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Undying Vow

Chapter 2: "Greed and Gluttony"

"Loki of Asgard. You are unworthy of your title, unworthy of this realm, and you have brought shame on your family whom you have betrayed! Therefore I, Odin the Allfather, in the name of my father, and his father before, banish you to the Isle of Silence!" Odin's mighty voice roared through the throne hall. The Trickster God encompassed by a sudden flare vanished into the void.

The memory is fresh like a wound. Loki lay there devoured by blinding darkness, thinking that Odin was going to kill him eventually; silently, discretely, cleanly. In silence he cried, prayed for his death, prayed to be forgotten.

Near below, in a shadowy alley built by dried-up roots, a movement stirs Loki out of his reverie. A pair of prying crystal-blue irises meets his green ones. Loki flinches and stares bereft of belief as she moves out of the shadows. A faint, discernible pattern is etched into the soil where she stood. Distant stars illuminate the only soft skin on her strong and ghostly face. The scales around her ears and neck reflect any remains of light in this realm as the slender figure takes another light and noiseless footstep towards the outcast.

"You know how the first demons came into being?" Her double voice sweeps across the vastness of this place like the wind. It resonates throughout each flint, slate and piece of petrified wood, mocking the Father of Gods and his soundless dungeon just by its appearance. "Dreams they were, nightmares brought to life by the hopes and fears of Men."

So the beast has truly found a way to breach the Spell of Silence. "Your hour has not yet come, Jormungandr," the gift of seer-craft gives away to Loki.

"I have not heard that name for a long time, Loki." Jormungandr bows her head in acknowledgment. Her hair – if the stalks, segmented like insect's legs, can be called that – falls into her striking face and brushes her shoulders with a rattling sound.

Loki stares firmly into those much-too-bright eyes in stark contrast to her mottled gray skin and the rest of her body covered in a glossy protective carapace of the color of the midnight in Midgard. "What is that you desire, Serpent?"

Jormungandr narrows her eyes, "My desire? My desire is yours: victory; your victory and your glory," she unravels with certain modesty, "against Odin's beacon of hope."

Loki cannot resist the snort coming out of his throat. "How dare you think that I, Loki of Asgard, would ever be in need of helping you?"

The Serpent's blood red lips tilt up in a grin. "Oh, but you will, my dear prince."

Loki's frown deepens. Idiotic, insufferable culprit, "What makes you so certain?" he grits out between his clenched teeth.

"Imagine, Loki. There are worlds beyond that which you know. Worlds beyond that which even the Allfather knows. Bifrost, or even the Tesseract, cannot take you there. No, what I speak of are powers beyond the reality of the gods. A wheel of destruction and rebirth; Asgard itself is locked in this cycle of Ragnarok and the new-made world. Many realms there were before the one you know, and many yet to come to pass. There are many Jormungandrs, just as there are many Lokis, and many Odins. Each one exists apart from the others, yet is conjoined by a shared essence, like the branches of Yggdrasil; apart, but sharing the same sap. Each his own, yet bound by a common character. And as I have seen many Odins become king, I have never seen one Loki to rule."

Almost unendurable heat sets in would-be-king's stomach. "What have you seen?" The lie-smith shoots the creature an unfavorable, half dubious, half curious look. "Tell me everything. How can I break the cycle?"

Jormungandr inclines her head, "How best to make a hero?" She draws close to Loki, too close, looks into his eyes, consolingly. "You are eternally defeated by him. This revelation terrifies you, and throws you into a rage against your golden brother." Jormungandr says archly with mock solemnity.

Between little gushes of laughter which shake her shoulders clothed in scales, she regards Loki's wistful face with a questioning look. "Must you accept that from any abject state, Thor can, and will, rally? That from each depth of misery he is destined to rise to even greater heights? Must you witness a thousand battles, all ending in the same manner: Thor triumphant, Loki vanquished?" She lays a hand on Loki's shoulder, giving him a light squeeze. Then, she whispers into his ear in a cold breath, "I can fulfill your dreams – to rule Asgard, the victory of mind over might; your worth at last clear to see for those that showed you no love. All this for the death of your dearly beloved brother."

Loki eyes the clawed hand on his shoulder for a brief moment. It feels heavier than it ought to be. "He is not my brother!" he barks out and untangles himself from Jormungandr.

"To his misfortune, Thor does not see through your eyes. The Thunder Bringer regards himself as your brother, he loves you, and it is our strength. For only death, his or yours, can end the cycle. You have tried, but did your thoughts conceive what would happen next?"

Loki stutters out a little bit weary, "I… I never said that Thor will die."

Arcing blue eyes crackle with a sudden rush of yearning. "I can take your place if you wish it?"

Loki attempted it many times. It was never done. Is it truly because of the accursed Thor, that he is exiled to this barren Isle? And yet, what is a villain without a hero? What is a nemesis without an archenemy? What is Loki without Thor?

Lastly, Loki reaches the momentous decision. "My body may be imprisoned but none can stop my craft from roaming the universe in search for revenge. When there is one day of Odin-sleep left, the Asgardians celebrate the victory against the siege of darkness. While mead and ale is pouring in streams, it is then, when Odin's firstborn will seek peace. I will open the doors for you, Serpent, and you shall have your war."

Jormungandr leers, "And you shall have your kingdom, my Asgardian prince."

The Asgardian prince grimaces, "I am the monster parents tell their children about at night."

The Serpent smiles at that comment, "No, Loki," revealing a set of sharp ivory teeth. "The monster parents tell their children about at night is me."

Jormungandr's scleras brighten, glowing in entirely white. A purple mist cloaks the both of them in the dusky air. Embraced by the veil of magic, she preens. "You have not yet asked me how I came here."

Green eyes go skyward. "Please, do enlighten me."

"The Thunder Bringer visits you alone, on behalf of the Allfather's wish. Your beautiful, darling magic-wielder Amora has put a spell on every path leading into this world, so that only one that bears Odin's blood may travel to and from. No one else can go past this spell."

Loki stares at Jormungandr – the snake in the body of a woman. The creature's appearance strikes bloodshot chills up and down his frame since the encounter began. "Go on, I am dying to know." Hinting a weakness to that monster would be his last mistake. So he quells the sensation and remains audacious.

Jormungandr's scales on her left arm gap and reveal seemingly human skin beneath them. It's marked by a sole burned rune. "Odin's blood freely given; it flows through Thor's veins... and now through mine," she admits with misprision. "After the last battle in Nornheim, when you veiled your brother and yourself in smoke and ran back home, Odin's trustworthy but weak-minded servant Ardor treated Thor's wounds. He named his price. Truthfully," she sneers, "his price was high, but worth it."

"I see," Loki mulls her words over in his mind. "So begins the end of Thor," he laces his hands behind his back absently the moment before he feels the heavy clawed hand upon his shoulder again. And he catches himself fighting the whip-crack urge to yank away from that cankered reptile. Or, at least, to uproot that damn arm and mutilate the pestilence it belongs to, to the point of non-recognition.

"One more deed remains, my prince," Jormungandr whispers from Loki's backside. "I will help you destroy Thor; I will help you destroy Odin; I will help you destroy them all." She chants with a smirk, "But, before it can happen show me your arm... please."

Asgard, the shining light of the Nine Realms, celebrates. Its people enjoy a peaceful night at the palace. Banners hang on either side to form a corridor down the middle of the brightly lit throne hall. Giant doors are opened at one end. A slim figure silhouetted against the bright light beyond walks forward – Hogun the Grim, eyes like a hawk, brooding as always.

Volstagg the Svelte stands by a brazier. His polished breast plate shines, hiding the large part of his tunic which he has already managed to sprinkle with beef sauce.

Lady Sif watches a flock of dancers with Fandral in its center, gliding across the floor. She is the only woman who is dressed in armor. The warrior-maiden had made her raven locks into an elegant ponytail as the palace maidens do; a beauty not to be trifled with. Later, she fixes her wistful gaze upon the empty throne. Sif keeps a neutral expression on her face, so no one can accuse her of being bored. The musicians seated in a gallery high above the hall set a livelier pace, just as she takes her leave.

Sif passes at the guards standing at each wall, at each corner. Her steps lead her to the Orangery, the garden of breath and life, where the flowers never wither and the leaves never fall off the trees. But Thor is nowhere to be found. So she mounts a horse and spurs it toward the fateful place where the Observatory stood barely two years ago. A cold breeze blows past her. She doesn't seem to mind the frost-fallen leaves rustling behind her.

Sons of Odin rush at each other, their weapons collide.

The rainbow energy roars through the broken Bifrost Bridge and spews out into space. Thor sits cross-legged at the jagged edge. He stares at nothing but the stellar void, feeling the creeping, phantom ache behind his eyes that comes from restless days and nights. Vapor is building above the frothy waterfall; its roaring waters drift off into the blackness. The heavens seem darker today. The winds soar above Thor, carrying slivers of a preterit battle.

As fresh as the morning air is the memory which draws Thor down and shatters each attempt to betray the sadness and enjoy the merriment around him.

"It is over." Thor's whole world seems to stop at the Allfather's words. Odin leans a wrinkled hand on Thor's strong but drooping shoulder. "You have to let go, my son."

"It was never over," Thor murmurs under his breath. "And it will never be." Loki has always been the one for mischief. Behind his varnish smile, there is a grievous appetite for rawness. Under his guise of neatness, there is an unashamed and perverse delight in creating chaos. Inside his heart lurks a wicked inclination toward causing pain to others, even to his closest family. A depthless well of spiritual suffering harbors in his soul. All kinds of healers tried to help Loki. But it seems that no one truly can. Why, brother? Why did you let go? You looked me straight in the eye and you let go.

Heimdall stands at his usual post, the massive sword in his hold. There is something other-worldly about the Gatekeeper, even for this realm. His stern, intimidating face is virtually concealed by armor. Something glints beneath his visor, like twinkling stars.

Sif greets the Gatekeeper mildly before she joins the doleful god. "Thor, melancholy is an odd habit for you. What burdens your warrior spirit so much?"

Dark blue eyes flicker to her. "Sif," Thor offers her a tiny smile. "Days of laboring around my father's chambers," he begins unsteadily, forcing his voice not to rise into anger or digress into lament, "inside of my father's kingdom, amongst the trophies and relicts of his life..."

Thor fists his hands and props himself onto the bridge and straightens, shifting the strained muscles which still haven't healed properly. "Everything that was destroyed, all lives that were lost… my brother… my enemy," he amends, sounding wryly in a strange way, "disowned. I thank the stars every day that Father took pity on him and did not deprive him of his magic. That would have sealed his fate." He looks away, a hopeless gesture to hide the expression of hurt and betrayal imprinted on his face. "And my beloved Jane being in the realm of mortals… it can take a toll, Sif."

"Perhaps," she says, quiet and almost shy, "all this would not be so bad to bear if you had someone to bear it with…?" Sif stops in the middle of her sentence, seeing that Thor is straggling away... as he does often lately.

Thor closes his eyes, lost in contemplation, he breathes out quietly. I had never showed you I cared. I assumed you would always be there. I took your presence for granted.

Thor's thoughts shape to ghosts whispering with biting honesty that he will never be content with a past he regrets, when his words were swords with which he wounded. Burdened with blame, Thor remains trapped in the sea of shadow-dappled trails of bygone and buried days and dreamy memories, not able to finally be at peace with himself.

"Thor?" Sif's smooth but worried tone brings the warrior back into the starry night above the ocean.

"I miss my brother," Thor says in a thin voice, nearly a whisper. "I want to bring him home."

Sif blinks, partially out of surprise, but there is also anger and bitterness involved. She finds that thought more than troubling. Why? Why would you do that? Why would you save the one who tried to kill you, to kill me? The talented liar who has always been jealous of you? He should be flogged for every misdeed he has done to us. But her disconcerting words remain unspoken… for now.

Thor's face softens, but the tone of his voice remains cold and resigned. "His rakish charm, his witty cleverness... he made me laugh like no one else alive. We were apprentices at the Observatory together as boys. We used to sit here, learn to tell the constellations apart. I was never happier. He had always beaten me. I was so proud of him. I should have told him every day." It boils underneath his skin, a feeling that he doesn't sense for the very first time; the feeling that overtakes him once in a while and screams remorse.

At first, Sif shuts her mouth with a snap. "Thor." She furrows her brows and her words come out grudgingly, "His villainy had put us all in this state. He may not have done the deed himself, he may have been under the influence of Tesseract, but the near fall of Asgard and Earth is the doing of Loki."

"I had it all backwards. I had it all wrong." Thor's hands clench at his sides. "I should never have let him go," he replies solemnly, his lips forming a crooked smile that sends Sif's stomach into knots.

"I thought you dead."

Loki offers his brother a provocative and questioning stare. "Did you mourn?" Anger mixed with frustration flashes over his pale face like a winter gale.

In a state like that Loki could easily dissolve into insults. Still, there are no curses, no threats of disembowelment; only the Trickster and the Thunderer stooped a little bit over his own shadow and under the weights of something Loki couldn't possibly comprehend.

You did not, he did. Frustration seeps into Sif's words. "We still don't know how his deeds may bring about our future. To return him from the banishment would be an atrocity. There is reconstruction to be done and dead to be buried. Do not lose yourself in thinking Loki can have a change of heart and heal anything."

It is a fool's hope, he is Loki, after all; the Silver-tongued, the crafter of blood magic, the master of mischief, the treacherous part of Thor's mind insists. It requires more renunciation than he assumed it would, to suppress these thoughts into the deepest depths of his consciousness.

Loki has been looking forward to the coronation as much as his brother has. "You are my friend and my brother." He looks Thor in the eye, all pretence lost, "Sometimes, I am envious, but never doubt that I love you." Loki says to him, to the almost-king, kindly, almost passionately.

Thor searches his brother's face, and sees no trace of irony, no ruse. Either is Loki speaking from his heart or he is a very, very good liar; maybe both. Thor puts an appreciative hand around his brother's nape, "Thank you."

"My dear friend," Thor says as he reaches out and taps Sif's back. "I do not know what has happened to my joyous little brother, but I cannot imagine my life devoid of him."

Maybe Sif wanted to reply with a hurricane of reasonable phrases with the purpose to hammer some sense into Thor, but maybe not. They would never know because the Gatekeeper interrupts them. "A storm is coming," is all he says before a tidal verdant wave races through the golden fields. It overruns the golden gardens, golden houses and statues of long passed gods, and smashes down everything blocking its way.

A hole opens in the clouds. A blast of dark energy bursts forth from it, and small objects are coming firing into the Realm. They burn across the Asgardian sky like meteors.

As the shockwave subsides into the thoroughfares, Heimdall's gemstone eyes are still focused on the green surge of energy. While the sea turns carmine, the stars go out, the sky verts dove-gray, raining flakes of ash. And the screaming echoes north and south.

Thor's mind begins to race. "Heimdall, you must reach the Gjallarhorn and warn the city. Sif, find the others; protect my family. I will marshal the guards."

"I will help you as I can with what I see and hear," the Gatekeeper responds in his flat tone as usual.

Lady Sif gives Thor a knowing nod and wordlessly, clenched jaw, mounts her bay horse and rides wildly across the bridge back to the capital city.

The rumble is shattering, ominous; it echoes from the shoreline and through the streets and squares. It sounds less like the explosions of battle but more as if all of Asgard was groaning and swaying and trumpeting its downfall. Like the breaking of a glacier, the nearest buildings collapse into the boiling red sea. The ruckus at the seaboard grabs Sif's attention. Nymphs are breaking out of the red tide. The hideous, blistered creatures keep to the dark corners like living shades; they are stalking, not attacking, not yet. But Sif has seen them in action before: following, grabbing, dragging, slashing, killing and devouring.

Among those beasts, a glimpse of red and silver captures Sif's attention. For a short moment, she is willing to believe. For the first time since the invasion has begun, Sif allows herself to breathe a sigh of just relief. Then, she spots the hacked and crushed torso of Heimdall in his golden armor and her eyes narrow, sparkling, promising pain. She draws her spear ready to pierce through anything that moves in front of her. You will not escape unscathed. I put an end to your villainy. You will experience the taste of retribution from me. She gallops toward the Thor-fraud, riding hard, holding the spear above her head and ignoring his venomous glare steadfastly.

The scene inspires a laugh by the shape-shifter who isn't even trying to vindicate his misdeeds. He raises both his hands, fingers stretched and spread, an unappealing, half-manic grin playing across his face. Putting up an enchantment, he forces threads, tethers, cords of dark green and black magic out through his fingertips into the sky above his head. In a fork of lightning, a whole current of forbidden witchcraft grazes the saturnine clouds. The clouds fray and stitch back together. And – as if in an abhorrent nightmare – grow wings and tales and turn into dozens of Nidhoggs in front of Sif's incredulous glare.

Except, Sif doesn't bother to dignify that fiend's wicked artistry with a response, instead, she screams out, "For Asgard!" her cheeks flaming with vengeance.

The carmine tide behind Sif's back begins to flood the shelf line. A large shadow suddenly looms over her. Sif looks up.

Jormungandr rises. Not in her human form, but as she was born, slithery and orphic. The legless reptile slips through the tide in a wavy motion as its long, tapering body pushes forward.

Sif's sturdy bay horse shies at that sight, neighs, bucks its rear, sending the warrior woman off the saddle.

It's a nasty fall, broken by nothing but the solid ground. Sif has not even the strength left to hurl something sharp and rude to the fallacy of Thor. Wide-eyed and shocked, she watches the most subtle of all the beasts throwing its head in her direction, whipping the tide with its tail. Sif's eyes set on to the venom dripping from its gigantic gob, between the fangs and from the fork in its tongue.

But the supple adder doesn't see her with its intrusive wan irises and slit pupils focused on the golden palace. Pure fury surges behind those starving eyes. The beast's muscles cramp and span in lateral undulation until it reaches a rocky cliff.

The tempestuous ocean rises. Waves heave and hammer into the capital city, wafting everything standing in the way. Hell's deadly instrument side-winds around the sky-high lighthouse, which marks the entrance to the port. With wide scales on its belly it grips the craggy ground and creeps up tardily. When it climbs the top and constricts around the beacon, it bristles. Hundreds of sharp and strident spikes and thorns grow from its vile head, over its scaly back to the end of its cylindrical frame.

In the somber twilight, there is a sad moment of silence. And then, as if the beast has never taken a breath before, it drags in a gust, letting out a sound that makes Sif's pulse roar in her ears. The sound pitches, higher and higher and when the behemoth howls finally, it's like the hailstorm, horrid and smashing. And then, a great full-throated roar, sudden, as if heralding doom and swift upon it echoes the insane shrieking and chattering of the nymphs on the shore.

Sif too, is one of the many shrieking and chattering on the shore. She presses her trembling hands on her ears to mute the heart-stopping screaming. And for the first time in a long, long while, Sif hears her own fearful cry before it fades away in the rumble.

Suddenly, a voice whispers into Sif's ears still covered by her palms. "You have the capacity to hurt yourself like no one else does." She gives a rather half-hearted struggle before the world sways slightly around her and overcome, she collapses. And the darkness cloaks Asgard in a cape of chaos and death.

To be continued...

Bavaria

Author's notes: So begins the end of Thor indeed.

When In Doubt Smile: Thank you so much for your encouragements and for the "teenager reference" which, btw., made me realize that you were right ;) So I sat down with my writing, my ideas and I hope that the outcome is worth it.

Subway Wolf: I wasn't sure about the gender-bending until I met you :)

Ragnelle: Thank you so much for giving really close looks at the language and, foremost, the character of Jor.

EsmeAmelia: Great job with changing some inner dialogues into narration. And thanks to your work on the dialogues, Jor seems even more subtle than before. And I like a subtle Jor ;)

LaughingLadyBug: What can I say? I LOVE fragment sentences. The trails of Loki's crazy thoughts make more sense to sane people, after you had combined the fragment sentences and rearranged the paragraphs.

Princess Lavender Jewel: Followed your tweaks, done some rewrites, I hope it's obvious ;)

Thank you all; so read and review and tell me what you think about Undying Vow so far.