punishment for challenging Asgard's supremacy. Laufey's shame in being unable to reclaim what is his strikes deeper than any sword. He is ashamed to be glad that he cannot hear Farbauti's spirit cursing him for this weakness.
Laufey nourishes his hatred, feeds it on scraps of rumor and the horrors that came whenever he tries to sleep. Wants to believe that his child is (was?) treated well, that Loptr lives un-wronged and in the light of what Loptr must believe to be his home. Laufey, however deeply wounded he was, is still not fool enough to believe his hopes. There was only one reason why Odin would raise a son of Laufey to think himself equal to the heir of Asgard. Only one reason why Odin has laid his name and sigil on the royal line of Jotunheim. War had not truly destroyed the line of ascension - this subtle poison though, this appropriation and remolding, would forever ruin it and bring Jotunheim under full control of the house of Odin.
Failures bring their own form of wisdom. The Norns have not been kind to Laufey or his people, but Laufey has lived many ages. Without fail, he sees always the same pattern. Absolute control ever gives way to stagnation and madness. Laufey resettles nearer the old trade site, so as to be closer to what fate destiny brings. Laufey is unsurprised to see the bridge open on a night when known secessionists have infiltrated Asgard. When he sees who is among the arrivals, though his bearing is controlled, Laufey wants to laugh.