Warning: Violence

A/N: On a side note, I discovered while researching this story that Laufey (in Norse Mythology) was actually Loki's mother and Farbauti was his father...I suppose Laufey is just easier to pronounce so she became a he for sake of ease in the Marvel-verse. Huh. But, I ramble.


Chapter Three—Honor in Battle


Loki sat silently in his personal study, his fingers tossing tongues of magic into the air, attempting to focus his mind upon the text before him. Laufey had practically banished him from the vicinity of the king's chambers, the prince had been skulking about so much, and so the prince had retreated to his studies.

Typically, magic had the ability to completely detach him from the world around him, to wrap him in a different realm filled with wonder and the possibly to do anything he so desired. Typically, he would be muttering new spells under his breath from one of his many incantation books, smiling with pleasure when they were successful and frowning when they weren't, paging through to his current book and searching for his mistake or a flaw in the spell. It was usually the latter of the two.

But, not today. Not even ice magic could take his mind away from the current worries that plagued his mind. His father was dying. There was absolutely nothing he could possibly do about it and he would be ascending the throne within a month of his father's passing. He would have no time to mourn as the warlords would be sent for immediately to congregate upon Utgard.

He would battle against his first opponent the night after Laufey's death.

This, of course, would be right before he sends a courier to Asgard with the peace treaty that would bind him in marriage to an Asgardian princess, a member of the very country his people loathed. He would make his nation look like they were giving in before the might of the Asgardian Empire. His people would despise him and the warlords would attempt to assassinate him. And all of this, requested by his dying father.

Loki was seriously considering the sanity of the ailing king. His mind had raised the question if this was the influence of death speaking, that Laufey wasn't in his right mind. But then, he remembers the sincerity of his father's face, the truth and justness of his words, and Loki knew that the king was right in this request.

The prince sighed, wishing this wasn't the task he was set with. The magic that leapt from his fingers suddenly burst into blames, blue and violent, reflecting his frustration.

Cursing loudly, Loki shot up from his seat and away from the priceless and very flammable spell books and scrolls that cluttered his studying table. Shouting the reverse spell to put out the flames sprouting from his fingertips, Loki decided he needed to get outdoors for a time.


"Mother?" Sigyn called, her voice barely above a whisper as she peered into her mother's parlor—the only place the queen could possibly be at that hour of night with the Emperor away.

The queen, her blond head bent over her needle work, turned in her reclining on the cushions to smile at her daughter. "Good evening, sweetheart. Could you not sleep?"

Sigyn shook her head, slightly ashamed, as she closed the parlor's door behind her and crossed to sit next to her mother on the cushions. The queen set aside her needle work so as to allow her daughter to curl into her side, wrapping a protective arm around the young woman. Queen Frigga had always wanted a daughter of her own, and after Freya passed away in childbirth, the queen cared for the baby Sigyn that was the daughter of two of her dearest friends. Frigga saw so much of Freya and Iwaldi in Sigyn, even when she was child, and at times it made her long for her deceased friends but then, it would gladden her that their legacies lived on in their daughter.

"What keeps you awake, then?" Frigga asked, soothingly rubbing her daughter's arm.

"I'm worried for Father and Thor and Theoric and…and everyone else," Sigyn replied closing her eyes, as if squashing the mental image of her loved ones being injured or slain at the hands of the Jotun.

"I know, dearest, I know," Frigga said, soothingly. She worried for the Emperor both when he was away from the capital and when he was there. She worried about his age or that his old battle wounds would finally catch up to him, that an assassin's knife would find his heart prematurely. But now, most of her worries were devoted to the thought of her husband being set upon by an ambush of Jotuns and slaughtered in the saddle of his warhorse before he could even draw his sword in defense.

After Balder and Sigyn managed to spill every detail in a panicked rush, Frigga had left her children to their anxiety and hurriedly delivered a message to her husband of their eldest son's escapades. The Emperor, naturally, was beyond angry—he was completely livid. Thor, the crown prince of Asgard, had deliberately disobeyed his orders. Odin wasted no time in calling for his destrier and a band of Crimson Hawks to ride with him to the northern borders, hopefully to apprehend the heir of Asgard from certain death at the hands of the Jotun.

That had been six days ago and with every passing hour; Sigyn became more and more anxious for everyone's safety.

"I dream of their deaths whenever I close my eyes," Sigyn admitted, shakily. "I dream of Theoric with a large gash in his chest, bleeding and dying at the feet of laughing, cruel faceless Jotun."

"You mustn't dwell on it, dearest," Frigga replied, soothingly. "Theoric is the mightiest warrior that rides with Thor. If they should run into a warlord, he will surely be able to defend himself as well as the others."

Sigyn nodded to this, mutely, obviously still plagued by the thought of her best friend being slain so mercilessly. She took in a shaky breath and asked, tentatively, "Mother? Balder says that the Jotuns paint blue streaks onto themselves for battles or hunting. Is that true? Are they really so different from us?"

Frigga considered this for a moment before saying, "I met a Jotun once, their king, Laufey, actually when I was a girl. There were, indeed, blue marks across his face and chest—the men don't wear tunics—but he wore a cloak with gray wolf pelt at the collar and the wool of the rest of it was richest green I have ever seen. In his hands was the king's spear, Gungnir, golden and fashioned like a stag's horns at the top. Besides his apparel, he was no different than us. His hair was black, his skin pale from the cold of the north."

"Why did you meet Laufey?" questioned Sigyn, looking intrigued. It wasn't very often that the queen told a story from her own childhood, usually Frigga told of fairytales or parables meant to teach her children a lesson. It was never an adventure of her own and Sigyn was completely enthralled.

"Well, he was still only a prince then," Frigga clarified, "And I was just older than you are, Sigyn. My father was a general stationed along the northern borders at one of the first outposts built. Laufey led a raid along with two more of his warlords against the fort when my father and a large amount of his men were out on a scouting mission. When the Jotuns were sighted, I was told to hide, but Laufey and his warriors soon overran us. I was found by Laufey himself, and when he saw me he said, 'Well, I can't kill you. It would be such a waste of beauty.'"

"He did?" Sigyn squeaked, surprised by this turn in the story.

Frigga nodded in confirmation. "My Father and his men soon returned and drove the Jotuns away from the fort. But, after that I have never really believed the Jotuns to be the savages that we Asgardians always call them. If they're anything like their king, anyway."

Sigyn couldn't help but giggle. "Because Laufey called you beautiful?"

Frigga grinned at her daughter, saying, "No silly, because he was merciful." The queen, laughing, then tickled her daughter like she did when Sigyn was still little enough to curl up in Frigga's lap.

"Stop, stop!" Sigyn cried around a gale of laughter as she struggled to fend off her mother. "I surrender!" Frigga sat back into her cushions once more, laughing at the rather affronted look Sigyn was giving her.

It took a moment for the princess to smooth her mass of red curls before she finally asked, "What I'd like to know is how you knew that was Laufey."

"Well, he was armed with Gungnir," Frigga replied. Every child in the nine great realms knew of the mythic Jotun spear, gold as the sun and deadly sharp. Only members of the royal Jotunheim family could wield the weapon, as anyone else's hand would be frozen upon touching it. Sigyn nodded to this. "And he was too young to be King Thrym, Laufey's father, so it was obvious to me that he was the prince."

"I wonder if he realized who you were," Sigyn said, speculating.

"Of course not, dear. I was a scared little girl with dirt caked on my face, how could he possibly know I was betrothed to the heir to Asgard's thron?" Frigga said, lightly. Sigyn didn't reply, only slightly shrugging. After that, the two fell into silence, the queen stroking her daughter's curls while Sigyn's breaths evened and sleep, a deep slumber not plagued by scenes of death, came over her.


Loki glared at the servant before him. "Repeat that message," the prince commanded, his voice cold and intimidating. He was in the palace's training yards, his cloak shed and leaving his torso bare and exposed to the cold air as sweat lightly coated his skin. In his hands was a blunted practice sword from demolishing every practice dummy and opponent that dare face him in his current mood.

The servant made a small, squeaking noise before stuttering out, "The K-king Lau-Laufey sends his orders for Your Highness, to leave the palace for a time and lead a hunting party. He thinks the fresh air will do his Highness some good."

Loki threw aside his practice sword, making the servant flinch slightly. Running a calloused hand through his hair, turning to retrieve his cloak from where it was flung over the sparring ring's fence, the prince thought rapidly. His father was obviously worried with him sulking around the royal palace, prone to flashes of temper or bouts of depression. He didn't much appreciate being ordered to go hunt and he worried his father might pass if where to leave the palace. Though, Laufey promised he'd call for Loki and the prince intended to hold his father to it.

"Send word to the gamekeeper to prepare for a hunt," Loki ordered, turning back to the servant. The servant hastily bowed to the prince and darted away, as fast as he could scurry. Loki watched him go briefly, and then snatched up the practice sword.

"I see you've abused another practice sword," an amused voice said, making Loki turn his head about in surprise, unaware he had company. "I'm sure whatever it said, it didn't mean it." Leaning along the fence was a young man, his hair dark brown loose about his face, grinning at his friend.

"Mim," greeted Loki, not paying much mind to the other boy's comment. "I thought you were to be in Gastropnir for another week?"

Mìmir, though referred to as Mim by most everyone that knew him, shrugged. "I came back early," he replied, simply.

"Just admit you missed me so terribly much that you couldn't possibly stay away any longer," Loki quipped, a smirk flicking onto his face. "Or that your mother is hounding you about finding a wife again."

"She's more like harassing me," Mim replied, rolling his eyes. Menglad, Mim's mother, was the sole female warlord—technically lady—in Jotunheim since her husband died. She was a formidable woman with a fiery temper and certain expectations of her son, including finding a suitable woman to have heirs with that would fill the halls of Gastropnir.

Loki laughed at the expression on his friend's face. "Just be grateful she didn't have potential ladies lined up for your return like she did last time." Mim shivered in disgust at the memory. Loki had been riding with his friend to Gastropnir—he was traveling to attend the wedding of Karl and Kerling, both heirs to prominent Jotun merchant families, in a village just beyond Mim's home—and to both their embarrassment were met with a host of young, eligible maidens and Menglad, looking very pleased with herself. Of course, after the initial shock, Loki had found the whole situation terribly amusing while Mim was seriously considering the possibility of becoming invisible through sheer force of will.

"I think we should agree to never speak of that event ever again," Mim said, lowly, glancing over his friend.

Loki grinned back and said, changing the topic obligingly, "So, what say you, my friend, care to join me for a hunt?"

"Why else do you think I'm walking with you to the stables? The company?" Mim scoffed as the two young men entered through a side door of the stable building that housed the royalty and nobility's mounts.

Ignoring him, Loki made quick business of finding and saddling Gyllir—a task he had long since made clear to the stable hands that he was capable of—leading the snorting black stallion out into the stable yard. It seemed either Laufey had anticipated his son's agreement or the servant was an astoundingly efficient messenger, as the palace's gamekeeper, huntsmen, and weapons bearers were already assembled, either mounting their horses or already situated in the saddle.

Smirking at this, Loki swung effortlessly up onto Gyllir's back, waving the gamekeeper over after he had gathered the reins in his hands. "Are we ready for the hunt?" Loki asked of the man.

He nodded, replying, "Indeed, Your Highness. All you need to do is select your spear for the hunt and then we can ride at Your Highness' leisure." Loki dismissed the gamekeeper, giving him a brief nod of thanks, as a weapons bearer scrambled over and offered the spears in his hands to the prince.

"Give me a crossbow, would you? My spear-throwing arm has gone flabby," Mim said as he trotted up on his roan gelding, waving a lazy hand at the weapons bearer as he approached. Loki grinned at Mim as he selected his usual spear—a lead core mahogany one with an iron tip—and then clucked at Gyllir to ride for the north gate, the nearest one to the stable yard.

He did not wait for any of the hunting party, not even Mim. Especially not Mim. As good of a friend he was, he couldn't keep quiet when stalking a deer to save his life. Loki rolled his eyes at the thought and urged Gyllir off the road that lead away from the north gate, instead going into the forest along a well worn hunting path that would take him around the palace's walls, more near the south gate, and into the forest.

Utgard was situated right into the base of the Jotun Mountains, the north gate and its road leading up a steep incline into the mountain passes. It was a scenic ride, but hardly good for hunting. The dark forest which marched right up to the palace's southeast walls, were stocked with deer, squirrel, and rabbit which provided Loki many afternoons of sport. Usually, he preferred his study of magic to the outdoors, though he made an exception when it came to hunting.

Gyllir moved soundlessly along the narrow path that wove through sparse woodlands, quickly moving south and into the thick of the forest. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the green of the trees, warm against his bare chest and face. Loki couldn't help but close his eyes for a moment and enjoy the sun, allowing his horse to wander as it would. It wasn't very often that there were warm days in Jotunheim, even in the peak of summer as it was, so whenever a Jotun found themselves in a burst of sunlight, they tended to savor it. The prince's green eyes flicked open once more.

Loki's hold on his horse's reins was loose, allowing Gyllir to amble along through the forest, as his keen eyes examined the foliage about them and the game that lived within it. He was a far ways away from the hunting party, not even their loud trampling through the woods could be heard, and he was grateful for it. It would completely ruin what solitude he found in hunting.

Gyllir continued through the woods, moving silently under the green canopy as Loki kept close watch on the trees around them. A brief flash of brown and Loki stilled Gyllir, holding his breath and readying his spear. The prince's keen green eyes scanned the forest. Nothing. The barest of nudges forward and leaning in the saddle, Loki peered as subtly as possible around the trees as possible.

There! A stag grazing in a small clearing. It was a handsome beast with an impressive mantel of antlers atop its head and a thick, soft pelt that would—undoubtedly—make an equally handsome cloak.

A smile flicked onto Loki's face as he readied his spear. Carefully taking aim, the prince held his breath, not wanting to risk the chance of any of his slightest noises spooking the stag. Just as he drew his arm back his arm a thrush darted through the clearing, peeping loudly as it flew by. The sudden movement startled the stag, making it skid away from the bird and spring from the clearing.

Growling in annoyance, low and under his breath, Loki clicked hurriedly to Gyllir, the stallion immediately springing forward in pursuit of the stag. The prince urged his horse onward, with the flick of the reins, nudge at the sides, and shouts, all while keeping a steady aim on the beast with his spear. He just needed to be a bit closer then he'd be able to cleanly hit the animal—and that was in the first hour of the hunt without any other members of the hunting party around to get under foot.

The stag suddenly darted off the right and before the prince had anytime to realize it, Gyllir burst through a thicket of foliage and onto the main road that led to the south gate of Utgard. Loki drew Gyllir hurriedly to a stop, doing his best to turn his mount around and continue their pursuit of the stag, but then something more threatening than a stag caught his attention and he froze.

Six riders gathered together and apparently examining a map amongst themselves, blinked at Loki in shock and surprise while the prince mirrored much their same expressions. What caught his attention even more so than six people on horseback trying awkwardly to crowd around one piece of parchment was the alarming fact that each of them were wearing Asgardian armor and armed to the teeth with weapons of every variety.

A large warrior, his blond hair so long that it showed from underneath a winged helmet, was the first to make any sort of movement, and that was to let out a war cry and launch his spear directly at Loki's chest. It was only years of training in the sparing yards that saved Loki's life as he leaned back in his saddle, the spearhead missing his chest by mere centimeters as it sailed by.

"You'll regret your actions, Asgardian," Loki threatened, his voice low and dangerous. He wheeled Gyllir to face the six warriors, the stallion shrieking a challenge to the other horses, letting out a battle cry that equaled the ones his foes shouted. Gyllir sprang forward, charging the nearest Asgardian, a Crimson Hawk—by the red of his tunic and gold of his armor—the spear aimed for the warrior's chest.

Loki's spear was met with a sword that easily deflected the more cumbersome weapon. The prince managed to maintain his hold in his spear and steer Gyllir out of reach of the Hawk's second sword swipe. At this point, the other Asgardians had set upon him, charging past the Crimson Hawk warrior with their own weapons. Loki easily dodged, the task almost trivial, sliding out a hunting knife from his boot—he always knew it would come into use—and slicing the girth strap of a rider's saddle—he thought the warrior was a woman, but he wasn't entirely sure—as she passed.

Returning his attention to the Crimson Hawk as the other warriors wheeled their mounts around for another pass at Loki—the prince was beginning to wonder why he suddenly found himself so completely outnumbered—he hurriedly brought his knife up in defense of an incoming sword strike. The blades met with a clang.

It was an odd experience, having such a small blade as a knife to defend one's life with in the face of a deadly sharp broadsword just inches from one's neck, and Loki decided he didn't entirely enjoy it. The Crimson Hawk only had a moment's comprehension of the glint in the prince's mischievous eyes before the hunting spear was driven deep and fast into his chest, piercing the armor straight through.

"Theoric!" called the blond warrior that had launched his spear first at Loki, initiating the fighting. Theoric, as Loki assumed was the Crimson Hawk's name, had a look of complete shock written across his face. His eyes were widened by the pain and his arms fell limp at his sides. When his mount underneath him bolted, frightened from battle, the warrior fell from the saddle, onto his side, driving the spear to further embed itself in him.

But Loki was distracted from the fallen warrior as battle cries rang from both the forest and the road to the south. From the woodlands charged the hunting party, Mim at its head with his crossbow aimed and sending bolts flying as he galloped out onto the road which was quickly becoming a battle ground. From farther along the road galloped a band of Asgardian warriors, a man in golden armor at its front.

Loki took hold of his spear, pulling it from the warrior's chest—calling a hurried apology to him—before Gyllir was galloping to meet the Jotun forces and ride against the Asgardian reinforcements. He wasn't entirely sure how these warriors were so far north of the border, all the prince knew was that they were there so he would fight against them.


"Father!" Thor shouted at the sight of the Asgardian warriors quickly approaching.

"Thor!" called Sif, having fallen from her horse and was now crouched in the dust of the road, pulling the Asgardian prince's attention away from the Emperor. "Thor! It's Theoric! He's dying!"

Thor hurried over to the fallen warrior's side, Sif hurriedly moving aside for the prince and fending off any attackers that dared draw near. "Thor?" coughed Theoric, his blurry eyes focusing on the blond prince, the Crimson Hawk barely managing to croak out words around blood.

"Yes, it is me, my friend," Thor affirmed, "You must hold on. We will get you to a healer and you shall be well."

"No," Theoric replied, smiling at the lie but not wanting to waste his last few breaths with hearing it. "I am dying and am beyond help. I have died as best as a warrior can, with honor in battle and for a princess."

"Theoric, no, Sigyn never would have wanted this—" Thor began, there being only one princess that Theoric would be mentioning.

"It's what…what I wanted…though," Theoric interrupted, his voice weak and haggard. He fought for every word he spoke, more blood being the cost of each one. "I wanted to…impress her because…I…love…"

Thor watched in horror as Theoric, a Crimson Hawk of the highest ability and order, went still before him, bled to death in such a shameful place as in the middle of a dusty road. But then the Emperor's company of warriors had surrounded Thor, Sif, and the Warriors Three.

They managed drag Thor away from Theoric's corpse, getting him atop a horse to ride hard and fast away from the pursuing Jotuns. He was numb. He was in shock. Never before had he lost a friend to battle. Never because of one of his plans. He felt cold all over. He was barely aware of his father yelling at him for being reckless, he was barely aware of Volstagg prodding him to eat, Fandral pestering him to sleep, Sif begging him to speak, or Hogun's silent pleading for him to look his friends in the eyes.

Theoric had died because of him, in the middle of a Jotunheim road. They hadn't recovered his body to give him an honorable warrior's funeral. His body would probably be left to rot or buried carelessly in an unmarked grave.

And all because he wanted to impress Sigyn; because he loved her.


A/N: Alas, poor Theoric, I knew him well. Anyway, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! What did you think of this chapter and of not only our dear Theoric but also the addition of Loki's bff Mim? Leave a review with a comment, thought, or what-have-you!