This is a direct continuation of 'Tracker and Trickster'.
Thór cut to the heart of the forest through paths seldom threaded, and Loki followed with much lighter steps. Occasionally, he would run ahead or stay behind, whenever small things caught his interest: scattered bones, strange flowers, mushrooms, or a curious pattern of bosses in a tree-trunk. Sometimes, he would consider that the creases in this lump or the cracks in that cliff looked like faces and he would talk to them; and Thór would wonder if it was the lumps and cliffs themselves that whispered back, or all was a petty trick of his brother's magic.
Wind rose in the north, with its eerie chant and mocking whistle; every now and then, it sprinkled dirt and dew into their hair from the nearby trees as they walked. The woods were mazy and endless; and silent as a crypt. It seemed that they were down on hunter's luck that day – no deer, no rabbit, not even a chatty thrush crossed their way along the tracks.
(It mattered little, though; for the God of Thunder had laid eyes on a much greater prize).
Thór took a deep breath, and shifted his focus to the task at hand. The mental exercise was exhilarating; it hit him with the same persistent feeling of infatuated power as sharpening a sword on a whetstone or quaffing down a mug of ale before going to battle. No planning, no scheming, no calculating was needed now - he merely had to be in his right mind, so the ways of the world would bend to his will.
However, that was not what his brother needed to hear. Without least a rough conception or an outline of a plan, Loki would be adrift, Thór knew; he would feel lost, aimless like a leaf in the wind – he would probably start acting like one, too. Drifting away… letting his silly ideas carry him around, pursuing no higher aim than the promise of yet another wicked trick…
Thór needed a plan to keep him at bay.
"Here is what we shall do," he turned around to suddenly face Loki, raising his chin with all the princely confidence of his young years. "We'll drive it down the old road. You do the luring, I do the chasing. I will not let it hurt you: this I swear."
"It won't catch me," said Loki in a strange voice. Thór narrowed his eyes in puzzlement as he tried to define it, then settled for 'mockingly reassuring'.
"All the better, but remain a reachable target!"
"I know how to do a chasing, brother."
There was it, the strange waver again: an ephemeral, unsubstantial undertone to that soft voice of melted gold and silk pillows. One could have argued it was never even there, and he, Thór was imagining things…
"…and as soon as we reach the crevice," Loki cooed on, "I jump in, I suppose, and you heroically extinguish that beast. You might also care to sing 'The Chant of the Völvur' while it bleeds to death."
Thór could not hold back an obnoxious snort of laughter.
"And yet," Loki mused, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth, "what shall we do afterwards?"
"What do you mean, afterwards?"
"Afterwards refers to a consecutive, and somewhat temporary affiliation between me sliding into a crevice in the wall like some rat, you killing the boar, and the two of us having to carry off who-knows-how-many stones of dead meat. Therefore, if I may ask again: what shall we do afterwards?"
Thór pursed his lips. He was strong, Loki was agile. He had his bravery as a shield, and Loki his cunning. They would manage. Why did his brother always have to find quarrels in a straw?
"Well," he said, "we will carry it, as long as we have to."
"I somewhat despise the picture of us dragging a carcass through Father's lands, sweating and swearing."
"I will carry the prey for you, brother – upon one shoulder, and without any sweat," Thór laughed.
"I spoke of no prey," said Loki in that terrifyingly soft voice of his. "I spoke of dead meat. You may find that heavy."
"Say what you mean, I am no friend to riddles!" Thór snapped, which of course gained him another riddle.
"Heed my warning, then: our hunt is bound to be fruitless. Killing that beast shall not give you the glory you desire, and my spear-bite has long made its flesh taste bitter. It would be best if we looked for Father, and went home. The torches are lit in Valaskjalf, and there are women and ale – everything my princely brother is known to desire."
"For no drink and no woman's kiss shall Odinsson willingly miss such a chance to prove his worth!" Thór's laughter roared like thunder. "Nonsense! You know I have a proud heart, a wild heart – I could not live with the slightest inkling of failure besmirching my name!"
"What you have, brother," said Loki, "is called hubris. No rarity in Ásgardr, yet somewhat precious. Hold it close while you can."
‡